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