Fabpants in Africa: Days Thirteen to Twenty One

The past is here, so read it first:
Fabpants in Africa: The First Three Days
Fabpants in Africa: Days Four to Seven
Fabpants in Africa: Days Eight to Twelve

Escaping Tanzania and Dar Es Salami-Meat was no mean feat. Almost a whole week after our intended date of East Coast expiration, I finally made it out of Tanzania’s commercial capital.

The plan had been to leave on Sunday 17th February, but it was Saturday 23rd when I said goodbye for the last time; fortunately of the same month.

Why? Well, all that ‘This Is Africa’ bollocks is true. Seasoned travellers mock the ‘overland’ truck tourists if they use the clichéd Blood Diamond term. I received a call from England, on my Celtel sim, just as my train irrevocably chugged out of Dar es Salaam station. The words ‘TIA, This is Africa’, fell from the lips of a person many miles away in a mocking tone. They are no seasoned traveller and neither am I.

At the time, I had no idea that the film quote is oft used in Africa, and vocalising it brings ridicule. The phrase would never have sprung to my mind, but it had taken a series of organisation failures to get this far, and some connect the dots better than others. The cliché is true and it’s okay to simultaneously mock both a semi-awful film and the failure of Africa to run to any plan. Isn’t it?

I’m on a three and a half week holiday; I’m no adventurer exploring new lands. I don’t believe in even pretending to adhere to the rules of the condescending traveller; the competitive arsehole that collects countries and experiences like Blue Peter badges. Travelling is not a competition; it’s an honour. If you’ve experienced more than the next person, then you have fewer fresh delights to look forward to. If I had the choice of being a new born baby with the world at their feet, or an elderly old lady whose feet have worn out, then I would prefer the former.

As long as you know enough to stay safe, naivety can be precious. Every new experience can be a tantalising gift-wrapped surprise. The know-it-alls miss out on that. When they do experience something new, do they pretend that it’s exactly as they expected, or that it’s so very similar to something that they’ve done before that it’s not new at all? Or have they really done everything already? I’m just not part of the ‘travelling’ community and I never have been. I live predominantly in my homeland. If I’m lucky, I go abroad once or twice a year, and rarely for more than one or two weeks at a time. In 2006, I got as far as Ireland for a long weekend.

TIA. Where did getting out of Tanzania start going wrong? The original plan had been to catch the Central Line out of Dar es Salaam on the Sunday and then to catch the MV Liemba the following Wednesday. The MV Liemba is an old German ship, that’s almost 100 years old and took part in World War 1. It now runs along the eastern shore of Lake Tanganyika to Zambia as a passenger ferry. As for the Central Line, well 281 people died when one of its trains crashed in 2002. It is about the same age as the MV Liemba and another feat of German enterprise. When they don’t crash, the trains run 1,250 km from Dar es Salaam to Kigoma, Lake Tanganyika. All in all, a fine trip was in the making.

Online, at the Dar es Salaam tourist office, and pretty much anywhere that details could be found (you have to look hard), the Central Line advertises a three day a week departure. Falsely. There is no Sunday service. There is no bus replacement service. There is nothing. Strike one. With no departures on Sunday, the other trains are also being booked a month or more in advance. Getting the Central Line on Sunday would not happen. A sweet lady at the train station gave up her personal mobile number. She found seats for the following Friday, a rarity – free seats in first class - but was it too late. I'm on holiday and not a long term jaunt. I have a flight and life to return to. Perhaps we could fly to Kigoma instead.

Clutching at straws a telephone call to the MV Liemba was made. There was an hour between flight arrival times and the MV Liemba departure time. It might be possible. Ring Ring. Ring Ring. ‘This is the MV Liemba office. The starboard engine is dead and the boat is docked for repairs. All services are cancelled for the time being. We might be up and running in a week’. Is that a seven day week or an African week? The old German gunship was broken and inoperative. Strike two. Toying with the idea of a Friday train and a possible boat, a diversion was needed.

When the chips are down there is always Zanzibar! Zanzibar is the perfect place for distraction while new plans form or fail to form. Zanzibar is the home of dreams.

The transport system looked unhealthy, and the planned circular route through Tanzania was floundering. But the Tazara was still working wasn’t it? And it could take us all the way back to Zambia. No new train line, no cruising on a big old boat. Sometimes things don’t work out as we plan; a few autumn leaves and England stands still. Africa does well to move at all.

A repeat of previous adventures in reverse lay ahead, but with a new country at the end. I said goodbyes and thank yous to our hosts in Dar es Salaam and saw them again a few hours later. The Tazara had suffered a derailment. Strike three. Three strikes and you’re out; a fresh sheet, no more bad luck. Well, what’s luck anyway? A little inconvenience shouldn’t lead to tears. I was still in one piece... ...but for how long? Apparently, the Tazara would be back on form the very next day.

The very next day, in an overfilled taxi, I left the Eastern Peninsula of Dar, and headed to the Tazara train for the second time in 24 hours. It all looked good. There was no queue at the ferry and a smooth run looked probable. Yeah, an hour and half later it didn’t look probable anymore. An army truck, filled with tiles, had been too much for the ramp between the ferry and land. It was half in the water and half on the ferry, and slowly sinking. I’m not sure if that qualifies for strike four or not, but we’d sat like complete turkeys in the car wondering what was happening for way too long. The ferry service was dead.

When realisation hit that all was not well, and it was actually very bad, we looked to the taxi driver and begged. ‘Can you take us by land? Can you break the speed of light? Is this car rocket propelled?’ Thank vegan chocolate milk that we were on a peninsula and not an island. The taxi driver was in no doubt about our urgency. He overtook, undertook, created new lanes and navigated a half built Chinese road like superman on steroids. My adrenalin levels soared and we made it by a whisker. We arrived three quarters of an hour after check-in and at exactly the time that the train was due to pull away. We all had seatbelts on. My seatbelt had never been used before. We made it. Our compartment had gone but we got the train porter’s compartment instead. It was dirty but we cleaned it with Dettol. Thunderbirds were go; I was finally heading out of Tanzania. I should have seen wildebeest migration, I was in Tanzania at exactly the right time, and I might have caught a ride.

Determined once again to see a giraffe from the train window, I failed. Instead, I saw the worst Nollywood movie ever as the train chugged through Tanzania’s dark heart. Poor Vivaldi was butchered by terrible acting and a horrible plot. In the morning, I awoke to misty green lands, people washing in rivers and small groups of circular thatched huts, sparsely distributed across the gently rolling plains. The cinema of Nigeria can’t beat that.

It was the village of Igrusti that truly captured my heart. It hosted cows wearing bells and a small group of railway children. The children coyly posed when they saw my camera aimed at the landscape through the window. Two waterfalls rolled down the hills in the background. Nearer the border, children would demand photographs more eagerly and whoop and holler when they saw themselves on my tiny screen. They concentrated hard on their ‘extreme fighter’ poses; they were all boys. A tall girl looked meanly on; jealous and haughty. I got her to laugh and smile before we left. She even waved goodbye. The international language of the cheesey grin goes a long way.

At Nokone, my welcome into Zambia was far less pleasant. As I took snapshots of the station, a big burly man approached our window, and demanded to see my pictures. I refused and he threatened to confiscate my camera. ‘You have no right to do that’, I protested and he pulled out a policeman’s ID. My first encounter in Zambia was a power-crazed man who’d left his uniform at home.

He still had no right, but this is not England. The big bruiser sent a lean army man, all dressed in green, into our carriage. While a customs official sat next to me stamping my passport, and robbing me of seventy five pounds for my entry, the shy and embarrassed man with a gun looked through my photographs. I flicked through shots of Tanzania, carefully skipping the more recent ones in Nokone. I lied and declared that I had deleted the Zambian photographs, risking all. If I was found out, would I see a dark damp cell? To end the moment and distract, cheeky requests and banter ensued. ‘Let me take your photo’, I asked the bully; ‘I have one of the Tanzanian customs official who stamped me out’. It was the embarrassed army man that posed; he had no beef (not even ZamBeef) and it’s best to keep such situations light. That dark damp cell might be only minutes away.

You might be thinking that my shot of the army man provides for a beautiful ending to a scary moment, but it didn’t end there. The bully, having had his fill and feeling satisfied that I wasn’t taken photos of starving children (I have seen none anyway, and probably would if I could), proceeded to invite me to take pictures of a wedding being held in the Tazara station. No, really. They wanted me as the token ‘rich white traveller’ at the wedding. Men in uniform - there to keep the locals out - streamlined me into the ceremony of marriage. I had little choice and was wondering where my dark damp cell was. I’d slept on a train and was hardly dressed for it. I had no idea who the bride and groom were or even their names. Lots of locals really wanted to go in and the army was keeping them out. I had no desire to go in and the army was cajoling me on. How long was my train stopped at the station for?

With a feeling of great discomfort, I took two photos to show willing and ran away. They even told me where to stand; with a direct view of the proceedings. I was a guest of honour and a deserter. Zambia has generally displayed a hatred of cameras. They are a proud nation, scared of how they will be portrayed. A random man on the platform asked for his photograph, he actually came up and asked, completely out of the blue and for no reason. He has been to last to show willing, even after my polite requests. In their best clothes, in their bridal clothes, pride and cameras go hand in hand. In their day-to-day clothes, the Zambians, that I encountered, hate to be caught even on the edge of a picture that is all about the place that they are merely in.

My second welcome to Zambia was Lusaka Bus Terminal. Lusaka bus station looks fine. It is well organised, has many shops, toilets, a police station and signs to deter ‘IDLE STANDING’ and ‘CALL BOYS’. It is also home to a hundred greedy touts, who rob you blind between play fighting for honour.

The touts and Bookers bus company gave us the royal screw, and we weren’t the first; their terrible business practices had made the local press the Friday before. We waited five hours for the bus to leave, when we’d been hold it would depart in fifteen minutes. Whenever we asked how long, the answer was always five or fifteen minutes. In reality, they just wait until the coach is full, however long that takes. After the long wait, we had to sit through a painful sermon about wisdom. Zambian buses don’t leave until a preacher has made everyone feel like shit. That’s just the way they run.

The amazing back-packers lodge of Jolly Boys finally greeted us at 3am and Tuesday 26th equalled Victoria Falls. What can I say that hasn’t been said? It’s a wonder of the world and fucking great. I want to see it in all seasons. I want to steal the life of the teacher who I watched marking homework at the precipice of nature’s plummet.

In Livingstone, we ate dinner at Grillrite, followed by drinks at Steprite. Shoprite had already fed us in Dar, and, of course, had a branch in this old town too. At Steprite, an open-aired nightclub with sex for sale at every turn, a drunken hooker held out her arms and asked me to dance. I obliged, bounced about and held her upright as she twisted and twirled. It was only when she took to grinding herself hard against my leg, like the horniest dog in Africa, that I realised she might be after some lesbo action and white lesbo cash. As her arm pulled at my nape piercing and her crotch made sweet love to my legs, I felt my comfort zone slip rapidly away.

The following morning, after paying out for some sweet loving (no, I didn’t), I visited Mosi-Da-Tunya National Park, which was converted from a zoological park in just 1980. It was small and no Serengeti, but the guides were witty, knowledgeable and carried flasks of homemade lemonade, with cups for all. I got to see baboons, giraffes, zebras, impala, velvet monkeys and a common duiker antelope. I also saw a plethora of birds and spiders and an eerie ghost town. The rangers used to live in the park with their families, until one was trampled to death by an elephant.

By the next day, we were back in Lusaka. Lusaka; where the centre is poor and rough and two incredible out-of-town shopping centres satisfy all commercial needs. We watched a movie like the western corporate whores we are. I found the biggest vegan freezer section that I have ever encountered in a supermarket; a whole cabinet of Fry’s vegan delicacies in a truly Super Spar. Street hawkers sold Scrabble and Monopoly and one held a puppy aloft in each arm. The hawkers dart out when the traffic stops and hope that someone will buy something and sometimes they do. The same puppies were there the next day, or maybe they just looked the same. If no one buys them, I guess they die.

Today, I am still in Lusaka, and I visited their museum earlier. There are bullet holes in the windows of the fancy modern building. I asked a staff member what happened and she told me that in January, 2002, the contemporary art section of the museum opened downstairs. To celebrate the opening they invited a musician to play and sold tickets; actually, they over sold tickets. Bang Bang Bang.

The contemporary art section of the museum was shut for renovation today. Of course, that was the part of the museum that The Lonely Planet said to see. The rest was pretty dire. The building may be grand but the exhibitions are diabolical. The history of independence was shown in a series of newspaper clippings stuck to painted boards. Some clippings were missing, and some were cut in random places. The full story was unclear and may never have been otherwise. Many items had been scribbled on by school children. There was no context for any of the text. It was like an exhibition of random information. Perhaps someone found an old box of newspaper clippings from the time. Photographs of pompous colonial white bastards were stuck between the articles and Harold MacMillan occasionally peered out too.

The best part of the exhibition was the section that told me ‘Witchcraft is “alive and well” on planet earth'. Here are some examples of the items I saw. The words are the museum’s and not my own:

Kanadili	Composition: Small gourd, assortment of bead strings tied around the gourd, a wooden peg. Use: Causing mysterious death to the victims. Believed to protect the owner from evil attacks. It was alleged to have caused the death of 3 children in Chibuluma Township. Locality: Chilumba, Kitwe District. Donated to museum: 1978
Nyakazi	Composition: Wooden carving, beads – light blue and dark blue, human hair, pieces of cloth. Use: Believed to cause fatal accidents on the roads, because of the dark mysterious powers of darkness involved. Locality: Makui Village, Kalomo District Donated to museum: 1982
Kapuyi	Composition: A small gourd, baby skin, bead strings, hand rattle, small carved human figure and fly stick. Use: To protect owner from any difficulties during “errands” in the night. To enable the owner to sleep with other people’s wives in the night. Kapuyi survives on water, groundnuts and mealie meal.

Did I say that the history of independence was just newspaper clippings and photos of pompous colonial men? Well, I lied. It also had some witchcraft gems:

Walking Stick	Used by Mr Alick Muchengwa of village Mbwili Chief Mwewa in Samfya to avoid police arrest or torture in 1959-1962. As long as he was with it and holding it Policemen could not see him.
Shell	Used by Mr. Peter Kapaka in the early 1960s in Chilalabombwe to carry charms to UNIP rallies. It was believed that it could jam police tape recorders so that they could not record anything.
Charm	This is not a boat but a bird. It is a charm used by Mr Chola of UNIP in Luapula to slip away from colonial police by turning into an Eagle. It is believed that the same charm was used to destroy informers’ houses.

I am heading back to Malawi tomorrow. I’m looking forward to the sermon before the bus departs. I hope that there’s no ju ju on the bus. I could do without witchcraft until I’m back on home turf, or perhaps ju ju is best left alone at all times.

The future is here, so read it next:
Fabpants in Africa: The Last Six Days

Fabpants in Africa: Days Eight to Twelve

Fabpants in Africa: The First Three Days
Fabpants in Africa: Days Four to Seven

Zanzibar Zanzibar Zanzibar! Guess where I have been for the past few days? Yes, it’s not hard to guess. I’ve been on the wonderful island of Zanzibar. Zanzibar is an island steeped in history and culture. Zanzibar is home to a thousand smiling jambos. Zanzibar has strong Arabic roots and was once home to the East African slave trade. Once upon a time ago 50,000 slaves a year passed through Zanzibar City. Those were the bad times when smiles were rare.

As Marco Polo once told me, unlike Kenya, the citizens of Zanzibar at not at risk of tribal tension; for the most part, they have no idea what tribe they descended from. They descend from slaves. Marco Polo is a beach boy. Marco Polo hasn’t travelled much.

Ninety nine percent Muslim, the citizens of Zanzibar are mostly friendly and extremely welcoming. The distribution of wealth seems more even than on the mainland of Tanzania and I have yet to encounter any adult beggars. Children always want pens, and on Zanzibar a few have requested footballs.

Perhaps even more so than on the mainland, the English premiership rules. Elderly Muslim ladies sport Manchester United and Arsenal Football Club plastic bags. A well loved Arsenal Gunners truck rolls gently along sandy roads. It’s the cleanest truck on the island.

My first port of call was the UNESCO World Heritage Site of Stone Town, and deservedly so. Stone Town is ace. Full stop. Using Middle Eastern, Moorish, Indian and African architectural styles, the town is comprised of narrow winding alleyways and boasts an amphitheatre, a Sultans palace and a bustling market. Large carved doors and covered balconies are still crafted today, and the ongoing preservation of the town can be witnessed firsthand.

I am travelling through East Africa during a lull. I am travelling at the best possible time. Stone Town was mostly empty during my stay, and the lesser spotted tourist and their eager guides walked with ease. I can thoroughly recommend the night market, entirely lit by candles and oil lamps, and selling freshly cooked delicacies for all. It provides for a festival atmosphere in just one amazing street. I hear that it once specialised in fish but it now offers a wide range of treats for all; vegans included.

All towns should have such a night market. I want one at home; one that will feed an awkward sod like me. I ate a Zanzibar pizza, which is more like a dairy-free pancake. They fill them with salad and savouries, but I had banana inside and vegan chocolate sauce on top. I read the ingredients as the easy going staff efficiently continued to prepare, cook and slice. Before feeling the impact, I moved onto samosa and chips, with salt and lemon. I soon felt as full as a balloon that's stretched to its very limits.

I staggered the excess off, or incorporated it into my being, and, in a dark alley, discovered that ‘pimp my ride’ has not neglected Stone Town. A uniquely pimped car, with a baby theme, stood before me. It even cried when reversing. Pimped cars aside, Stone Town is a moped heaven. Leaping out of the way of them in thin alleyways is a delight for all. I was reminded of Seville and Spanish nights.

While people still carry heavy loads on bicycles and carts, the town felt generally felt wealthy and the locals seemed healthy, well-fed and happy. Stone Town in the lull is great. Maybe one day I'll get to see Prisoner Island too. I'm glad slavery is no longer common practice. Sometimes I find it hard to comprehend the evil of humankind.

From Stone Town we caught a 'real' darla darla. What is real and what is not is a mystery, and travellers talk a lot of shit. All the same it was like travelling in a covered truck with side benches. Above us a strong roof carried luggage, fruit and wood. Later I travelled on one that carried bicycles. On the suburbs of Stone Town, fields of brightly coloured refuge hid just outside the UNESCO World Heritage site, and the truck got fuller and fuller. The weight of fifteen people pressed against my legs and pushed me into the hard edge of an end bench, sitting perpendicular to my own.

Following a recommendation, I was headed towards a seaside lodge in Paje and this is where the darla darla set me down. The main street of Paje wasn’t inviting. It looked rough and billboards for tourists were everywhere. At a small shop, with a counter that faced the main road, and all its wares behind, inquiries about lodges, and where they sit, became a game of Chinese whispers. Following the final whisper, and the involvement of people from both sides of the street, I found myself on the back of a 'real' truck, carrying wood, five boys, an adult and us; open air travelling in rural Africa.

It’s not surprising the lodge was unknown. It was unwelcoming. I felt prejudged. Does a rucksack and a couple of piercings make me a bad person? I was made to feel inadequate and yet I can’t quite say how. Two hitched rides later (one in a car and one in an empty bus), and I was in the 6000 strong village of Jambiani; and fucking eh to Jambiani. Jambiani is the dogs. A village of sandy roads and Rasta run hotels like Mount Zion, One Love and Kimte. Coco Beach was our home. Little thatched huts with en-suite facilities and seaside views. I met Marco Polo and Mosquito in Jambiani; the beach boy names had an edge to them. It was low season and our numbers were few; and I am eternally grateful.

In Jambiani, I watched women gather seaweed from their low tide farms. Small wooden poles mark out the square fields that appear in the morning when the sea goes out to nap. I saw two white sharks, dead and ready for a trip into town and the marketplace. Men fish in the day and play football at dusk. Several Jambiani Premiership games appear across the village for the old men to watch in both delight and envy.

The children run free, racing bicycle wheels with sticks like Victorian urchins, and attending limited classes at the village's two schools. 'Picture, Picture'. They run up to tourists and greet them with wide eyes. 'Jambo, Jambo'. For my camera they adopted martial arts poses, or ugly expressions, and then gathered round to see the digital image of their mischief with relish.

Not far away, one of the world's 25 global biodiversity hotspots lies; protected from deforestation and mutilation. The Jozani Chwaka Bay National Park showed me endangered Red Colobus Monkeys, a mangrove forest, and a small anteater with its snout rustling through the leaves. The Red Colobus monkeys are indigenous only to Zanzibar. Approximately, 1,000 of them live in and around the protected forest. The sneaky ones live close to the road for easy meals.

Zanzibar is an island that provides, albeit sometimes at its own pace. At the park we waited ninety minutes for lunch. Two young children disappeared down the pathway and came back with a half full plastic bag. They disappeared again, only to reappear with large bundles of wood. Did the children collect our food and the fuel to cook it, while we watched the adults eating chapati as the day slipped by?

For the moment, I am back in Dar es Salaam. I spent last night in the Kilimanjaro Hotel. That's the hotel George Bush stayed in just days ago. I was bought a meal so expensive that it made a mockery of holiday budgeting and the ladies that collect seaweed at dawn. The toilet had a prime view of the bay.

The future is here, so read it next:
Fabpants in Africa: Days Thirteen to Twenty One
Fabpants in Africa: The Last Six Days

Fabpants in Africa: Days Four to Seven

The past is here, so read it first:
Fabpants in Africa: The First Three Days

Remarkably, it all went to plan. I left Mbeya, the temperate climate and "Scotland of Africa", and spent twenty hours travelling first class via the Tazara to Dar es Salaam. This is where I am now and it is pretty damn hot. Phew, get out the damp towels.

I should probably mention that during my last night in Mbeya, the journey home from the New Continental Lodge, with its fine bar and polythene wrapped sofas, to my hotel, was my riskiest journey yet. We had arranged for the same taxi to take us home as the night before, and on going for my last wee, in preparation for the homeward journey, I saw our driver. He was staggering across the back room of the lodge in a very wayward manner. The hotel was approximately twenty minutes walk from town and going by foot after dark is just asking for trouble. We only had details for one taxi driver and he was as pissed as a cunt. I looked at him, and I looked at his well cared for vehicle. I had suspected mild drunkenness the night before, but this was a man whose brain was barely connecting with his body. The car looks good, I told myself; no dents, no scratches. I had little choice; self reassurance of the desperate variety was making a mockery of my intelligence. Please let the seat belt work, I wished, as acceptance dawned. It didn’t.

You might not know this, but in Tanzania, you can buy sachets of alcohol. There is a drink called Konyagi. Its tagline is ‘The Spirit of the Nation’ and is has a 35% Alcohol content. I sat in the back of a taxi and watched as our drunken taxi driver sucked hard at such a sachet. That’s drinking and driving for sure. Thank fuck he didn’t crash. The next day’s travelling experience would be a little more elegant.

Our Chinese built train compartment, on the Tazara, hosted four beds, a fan, a mirror, a table and electric lights. The fan and bedside lights were not operable, but as decorative items alone, they were surely fine. The carriage included a saloon bar, with velvet seating, and two elevated television sets for whichever way you faced. A restaurant car, with art deco woodwork, based between first and second class, sold a full menu of freshly cooked food. From the train I saw zebras, warthogs, impala and antelope. The plains of Africa were beautiful. Others saw giraffes and elephants in the background, but I missed out on these wonderful delights.

The Tazara, the Tanzania-Zambia Railway Authority, was financed and executed by the People's Republic of China (PRC) nearly forty years ago. It was built to connect the Zambian Copper Belt to the rest of the world, and to avoid Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe), which was generally out of international favour at the time. Sound familiar?

The railway line starts at Kapiri Mposhi, in the heart of copperland, and ends at the sea in Dar es Salaam, traversing some 1,060 miles. Of course, it was built to make the Chinese money. A nod to the people would be an end point at Lusaka, Zambia’s capital, especially as the trains will not run on other local lines due to their Chinese gauge. Alas, this is not to be. The train line ended where the copper was no more. Still, the Tazara never did make any money for its Asian financiers.

More than sixty Chinese workers died in its making and it cost 680 million U.S. dollars to complete. So, did anyone win? Yes! Me. It’s a bloody great train line, which has enhanced many small local economies along its route. Its hardy carriages trundle through the remote heartlands of Tanzania, and people and freight bounce along in time with the chug chug chug of the great old smoky engines. It’s the best way to travel from the Indian Ocean into the heart of Tanzania and onwards into Zambia. It’s also the best way from Mbeya to Dar es Salaam.

It also served to cement a longstanding friendship between Tanzania and China. China has extended to Tanzania economic aid worth more than two billion dollars since 1960s, making Tanzania the largest beneficiary of Chinese aid in Africa, and Chinese road building projects are still to be seen all over the country.

In rural areas children and adults wave at the train. In more urban areas, if the train stops, children and adults sell their wares - such as fruit, carrots, sugar cane, phone credit, belts, drinks, steamed corn and sweets – all through the train windows. Some children beg for money or soap, but mostly they are just excited by the trains. Sometimes the Tazara provides soap for the richer traveller and it gets past on, but perhaps those days are over as soap was not given to us.

I have been in Dar es Salaam for two days, and experienced the overfilled Darla Darlas and car / foot ferries alike. I climbed onboard the back of a rather nice pickup truck to escape incoming water on the ferry today. We were the only white foot passengers, and one man shouted that I was a fucking 'something or other' for a full five minutes. He was far enough away to be of no consequence. Perhaps I deserved it. We have been living it white with our hosts; with bowling, meals out and a driver to take us from a to b. It feels most odd. Days of street wandering and evenings of enclosed living in Wazungu, white expat enclaves.

I am staying in Kigamboni, in a family beachside home, on a peninsula east of Dar es Salaam. From the sandy garden I can see a long line of freight liners queued up in the warm waters, just waiting for a place in the port. Political turmoil in Kenya is placing added pressure on Tanzania’s limited resources for moving cargo.

Yesterday morning, I awoke to the sound of American children learning French, and I let an eight year old beat me at pool. We still roam the streets by ourselves, talking to locals and seeing those who’ve had leprosy and polio. We turn down taxi rides at every turn, but everyone has been friendly and no one has pushed 'too hard'. One mention of the English Premier league and you’re in favour. English football is massive here. Every car tax disk is held in a plastic Premiership wallet, and football from Blighty is shown at the ferry terminals to eager eyes.

A young Swedish man, who was on the Tazara, was robbed on his first day here. He was mugged by educated thieves, who he had entertained for an afternoon, bought drinks for and adopted as his temporary friends. He came away unscathed, and with his money belt and passport, but he lost his wallet and suffered great fear. The thieves masqueraded as musicians and engaged in sophisticated conversation.

Dar es Salaam’s city centre combines air-conditioned commercial buildings with small crumbling shops. Its outskirts are lined with makeshift buildings and hard mud pavements. Last night the street sides glowed with candles, and sparkled with throng of activity, as people ate out, outside, and celebrated the end of the week. We ate Ethiopian delicacies in Addis in Dar and were surrounded by white skin alone. The restaurant was full, full of expats, NGO workers, academics and people from the west. Despite the amazing food, I envied the locals and their festival atmosphere in the streets, but would they envy me? Would it be safe for me? On the way home, in the heart of the city, I watched polio victims on hand pedalled bicycles as they mixed with traffic and hoped for handouts.

George Bush is in town right now. There are banners and advertising boards welcoming him everywhere. Apparently, that means we are safe from the electricity cutting out. They pull out all the stops for Bush! I understand Bush is offering to help provide mosquito nets to Africa. I think he’s worried about China’s special relationship. China is on the rise and it’s got several limbs in the world’s second largest continent. China builds roads and America provides nets. One enables travel and the other stops it.

Did you know that during the elections, in some Africa countries, it’s not uncommon for clothing materials to include a pattern with a candidates face in it? Even if I had known this, I would still have been shocked by what I saw. A hundred women lined the street, with George Bush’s gormless face staring out from their wonderfully plump behinds. A hundred George Bush khangas (sarongs) worn by local girls; local girls singing in praise of the President of the US of A. The ones in the ferry terminus bar drinking stout, instead of standing on the roadside in anticipation said it all. It was a party and nothing more. He might drive by and they’d miss him, but they’d be happy enough.

I heard people talking in praise of Obama on the car and foot ferry today. It seems that politics is everyday talk in Africa. I guess they haven't got Eastenders on tap to addle their brains. I'm not into the Cockney soap myself. It's too lame. I prefer The Wire. It shows politicians as I imagine them; mostly corrupt and just in it for number one. Do I dare to mention that the gritty underworld of drugs and violence, so graphically illustrated in The Wire, fills me with a pleasant warmth. I'm an undying romantic for voyeurism where the dark grit of life is concerned.

Why is George Bush stalking me? I don't want to be stalked by a stupid Bush.

The future is here, so read it next:
Fabpants in Africa: Days Eight to Twelve
Fabpants in Africa: Days Thirteen to Twenty One
Fabpants in Africa: The Last Six Days

Fabpants in Africa: The First Three Days

A mythical flight brought me to Africa. Air Malawi is really Air Zimbabwe, but it's still like catching a train to Hogwarts, on a railway line that's run by four year olds. Compare and contrast their websites and you might just begin to understand what I mean. My flight didn’t appear on the display boards, but I successfully found the secret way in, and my magical powers should not be dismissed. A white board, a flight number and a gate; no photographs allowed. It’s not a matter of security; it’s just too embarrassing for the professionally trained Gatwick staff to share.

I made it, and, miraculously, I was not the only one. The flight was cluttered by Zimbabweans flying on to Harare. And joy of joys, one of them was an overgrown chav with a full blown personality disorder. Hooray! I say this, because he sat in front of me for a full hour and I’ve met the wonderful world of the personality disorder before. He was a thirty something dressed by Sports World at their finest. I get cheap gym clothes from the aforementioned ‘fashion’ house and nearly got eaten by one of their escalators once, but that’s another story for another day. I look great in chav gear. I am also the terrible person that rejoiced when my comrade in naff clothing, and his behaviour without borders, uprooted himself and lost his seat. Yes, Zimbabweans don’t do allocated seats. It’s not just the disordered personalities that are disorderly.

The flight was delayed by one hour as a result of unmusical chairs, that and a detour to avoid the airspace of a “political situation”. Okay, it was the people moving around like they were at speed dating party, and the challenge of counting their ever moving bottoms, that primarily caused the hold-up, but bad stuff is going on in international airspace. Believe me. After the airline staff had tried to count the passengers ten times or more, and a queue of international flights had built up behind us, an exasperated Gatwick staff member boarded our flight. “Will everybody just sit down”, she shouted, and once again for the King Chav, who at this very moment decided to get out of his seat in front of me, “WILL YOU PLEASE SIT DOWN!” He didn’t take too kindly to that. No one had been lost between the airport lounge and the plane and we were off. It took a firm English hand to sort that one out. I was saying goodbye to that hand for three and a half weeks. What was I doing?!

All in all the flight was great. It was half full, roomy and for the most part comfortable. For a flight that doesn’t exist, it did an exceedingly good job. Only when we were flying over Malawi, did I realise that the seatbelt wasn't working properly and I tied a knot in it. Come on, you can’t expect everything?

Green lush land - brought to life by recent rains - lay below me, as we descended. Little thatched huts and mud lanes were sparsely distributed across the land. That was Lilongwe. I am currently in Mbeya, Tanzania and not Malawi at all. Mbeya, a small city in Tanzania, is more urban than the capital of Malawi.

The small airport of Lilongwe marks the start of my time in Africa, and only nine of us left the flight. I was greeted by a man behind a small wooden desk. He moved from the residents’ desk to the visitors’ desk just for me; they were both made of wood. He needed a destination address to let me in and I was ignorant. Without any fuss, the immigrations officer took my passport to the room next door and asked the person collecting me for an address. It was friendly, easy and very accommodating. I later realised you just make addresses up. They just need one; and they don’t care what it is.

In Lilongwe, I was introduced to men shearing grass on the roadside or a dollar a day and roads that are better built than those in Hove. Heavily laden bikes made a mockery of my weekly shop. The two wheeled transportation wonder has served me well over the years, but I may have to test it some more. Perhaps, when I return, I should carry several crates of beer, a few live chickens and a coffin or too. I seem to be missing out on something. Oh yeah, I should also carry more on my head; I am definitely not utilising my head enough. I did once try carrying a barbecue on my head on the way home from Argos. No one can say I don’t try things out.

A large section of Lilongwe is highly westernized, not looking unlike some Spanish towns. Supermarkets and fast food joints, such as Nandos and Steers sell everything that you can buy in the shops at home. Every other shop sells mobile phone simcards, Celtel being the most popular, and mobile phone paraphernalia is everywhere; in both shops and the market place. This seems to be common for Africa. I visited a very clean, modern dental surgery. A security guard protected it along with all the other high class services in the building. Most cars were relatively new and many high end 4x4 vehicles sat at the side of the streets. I wondered if I was really in Africa. The market place looked more like Vietnam.

This is not to say there isn’t poverty; there is, and lots of it, but the Lilongwe poor were mild and friendly in their begging and hawking. After dark, I hear it is a different story and walking the streets late at night can lead to death. We met a man whose cousin had died, just last month, whilst walking from one bus stop to another at 9pm at night. That was in Blantyre. He didn’t even have any money. Poverty and wealth sit side by side in Africa. It has more capitalist roots and capitalist based wealth than Eastern Europe and it embodies capitalism at its most evil. People want everything for nothing. We, the developed nations, got everything for nothing robbing Africa. We developed on the back of African freebies; slaves, gold and coffee. That’s our colonial legacy; capitalist greed and the oh so high and mighty Christian guilt. Boy, did we live them that.

A group of rowdy males on a private bus asked me if I like black men and shouted complimentary remarks about my bottom. There is a rumour that they were the Malawian football team. I like the idea of a national football team approving of my juicy white behind, even if the team only has a reputation for drunken antics and their on-pitch finesse is far from renowned. I’ll take compliments from anyone, me; tramps, senile women and the whole Malawian football team. Come and have a shot at making my day.

From Lilongwe we caught a very full and luxurious bus to Karonga. It wasn’t the bus with the footballers onboard. The bus was due to pick us up at 11pm, but arrived at 12.30am; not bad for Africa. We waited at a bus station with two sweet security guards, who spent hours cleaning the buses and protected us from the outside night world. The bus was our home for the next 10 hours.

We past children having lessons under the shade of trees, small brick houses with thatched or corrugated iron roofs, and lush undulating countryside, some growing crops and some gently wild. A man leading oxen by a long stretch of rope, wearing one Wellington boot and one sandal, signed to me that he would cry when I was gone. He was smiling and we both waved with laughter as the bus pulled away. Sorry Malawi FC; I’m with the one wellied wonder now. He was toothlessly charming. He made me smile from the depth of my heart.

We stopped for an hour in Mzuzu, the largest town in Northern Malawi, home to a large market and bus station, and a fine line of truly plush banks. As we drove away, the bus driver changed the entertainment from Chris de Burgh’s Lady in Red and Lionel Richies ‘Hello’, to blasting out a semi-tuned radio station that played African music at full volume. I’m not sure which was worse. Even with my earplugs in, I was deafened. Some intervention later, the volume decreased and the tuning improved. Bloody white colonial bastards telling Africans to tune in their radios and turn it down. I tell ya. It was 6.30am. Mostly, the roads were great and the journey was easy. For a small section of the ride, we went very slowly and bounced around like jumping beans. It was night and dark, so I couldn’t see, but I think we were off road. It wasn’t for long and the driver was very careful. That was before Mzuzu.

At Karonga, a taxi took us to the border of Tanzania. With four of us in the back, it was squashed at first, but we lost people along the way and gained space. I successfully entered Tanzania, some fifty dollars and two forms later. This country hopping is easy with the right help. I won’t mention the thirty minutes of haggling for a good taxi price to travel the next seventy miles. It was midday and very hot. I’m not sure if it really happened. We became the border entertainment and crowds of ten or more gathered to watch, with people coming or going; as and when they felt bored. Boys who give people bicycle rides (or backies) for money, decided it was more fun to watch us than to hawk their pannier racks. Were we quibbling over pennies or pounds? I’m really not so sure. The boys laughed, watched inquisitively and sometimes joined in by advising the driver in their own Swahili tongue. Eventually, we were off with a driver that came over and stole us for a better price. Actually, his tout stole us. Nothing is as simple as it seems. After a promise that only one other would travel with us, we picked up and dropped off several more as the miles rolled by. Communal travel is in.

We travelled some 750km to Mbeya on my second day in Africa. I spent one night catching limited sleep on a plane, and then did the same on a bus when darkness struck again. The Tanzanian countryside, that we past, is much hillier than that in Malawi, with impressive mountains and valleys, and carefully portioned out agricultural fields; where the land is not too steep to farm. It is also more densely populated, with a grittier feel to the populated areas. While some of the houses may be more luxurious, they are dirtier and the corrugated iron is often rusty.

Mbeya, my current temporary home, is a city of a million small shops. At first glance, it seemed like every building was a shop. I have eaten well twice and been to a wonderful non-smoking bar; where fancy polythene covered sofas entertain the wealthier bottoms of town, and a sweet waiter pops in for a quick pint after work. I watched a man stealing cigarette butts, only to be chased off and lightly smacked by the proprietor of our iniquitous drinking den. Two tour guides made conversation and then lightly sold me their excursions. The weather was temperate and the hills were filled with clouds instead of promise. Like Lilongwe, many of the shops advertise their wares with paintings of their products on the shop front. Often logos for well known brands, such as Dell or Intel, are painted on too, and artists must be in great demand. There are many phone shops, some in purpose built buildings. They stand in stark contrast to the other shops. They have large foyers and are far superior to those at homes. Mobile phones are big in Africa.

In the Scotland of Africa, or Mbeya to those who prefer, market stalls sit next to the bus station on hard mud, and no doubt dust when the rains have past. People fry chips in woks on the ground in-front of you and then mix them with eggs, to make chip omelettes or chips 'my eye' (Chips Mayai). The way the Swahili sounds made me think of egg yolks peering out of a sea of egg white and chips, but a very greasy broken egg omelette it is. A deep fried battered Mars Bar with Chips Mayai would guarantee a true Scotland of Africa heart attack; so open up a store now. People grill bananas, sell fruit from large wooden plates on their head, and a man walks around town selling music cassettes from a cart. The cart sings the music he aims to sell; and hiding behind a curtain is his battery powered old school ghetto blaster.

I have used two ‘hover’ loos, and one of them had a flush. The water is brown in our hotel room. I realised this after my second shower and having brushed my teeth four times with it. The sink is dirty and I didn’t notice the colour of the water. It was when I wondered why the toilet water never cleared that the truth slipped under my rose tinted specs. We have a proper toilet with dirty coloured water.

We saw a man pulling a cart with two people on board today, only he wasn’t pulling it, it was pushing him. It hurtled past us down a hill at high speed, and the raggedy tyres looked ready to fly off and cause injury.

I didn’t travel by cart, but I did go on a public minibus today (and by coincidence, the same one twice). This is one of the minibuses that are common in Africa, and often overfilled. The Foreign Office says for Malawi: “Travel between towns by public minibus or pick-up truck is not recommended; vehicles are often in poor condition and overloaded. Fatal accidents are frequent and emergency services are basic.“ I travelled within town and in Tanzania, not Malawi. That’s my excuse, but I’m sure the same advice applies. I'm a bad person, but most travellers will do the same. It’s the real Africa and travelling in a tourist bubble is wrong too. Only four people were standing, and for the most part of both journeys I got to sit. In the city the vehicles move slowly and the bus felt safe. Okay, the sliding door nearly fell off when we stopped, but the low speeds and warm soft bodies provided for a general feeling of communal comfort. I want eternal youth and to live forever, but a communal death, in the warmth of everyday people, appeals to me far more than dying a high speed death alone. And, of course, nobody died today. I hope they won’t tomorrow either.

That is when I head to Dar es Salaam on the Tazara train. All going well, I will leave at 2.30pm in a first class carriage, in a compartment that I will share with my travelling companion alone. The journey will take some twenty hours and will pass through a national park where giraffes and lions run amok. At the station, where the Tazara tickets fell into my hands, people watched a small television from pews and lined up their bags in neat lines to reserve their place in third class. We had to buy four seats, and our own private compartment; we are not the same sex and the carriages are single sex only. We are not travelling economy. Apparently, it is unsafe and uncomfortable. We are rich bastards. We are Westerners.

It is my third day in Africa and I am online. Internet cafes are easy to find in the cities. Perhaps they are all over. I am here because someone else wanted to be here. I would ignore you if I could.

The future is here, so read it next:
Fabpants in Africa: Days Four to Seven
Fabpants in Africa: Days Eight to Twelve
Fabpants in Africa: Days Thirteen to Twenty One
Fabpants in Africa: The Last Six Days

My Secret Identity

Following recent news coverage, many of you have guessed the truth. Yes, I really am Madonna Louise Ciccone Ritchie. And yes, I am going to Malawi to steal another baby or two; depending on how many I can tranquilise and hide in my baggage.

I sincerely hope that this won't take anything away from your enjoyment of my pseudonym; Emily Fabpants. I may write a line or two - under her name - during my travels. That is, if I’m not too busy riding elephants and drugging orphans. If you don’t hear from me, then read the news. I am famous you know.

I will be caressing the keyboard of my beloved PC again sometime in March. Long live the Fabpants; may Africa treat her kindly.

Shock News: I like Birmingham

We went to visit Granny Fabpants this weekend, and for the first time in my life I went to Birmingham. After a lifetime of hearing only bad things about our ‘second city’ (ahem Manchester), I was truly amazed.

We arrived in the city after nightfall, and during our evening stroll we saw many lovely sights. ‘That’s because it was dark’, I hear you cry. Well, you’re wrong. “Wrong, wrong, wrong; absolutely brimming over with wrongability” as good old Rimmer would say. Come morning, we discovered that the places that we’d squinted at in the dark were even better in daylight. Yes, I did have my contact lenses in.

Birmingham city centre hosts an abundance of well conceived public spaces, sunken churches, canals and an excellent form of regeneration that combines modern architecture with fine historical buildings. It was a joy to get cold in.

Most charmingly, as a fierce and bitter wind swept through the city, and chilled my fingers to the bone, I didn’t see one miserable face. In actual fact, the people seemed rather jolly and up for a wide eyed chuckle or two. One prankster had emptied a bottle of bubble bath into ‘The River’ fountain at Victoria Square. The bronze lady - that sits in the middle of the watery well - looked like the queen of public bathing. As Brummies like to call her the Floozie in the Jacuzzi, it was a very apt - if unoriginal - jape. It raised a smile from all that passed, and therein lies its success.

As we walked along the pedestrianised tiles of New Street, we discovered that the bubble bath prankster was not alone in loving life at the daft end of the pool. A lad of about seventeen or so, casually walking in the opposite direction, with his trendy hair and trendy clothes, suddenly and very impulsively jumped arse first into a pile of rubbish bags (filled with cardboard and packaging, not rotten fruit).

We proceeded to watch him, and what has to be his one true friend, take running jumps into the big pile of green bags for a full ten minutes or more. Impulse had evolved into a game. As we left, they were still at it and reorganising the bags for a softer landing. It’s important to look good in town. It was only 6.30pm and there was no indication of drunkenness. They actually seemed to be remarkably focused and mostly oblivious to the world at large. The world at large didn't pay them much mind either. They're all used to it in Birmingham. We were the only ones that stared.

A city where people can have such innocent fun in its central walkway was a delight to me. When we saw a fully grown man doing a silly walk, I had little choice but to do the same.

After a little bit getting lost, we temporarily gave up the joys of sightseeing and silly walks, and retreated to our booking at Sibilas. Sibilas is a vegetarian and vegan restaurant based in a holistic spa and it was fantastic. We sat at a window seat, watched canal boats, ate far too much delicious food and, to my delight, got to use a disabled toilet. Disabled toilets are ace; they're just so roomy. I had a little dance as I pulled my pants up. I know that the extra space is for wheelchairs and assistance, but - if it’s not being used - it’s perfect for the toilet boogie. I’m sure that many disabled folk agree. What is there not to agree on?!

Later on that evening, after gorging ourselves stupid and watching a film, we walked along Broad Street. Numerous clubbers, and a large group of giggling men in matching wigs, walked by. The nightlife was in full flow and the atmosphere was lightly hysterical. My Geek was the first to notice that unlike Brighton, the club strip wasn’t lined with police vans. While there were bouncers outside every venue, the drunken aggression that usually accompanies such locations - particularly on a Saturday night - was noticeably absent. People seemed to be too daft to be violent and surely that’s a good thing.

In conclusion, Birmingham is worth a visit and I fully recommend it. Just don’t go to the rough spots that exist out of town and you’re in for a treat.

Mainly, you should make an effort to see Birmingham’s ‘Walk of Stars’. It’s just like being in Hollywood. We saw Jasper Carrot and Noddy Holder’s names engraved in stars. I’ve since found out that we missed the third (and final) stone in the walk. I’m already planning our next trip just so that we can see it. Don’t tell My Geek, but the last sparkling stone honours a really famous singer and television star. My Geek's gonna wet himself when he finds out. It's so very, very exciting.