Across Tanzania & Kenyan coast

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From Kigali there is a weekly bus making the 30 hour (plus) trip to Dar Es Salaam.

I took this for the first 13 hours, getting dropped of at night on the outskirts of a town called Singida a reasonable distance into the interior of Tanzania.

I found my way to a hotel which turned out to be the best in town. For my £9 I got a comfy room with bathroom and digital TV (upside) and fleas (downside).

I am coming across fleas increasingly often these days. They tend to have a close relationship with woolly blankets in establishments where they change the sheets, keep the blankets in place and don’t wash them sufficiently frequently.

The first sign is usually an itch around the ankles which works its way up your legs as realisation dawns that it is not just your imagination.

Remedial action involves carefully folding up the blanket and placing it on top of the wardrobe or in an unused corner, giving the sheet a good shake and washing ones legs.

Alternatively, if you are not freshly showered, naked and dog tired, and it is not too late at night, one might complain and hope to secure a different room.

I adopted this strategy the next morning and was rewarded with a grim, but non itchy room.


Singida itself was somewhat interesting.

There are a number of piles of huge boulders which are dotted around the town. No doubt they have been revealed by erosion over the years.

This is the town where my SD card was loaded with 29 viruses within seconds of being put into a computer in a local internet café. I showed the girl working there how to run an antivirus programme. The count was into the hundreds within minutes.



I was expecting the journey from Singida to Arusha to take about 6 hours. I turned up at the bus station at 8.30 am and we were soon on our way.

Unfortunately it was a rainy day.
Dirt roads and rainy days are not a good combination.

The driver battled gamely on but on several occasions the bus conductor had to find local vegetation to shove under the spinning wheels in search of grip.

On one particularly muddy stretch all the passengers had to get off the bus to lighten the load and allow the driver to power through and hope to emerge in the drier zone.

Eventually we came across an altercation between an articulated lorry and a truck of pineapples. The lorry was jack-knifed and the truck on its side, blocking the road.

Standing on the muddy banks for 3 hours I enjoyed a slowly unfolding drama as various players took their part in solving this puzzle and other less patient but more impetuous types attempted to bulldoze their way through the adjacent fields and got bogged down in their turn.

Impatient to get going after the delay the driver was not prepared to wait an additional five minutes to allow the passengers to safely board the bus.

Instead we had to chase it down the road and fight our way through the door as he revved up and jerked forward a few feet each time. It was entirely possible that any cripples and elderly were left behind.

I felt the weight of missed opportunity as I looked around to see everybody else clutching their souvenir pineapples.


After 9 hours on this bus we were only half way to Arusha.

That was enough for one day, so I got off at the next town and looked for somewhere to stay.

Unused to white visitors, the guest house staff were especially attentive. One even accompanied me to a local eatery to watch me have a go at the world’s toughest chicken.



I finally got to Arusha the next afternoon.

This is Tanzania’s third largest town and the jump-off point for all those Serengeti safaris.

I found a very nice room in a guest house and carefully stowed the unnecessary woollen blanket in the far corner.

This town is well known for its touts who have developed their own form of direct marketing. This involves haranguing the target for block after block, impervious to the brush offs that work well elsewhere, until the victim folds and a transaction ensues.

In this way I purchased a day old copy of the Financial Times for half the cover price (and then forgot to read it).

Whilst wandering the streets I came across a man hand painting intimations of slender Maasai people onto cards. After twenty minutes of friendly negotiation I walked away with the bulk of his stock as a stand in for this year’s Christmas cards.

I liked Arusha as it was quite lively and had decent facilities. Anyway, if it wasn’t for all the touts I wouldn’t have had anyone to talk to.



Moshi is the kicking off point for all those treks to the top of Mount Kilimanjaro.

It is well touristed but lacks any small town charm and, when I was there, exhibited the unfortunate combination of streets both windy and dusty.

Touts here were more wily, employing the “I’m not a tout. Let me be your friend,” school of touting.

One spent an hour showing me around the town before inviting me to view his shop. I went, I looked (“looking is free”), I left. Our incipient friendship was quashed by my lack of interest in his overpriced wares.

My 24 hours in Moshi was saved from being a complete downer when the clouds parted at breakfast to reveal the majestic Kili peak overlooking the town. I could tell that there is a lot less snow at the summit than there used to be.


The 8 hour bus journey to Dar Es Salaam turned into 10 hours as we crawled through the gridlocked streets at rush hour to get to the depot.

A coastal city, Dar has an age old Arabic atmosphere, although there is not much to see.

I walked along the seafront until I reached the fish market which was a smelly hive of activity.

In the budget hotel I got my jeans washed for 10p, which was gratifying. (Note – I do not normally advocate taking jeans when travelling. These are special backpackers jeans made with an unusually lightweight denim-like material. Only £4 from Primark).



The ferries to Zanzibar leave from docks right in front of the city centre so is easy to find.

Foreigners have no choice but to buy the most expensive ‘VIP’ ticket which entitles you to a comfy chair.

After 3 hours we chugged into the quayside at Stone Town where I had to get my passport stamped despite staying in the same country.

Zanzibar used to be a British protectorate. After a period of political turmoil in the early 1960’s it held enough influence when joining with the newly independent state of Tanganyika to provide the ‘zan’ for the new name, Tan-zan-ia.

The first president of the country, Julius Nyerere, was one of the better intentioned post independence African leaders. Son of a tribal chief, he went to university in Edinburgh and was only the second Tanzanian to earn a degree outside of Africa.

Initially he pursued a policy of self reliance for the country but then tried to create a socialist state in which rural people were forced into collective farms.

Agricultural productivity plummeted and Tanzania almost went bankrupt in 1975, forcing them into the clutches of the World Bank and IMF.

This is a shame because, in my opinion, a good dose of self reliance is exactly what East Africa needs these days.


Stone Town on Zanzibar is a complete contrast to the ordinariness of towns on the mainland.

Between the 12th and 19th centuries Zanzibar rose, declined and rose again as an important regional trading centre along the African coast.

Arab traders from the North bought slaves, gold and ivory and supplied spices, glassware and textiles.

This wealth translated into property construction in the 19th century, when wooden structures were banned and the name Stone Town arose.

The Arabic architecture consists of narrow alleyways sided by tall buildings of three or four storeys, creating maximum shade and comfort from the searing sun.

This makes for an interesting if confusing maze. It is easy (indeed obligatory) to get lost, but it doesn’t matter because you eventually emerge on the waterfront or the main road.

Many of the more wealthy families left during the upheaval around independence and the houses became multi-occupancy residences for refugees from other areas.

Multi-occupancy typically means no maintenance and some houses have actually collapsed to rubble over the last 40 years.

Many more are in clear need of renovation and, while they provide their own type of charm, this is obviously not a sustainable situation for a town that trades on its heritage.

The areas catering to tourists are a bit more plush and there is a new seafront square where an agreeable night market undercuts and outsells the local restaurant trade.

I always ended up in this square, particularly on the afternoon when the World Cup trophy visited on its pre-tournament tour. It was a waste of time though, only a few of the crowd were given the opportunity to actually see the thing.

There are enough sights and characterful streets around Stone Town to make a visit rewarding, which was good as I didn’t have the time to head for the famous beaches.

Instead, after four days I took the overnight ferry back to the mainland.

I was hoping for some sleep, but found myself around the table occupied by a young woman who thought it was her job to keep everybody entertained with her commentary into the small hours. When we docked she donned a full hijab and was swallowed up by that Islamic anonymity specially reserved for the ladies.



Heading North into Kenya I had a few weeks of beach time to occupy before the end of the trip.


Diani beach is undeniably lovely. A lengthy stretch of golden sand and clear sea means that it is no surprise that this is the premier resort area along Kenya’s Indian Ocean coast.

Even so, the density of visitors was surprisingly low and whities on the beach were far outnumbered by locals enjoying the sea.

I got one of the nicest rooms of the trip a couple of kilometres back from the sea in the nearby town of Ukunda where everything was cheaper.

Admittedly it was one of those places where older white men always seem to have hooked up with local girls.

As I left my room one morning the door to an adjacent room was wide open. Inside the room were two single beds, each occupied by a German man and a black girl. They were all smoking and swilling beer.
“Are they prostitutes?” I asked the cleaning lady.
She looked at me like I was thick.
“Of course they are prostitutes.” She replied.
I suppose it was rather obvious.



As Mombasa is an island, approaching from the South you have to get a ferry from the town of Likoni.

This is free for pedestrians and tens of thousands of people must make the crossing every day.

The ferry terminal is purpose built so it is particularly African that the people getting on and getting off the ferry should have to use the same set of stairs at roughly the same time.

The tide of passengers guided me onto the boat, then everybody crammed towards the sides to try and avoid the searing sun.



Mombasa is a busy city. There is an old Swahili section which is quite interesting and Fort Jesus by the sea, but not much else to see.

The entrance fee to Fort Jesus was a hefty 800 Shillings, so I thought there must be something special about it. Wrong.

I had forgotten that it is Kenya’s governmental policy to wring as much cash out of foreigners as humanly possible.

Whilst relearning this important lesson I saw a Kenyan (entrance charge 100 shillings) girl that I recognised from the guest house. I discovered that she had a very strange idea of how to conduct a conversation.

When asked, I told her that I had been travelling in East Africa for four months.
“You are a liar.” She said.
A little later I told her that I had given up my job to go travelling.
“You are a liar.” She said.
Then came up the fact that I don’t have any children.
“You are a liar.” She said.
She seemed surprised when I left her to enjoy the battlements on her own.


A couple of hours north of Mombasa I stopped in the small town of Kilifi.
Here, one of Kenya’s longest bridges spans over a gorgeous sea inlet.

It looks like a sparkling blue river running down to the sea, but is actually a long and winding estuary in which seawater travels a way inland before it meets the river.

As the tide drops, isolated beaches are revealed which are ideal entry points to the sun warmed sea.



North again, Malindi is the most touristy town along the coast.

For a reason which I could not discern it is a popular destination for Italians. Here children say ‘ciao’ before asking for money.

The town beach is broad and sandy, and the sea has waves.

At one end is a navigational pillar erected by Vasco De Gama in 1498.
Then comes a seaweedy beach fronted by package hotels.

Around another headland is a marine park where ideal turquoise waters are home to glass bottomed boats and diving excursions.

It is nice to stay in places like this and still be able to live cheaply. I was spending less than £10 a day by staying in a basic town centre guest house and filling up in the local restaurants.


I made a day trip to the nearby village of Watamu.

When the tide is in the sea produces a stunning lagoon in a circular bay fringed with persil white sand. There is nothing for it but to lounge in the shallow waters.



The highlight of the Kenyan coast was the island of Lamu.

As it is quite famous I expected a modern a fairly modern boat to transport us to the island. Instead a motorised dhow was crammed to the gills with all the bus passengers and their baggage.

Lamu town has also escaped modernisation.

Like Zanzibar, it is a warren of Swahili architecture.

The tall buildings and narrow streets are home to an eminently agreeable people.

Whilst tourism is an important part of the local economy, any hassle is limited to the numerous ‘captains’ along the seafront who would like to provide a boat trip.

The people here have a different attitude to visitors than the rest of East Africa. They are very welcoming, giving the town a relaxed and friendly atmosphere.

Transportation of goods and people is effected on the backs of donkeys, hundreds of whom live and work around the town.

This is the nicest town in Kenya by a considerable margin.

Once I had fully acquainted myself with the byways of Lamu town I walked along the seashore for a few kilometres in each direction.

A fabulous, empty beach opens up beyond the small town of Shela (the other direction turns to mud).

This is backpacker territory so I kept meeting other travellers and quite a sociable time.

One evening I went to have dinner at the house of a local man, the renowned Ali Hippy, who claimed to have hosted Mick Jagger in the 60’s. I was a bit dubious that it would be worth the 700 shillings, but his wife was an excellent cook and the food was a world away from that found in the street cafes I usually frequent.

After the meal his family produced some musical instruments and performed traditional Swahili songs for their guests.

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