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Published: July 14th 2011
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My 30 hours aboard the Liemba passed all too quickly, and by 9pm on the second day we pulled into the bay of Kipili, left the ferry through a door in the hull to a waiting rocking canoe, and slowly rowed to shore as the ship stood illuminated in the pitch black night.
I spent the next few days in the village of Kipili, time spent eating at Mama's cafe (a mud and straw hut 3m x 3m that was the only place in the village for food) drinking in the only bar (a collection of plastic garden chairs on the edge of a dusty street), and watching village life go by. Although, to be honest, there wasn’t exactly much to watch – the odd game of boa or draughts, one lone banana seller (Sundays only), the bicycle repair shop, the old men sat in the shade of a tree, children coming to check the latest films showing in the ‘cinema’ by looking at the cases hung from the trunk of tree. But then, the lack of anything to see gave the place it’s charm – the slow, slow life of an isolated African village.
After four days, and
after exhausting the village's attractions (as well as finding out about United knocking Liverpool off their perch), it was time to head back inland, although like everything else in Western Tanzania, it was going to be a slow process. Our first minibus, and the only one leaving the village that day, took us 8km to the next village of Kilanga, but by the time we’d made it down the pot-holed and dusty track, we’d missed the connection onwards, and instead were told to wait for 4 hours for another minibus to pick us up. Upon arrival, the second minibus then promptly broke down before even leaving the village, and left us with another 2 hour wait for a replacement. Nothing it seems, ever goes on-time, yet alone quickly, in this part of the world.
While waiting, I’d realized the reason I’d liked Kipili so much, and it was the almost complete lack of advertising. In the whole village there must have been only a handful of small Vodacom signs at the most. Here in Kilanga, itself just a small trading station, I suddenly felt like I was stood in the middle of Times Square – with the logos of
a host of mobile phone companies, as well advertisements for barbers, restaurants, shoe shops, mechanics, secretaries, and everything else imaginable, all screaming out for attention. Visual overload when compared to the quiet of Kipili. I guess when there’s only one café, one bar, and two shops, and where everyone knows everyone else, there’s not really any call for the global advertising industry.
Finally, at around 2pm, a bright red minibus squealed into town, leaving behind it a cloud of dust and fumes. The rag tag assortment of people waiting for the bus all piled aboard, bringing with them what appeared to be all of their worldly possessions. Thankfully I’d grabbed a seat in the cab, which afforded me a modicum of luxury and space, and allowed me to enjoy the journey. And the journey, once it was actually underway, was fantastic, along an endlessly winding track, through a seemingly empty and endless woodland. After the rows and rows of villages in Uganda, Rwanda and Burundi, we now passed no more than 10 people in two hours. Suddenly, in that one trip, Africa was vast again. An untouched wilderness all the way to the horizon. And then, 9 hours after
leaving Kipili, we arrived at an unnamed town, no more than 120km away from our start point, but the furthest we could travel in that day, and awaited the morning bus to Sumbawanga, And with it, civilization.
After the early morning bus, and spending an enjoyable afternoon and night in the town that consisted of nothing more than bars, restaurants, and cafes, I caught the first bus out of town the following day, to try and make the train connection from Mbeya to Dar es Salaam. In the end I made the connection with 6 hours to spare, with the Tazara train running reliably late, and spent a few lazy hours sat people watching in the gloriously Communist, Chinese-built station waiting room, which had not an inch of unnecessary decoration of elaboration. At 5pm, a mere 4 hours later than scheduled (remarkable early by some accounts), the deep rumble of the train’s horn was the signal for everyone to dash to the platform doors and to try to force their way on to the train. 45 minutes later, with everyone aboard, all supplies for the journey bought from the hawkers on the platform, and with the sun beginning to
drop towards the horizon, another blast of the horn signaled our departure.
The engine roared into life, sending vibrations rumbling through the carriages, and then, with an elongated creek, a jerk forward, and the crunch and crack of carriages moving forward and back and into one another, we were on our way. Soon the clattering of wheels on the tracks filled the air, as we sped out of Mbeya, followed on our way by the screams and shouts of children who lined the trackside on the edge of town – jumping and running with both hands in the air, it was as if it was an annual celebration, not the twice weekly train. From those first moments, until we rolled into Dar 24 hours later, it was an utterly magical journey.
Hour after hour passed, as we rumbled east towards the coast, gently rocked by the motion of the train, past the mountains and mist-covered hillsides of Mbeya and the Southern Highlands, with waterfalls cascading into the valleys following the recent rains. Along our way, each station that we came to a halt at became a market place – for everything from potatoes, carrots, bananas, fish, cooked rice and beans meals, and half-used bags of cement – as people from the neighbouring towns and villages rushed out onto the tracks as we arrived at each stop. Young boys would jump onto the train's steps as we rolled away, whistling and screaming, and daring each other to stay on as the train got faster and faster, before jumping onto the sharp gravel stones below and running alongside the train as their momentum carried them forward. As midday came on the second day, we passed through the Selous Game Reserve, past gazelles and impalas, and one majestic male elephant, who turned to face the train as we flew passed, his skin caked with red dust, and enormous white tusks shining in the sunlight. As night fell, I stood by a glassless window, with my head to the wind, and as the train clattered, rolled and rumbled into the night, and with my mp3 player of full, I once again rode with the moon, full of thoughts of home, and the joys of the journey underway.
As we pulled in Dar that night, I’d finally left Western Tanzania after three fantastic weeks – an amazing place where time seems to stand still, where getting there is more than half the fun (but may take over 4 times as long), and where Africa seems to have forgotten to change to suit our Western tastes. Glorious, glorious, Western Tanzania.
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