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
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