In Tanzania now

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My trip began luckily, just before buying a bus ticket I learned of a friend traveling to Mpika (about 3/4 of the way to Mpulungu) on Monday morning. She, kindly, agreed to give me a ride and so for the first time I traveled without waking at some horrible hour of morning, no legs pressed against my legs, no shoulders invading my shoulders' territory, no babies being changed on my lap (actually happened the last time I went to Mpika) and instead rode in a spacious leather seat with air-conditioning comfortably (and free!) to the North. As we drove the season appeared to reverse itself into a North-American fall with the Miambo Woodland trees producing blood-stained pomegranate colored leaves which, with the progression of spring, turn slowly yellow and then green. In Mpika I booked a room only to discover that the bus to Mpulungu leaves at midnight! So I returned my key and instead took a nap on my friend's kindly offered couch. At 23:55 I painfully ejected myself from a restless sleep to go sit out in a dirt yard filled with drunken Zambian men all using the excuse of theoretical work to validate their all-night loitering in a parking lot. Fat little ladies shuffle speadily past with large loads mushrooming over their heads. The bus finally arrives at 01:30.

In Mpulungu I set up camp at a lodge (theoretically) which is hot, dry and deserted. It resembles an evacuated village after a civil war. The water, while seemingly pleasant, is impossible to penetrate due to rocky shores and an excess of Zambian Fishermen just waiting for the odd mzungu lady to remove her clothes.

Someone recommends a boat trip to an island. It begins with something stuck in my shoe. The something turns out to be a small dead fish (capenta I think, but in much more attractive condition). The breeze from the lake does not penetrate the interior of the island. The trees are barren of foliage and any form of scrub appears to be regularly burned. The blackened earth is peppered with piles of shit ripening pungently in the sun. Cicadas drill holes into my consciousness.


I escape Hellville, Zambia on a ridiculously expensive motorboat which brought me to a decidedly typical, but still rather lovely, beach resort where I set up camp. I spent my first day there languorously presiding over my spot of sand complete with lounge chair, grass thatch umbrella, a book and a small dog named Buffy who, every time I moved would dig a nest in the sand in sea-turtle style. I momentarily forgot she wasn’t actually my dog as she spent every moment of the day with me, even sleeping leaning against my tent so her back pressed into my arm. The next day I awoke at sunrise (impossible not to do considering I’ve been going to sleep around 9 every night) and Buffy circled me excitedly before escorting me to the toilet (she patiently waits outside). I then went to get directions from the staff to get to a waterfall supposedly nearby. I was vaguely nervous about this because one thing I have learned about Zambians is they are completely incapable of giving directions. The directions I was given were, of course, entirely useless and, as it turned out, inconsequential. Upon entering the first village I acquired an entourage of roughly 15 small children who were thrilled to lead the way ("Kalambo Falls!! Kalambo Falls!!" they chanted incessantly in between shouts of "Muzungu!" and "How are you!") By the time I reached the actual path to the falls their numbers had swelled to the forties and it was getting rather difficult to walk. As we started straight up the mountain I began to get nervous, I’d brought just a little food and water to sustain myself (I’d gotten varying estimates of the distance from 3 to 7 hours) but not nearly enough to pass around. I knew well enough I couldn’t start to drink with this crowd surrounding me but I was getting thirsty. They continued to follow me up the mountain and I knew there was no way I could outlast them. Finally I stopped and sat, in desperate need of water by this time. They crowded around me mesmerized by my every move (when I first turned around a whole crowd of them went running down the hill in surprise). I didn’t know what to do so I started taking pictures of them. They posed like action heroes and tough guy gangsters, the usual, and when I put the camera down I said, "OK, byebye!" and waved. The all sang "BYE!" in unison and headed reluctantly back down the mountain. The hike ended up being about 3 and a half hours in each direction and very steep. The terrain reminded me of New Mexico except, interestingly, in places where the earth seemed the most cracked and barren new growth appeared in a delicious shade of green so unreal in that environ that one could initially believe it was a fake plant that had been placed to deceive you. The water fall was grand but disappointing in that I couldn’t play in it. It was incredibly isolated and populated with bands of baboons (unfortunately less used to people, so disinclined to pose like the ones in Livingston). On the way back I took a wrong turn and arrived at a village significantly farther from my campsite then I should have been. I began to walk along the coast until a little tiny old man, most likely nearing 70, insisted that I allow him to take me in his boat. I had nothing to pay him but I could not refuse. He and a young boy rowed me across the bay in a handmade wooden boat which slowly filled with water as we progressed.

The next day I returned to the town of Mpulungu to catch the boat, supposed to leave on Friday. On returning to they harbor I was informed the boat had not come and was now expected on Saturday. Confronted again with the impressively stifling heat of Mpulungu, and my knees still aching from the steep downhill of the hike, I couldn’t bear to move anymore. I took a room in the small hotel directly next to the port and spent the day sitting, reading, watching bad television, and learning Swahili.
The ship did indeed arrive on Saturday and, after finding my way through large crowds of people buying and selling from the boat I made my way on. As soon as the boat left port and the crowds of curious Zambians and merchants had left, it was obvious I had entered a different country. The English accents around me had become incomprehensible and the Swahili was just confusing (even now, 4 days later, I can’t get comfortable with Swahili greetings, there must be at least 15 different ways to say hello and I can’t ever seem to come up with the appropriate response in time). Traveling on the ship is reminiscent of long train rides. The motion of the movement is settling (and even sleep-inducing) but they stopped many times in the night to load cargo and I often awoke with the sensation of being surrounded by motorcycles. In actuality, as most of towns we stopped at do not have actual harbors, we would stop in the bay and blow the horn to alert the town of our arrival. Small fishing boats, handmade, and sometimes with motors attached (hence the sound of motorcycles) apparate like ghosts from the shore. They descend on the ship a chorus of yells, ropes flying in the air, soaring over the banisters. Young men clamber up the side to attach the ropes. I briefly imagine we are being boarded by pirates. Very disorganized pirates. Two boats jostle for the same spot, yelling escalates.

When not stopped the atmosphere is listless. People pace back and forth along the side decks restlessly, searching for some modicum of comfort: respite from overly familiar faces, protection from the stifling heat that confronts one below deck where most of the rooms are. All the while the boat crawls forward, a seemingly endless horizon of rippling sparkling blue to one side, the semi-arid Tanzanian coast to the other. It is better when we move, the winds invade more easily and the crowds disperse without the spectacle of boarding. We make 17 stops before arriving in Kigoma. Kigoma is a small, lush, tree-lined town with comfortable breezes and wide selections of fruit. I may end up on an all fruit diet just because it’s so lovely. Last night I ate bananas cooked in a type of light tomato sauce. They brought a fruit salad without me asking for it (I would never have considered such a thing would be available) made with fresh papaya, pineapples, watermelon… it was lovely.

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