Tanzania - Of bus hawkers and mountain life

Bus window hawkers in Tanzania are very strong and very cheeky people. I will be sitting, reading my book when all of a sudden the next thing I know, one has pried open the window and stuffed a BBQd corn on the cob into my face, on the end of a long wooden stick. I turn to look at him, which is immediately taken as a sign that I’m interested, so out of no where, another five corn sellers shove their burnt corn in my face too, hoping I might choose one of theirs instead. So now, I have six bits of burnt yellow lumps wiggling in my face without me even uttering so much as a single word, and I thus try to pretend to read my book once more or say "Hapana ashante" (no thank you), hoping they will get the idea and hurriedly move on to the next window, trying to get a sale before the bus moves off.

Others amazingly carry heavy boxes of water, nuts, crackers etc above their heads to bus window level, with just one arm, and hold them there like a statue without getting tired for 5/10minutes. But the strongest are those who sell their wares attached by wires to big wooden planks, which they carry round on their heads. Sometimes, there can be ten of them crowding round the bus trying to sell you everything from makeup to Telly-tubby dolls, cheap Argos jewellery to plastic radios. It’s like the tomato sellers - five women all with a bucket of tomatoes neatly arranged in pyramid piles; you wonder how any of them make any money competing with the others, always happy when they get a sale of a couple of hundred shillings (1200Sh = $1). But I guess that’s just the point - they never make enough money.

This last week, window hawkers have been a big part of my little life, as I take a number of buses hopping south to my final destination, Dar Es Salaam. First, there was the 24hour journey from Uganda, across the equator again, through Kenya (surviving Nairobi for the last time, save my transfer flight) and south into Tanzania to Arusha. Then again, from the safari capital of Arusha to Moshi, before heading into the beautiful Usambara Mountains.

I only stayed in Arusha one day, which was enough. Most people go there to organize a safari, but when such a safari to the Serengeti or Ngorongoro Crater now costs upwards of $500, and climbing Kilimanjaro has a daily fee of $120, not including guides, porters, food or accommodation, I think I’ll pass. There’s little to do in Arusha itself, except stumble through the crazed markets, stare up at the mighty 4,565m Mt Meru, and play a game to see how many street-touts I can attract, such as those that can amazingly read the future - “hey, I remember you from Moshi, yes?” “No. Bye.”

So, getting away from Arusha, I go to Moshi at the base of the might Kilimanjaro, the highest mountain in Africa, and at 5,895m, the highest free-standing mountain in the world. That’s some volcano - although it wasn’t until 1861, 13 years after it was first discovered by the West, that its existence was accepted, most refusing to believe there could be snow so near the Equator. However, Moshi as a town, had the impression of Arusha’s brother, and there was likewise little to do, besides stare up at Kilimanjaro (which was sadly in cloud the entire time I was there), have $108 stolen in a restaurant and thrash out my resultant anger swimming a mile in the YMCA pool. I was going to hire a guide for the day, but after my little troubles I didn’t feel up for a guide, so went exploring the tranquil country lanes on my own, coming across a rushing river near a farm run by jail inmates all dressed in orange. It was here (the river, not the farm), where I stayed trying to forget my woes reading a book all afternoon.

Tanzania seems to be quite lucky physically, as most of the country is a vast, dry plateau, yet it still boasts Mt Meru and Kili, has territory on Africa’s three largest lakes (Victoria, Tanganyika and Malawi), a superb archipelago coastline and even half a dozen isolated mountain ranges, including the Usambara, my next stop that I had been looking forward to for a while. The bus journey itself was incredible, winding its way forwards (and backwards) through the mountains into cloud, encountering a completely different kind of Tanzanian lifestyle on the other side.

I stayed in Lushoto, the capital of the region, though from a Western perspective, the word capital is a bit of a misnomer, as it has more of a time-warped, Alpine village atmosphere. The small indoor / outdoor market is filled with colourfully-dressed Shambaa women selling exotic fruits and veg, pretty cloth and dried fish in tins, while the surrounding streets are full of busy locals going about their daily lives walking past little African cafes, women selling coal in buckets, and the ubiquitous school kids climbing trees in their uniform to get at the fruit.

Besides deliberately getting lost amongst the village roads on my first day (easy to do for a geographer with limited geographical awareness skills), I organized a 2day/2night walk to really get a feel for the region and proving to myself that mountains will always be my favourite places to travel to. There’s a few areas of undisturbed forests, but the majority of the walk was through cultivated hills. However, there’s something psychological about walking through mountains, that makes the place feel remote no matter how many people live there.

Picture, if you can, rolling hills covered in a hybrid mixture of exotic pines, papaya and pear trees, and indigenous forests, with patches of red rock protruding, like being carefully hacked from the mountains with an artist’s chisel, and the same deep orange red rock used to construct all the small houses that have been sprinkled like chilli powder over the green forested and cultivated hills; the sounds of children playing football with makeshift plastic-bag balls, goats making, err, goat noises, men and women chopping wood with blunt axes, water trickling down a path being licked by a cat that is staring at the birds singing through the rustling trees. The region is stunningly beautiful. But as always, it’s the kids full of unreserved energy that are the most fun and interesting to be with. You see them on hills a kilometer away, jumping, waving and shouting (or sometime you don’t see them at all, just hear the “mzungu, habari” shouts echoing through the valleys), and they follow behind you on their bikes or balancing ten kilograms of water or logs on their heads, freezing if you turn round, as if playing “What’s the time, Mr Wolf?”. Carrying all that weight really can’t be good for their necks, but one could say it is a choice between long arms and short necks.

On the first day, I walked with my guide Amri, a quiet but funny man with plenty of knowledge and stories up his sleeve if you quizzed him, and two awesome Canadians, Gregg and Adrienne, who by chance will be living in Twickenham later this year like myself (yes, it’s official, Twickenham will be home for the foreseeable future, so everyone is welcome to pop down, or up, or across the sea even). We spent the morning walking to Irente View Point, which for anyone only interested in panormaics, would put a downer on the rest of their walk, as the view was pretty unsurpassable in its majesty. Also, anyone who gets the willies standing on top of tall buildings (someone by the name of Paul, or ‘Dad’ springs to mind) would have had the shakes as it was pretty much a 1000m drop straight down to the Tanzanian plains and cloud below, and then across to distant volcanic peaks. Nearby is the Irente Farm, where we greedily then guzzled down homemade cheese and peach jam on fresh rye bread. Mmmm. Beats the standard African ugali fare (a staple made from maize), described by Paul Theroux as chewing on a thick bath rug. I wouldn’t disagree.

I then split with Adrienne and Gregg, and continued with Amri by foot and stupidly dangerous bus, past his house to collect his toothbrush, to night camp, the Rangwe Convent at 2000m asl, complete with stereotypical candles, and table-cotton-doilies, and a less-stereotypical nun channel surfing Tanzanian digital TV. A pleasant, if somewhat cold night - the first time I’ve seen my breath since trekking to Everest; temperatures I’m going to have to get used to again with a British winter just round the corner, *sigh*. Though I hear it’s hotter in England at the moment than here at the Equator - what a strange world we live in.

On the second day, Amri and I joined up with two fun Australians and their guides, Anna, Melodie, Johny and Kilanja, adding to the day’s enjoyment, especially as they spoke pretty good Swahili attracting even more kids. The walk took most of the day, stopping for a long lunch and at a small pottery factory. There must have been some hidden alert system because as if out of nowhere, within ten minutes of sitting down on little wooden seats, we were surrounded by dozens of people of all ages, each with a bucket full of pottery that they then insisted on spreading all around us, drowning us in it - pots, little models of dogs and even a couple of clay mobile phones. I bought a little tortoise from a girl who eventually owned up to making it, and I think I made her day, bless her. Before leaving, my parting gift was to show the kids how to make popping noises using your thumb in the corner of your mouth. Something tells me, there will be popping noises coming out of the valleys for weeks now…Oops.

The views were just as great of course, passing farmers at work tilling, watering, planting crops and drying tobacco and corn. Kilanja also had a remarkable ability for spotting chameleons, known for their camouflage I might add, from twenty yards away - one of which Melodie named Fred. Eventually, we made it to Mtae, a small village on a cliff-top setting, perfect for those cloudy sunset moments sitting on the edge of the world chatting about everything random, while listening to a small wedding band playing in the distance.

No specific funny events to tell I’m afraid, but it was a great walk and just the right medicine after Moshi. Along with Melodie and Anna, we then took two more hellish bus journeys - the first at 4am, incredibly bumpy and very cold as the windows kept rattling open (though the misty morning views nearly made up for this), and the second (and final ever bus journey on this trip!) a seven-hour journey to Dar Es Salaam, in narrow uncomfortable seats and very hot (I can’t win can I? - hot/cold) sitting on the sunny side and once again having corn thrust into my face. Not even McDonalds could compete with the speed of this fast food!

So with no more buses left to take, there’s only one place left to go - ferry to Zanzibar, the Spice Island. Woo! Final blog coming soon to a computer near you. Take care! xx

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