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Published: July 10th 2011
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Just as Africa was getting predictable. Just as Africa was become easy. Just as Africa was getting, dare I say it, dull. I found myself in Western Tanzania, and everything seemed to change.
Rwanda was tarmaced, efficient, and regulated. Cafe's with air-con and leather seats charged European prices for cups of coffee, while the clientele read the latest daily. Journeys, though beautiful, passed without incident, and towns visited almost passed without interest. It was nice for a few days, but that's not really why I came to Africa. Burundi was better, more manic, more frantic, somehow more 'alive', but still somewhat predictable. And then I found myself in Western Tanzania and it all seemed to change.
Western Tanzania, an endless land, where train journeys last for 24 hours, and boat trips even longer. Where six hour delays aren't even noted, and where arriving on time is even more unheard of than in the rest of the continent. Where the crush of towns is replaced by empty forests and isolated villages. Where tarmac is a distant dream. And where the only contact with the outside world is often just the fortnightly ferry. Where the West has yet to commercialise, where China
has yet to pave, and where a foreign tongue is rarely heard. Western Tanzania, where Africa is still unchanged and untouched, still vast and still timeless.
My first stop, after the scenic ride from Bujumbura, was Kigoma - a friendly town alongside Lake Tanganika, flanked by small fishing villages, and full of chipsi mayai, cheap coffee, and most fantastically, United beating Chelsea in the championship decider. It was in Kigoma that I had to wait for the fortnightly ferry down the lake to the village of Kipili. And it was in Kigoma that I realised how unchanged parts of Western Tanzania are - there's no daily minibus, no rushing, no racing to the next town. It makes Uganda look like Usain Bolt, and the only thing to do it to sit back, slow down, and watch the days roll into each other as slowly as the dhows and fishing boats that dot the horizon come back to port.
With my five days of waiting done, it was time to continue my journey south aboard the MV Liemba, the century old German warship turned passenger ferry which now runs up and down Lake Tanganika once a fortnight. Without doubt,
it became one of the most memorable journeys of my entire trip, from the very moment I stepped onto the wooden deck, until we departed by rowing boat at midnight, across the bay to Kipili.
After boarding, I sat for over two hours and watched as the galley and deck of the ship were filled with all manner of goods - from motors and mattresses, to bicycles and pineapples - and all of it carried on the backs and heads of the sweating and cursing porters, with their Tanzanian Ports Authority shirts faded in the sun and torn at the seams. With the goods and eventually all the people - from Congolese footballers and rich Zambian women in their matching kanga wraps, to travellers with their zoom lens cameras (and lack of respect for locals), to Tanzanian fish salesmen and workers heading home from Dar es Salaam - loaded, the deep bass of the horn was sounded, and we slowly edged away from the dockside.
Leaving port over two hours late, we reached the first stops after darkness had fallen, and that's when the magical chaos of the MV Liemba began. With the village appearing as a few
lights in the distance, the captain once again sounded the deep horn, and with it, unleashed a scene of mayhem we were to see time and time again on our journey south. Receiving the signal from the boat, the villagers climbed into their wooden boats, from 11ft to 40ft long, and appearing out of the darkness of the lake and the night sky, surrounded the Liemba, and powered by either paddle or engine, tried with all their might to keep up with the ferry. As we slowed to a halt, the first boats pulled alongside , and we witnesses a scene more akin to Somali pirates than a 100 year old German ferry, as ropes were hoist to the deck, and men suddenly climbed and jumped from their boats onto the deck of the Liemba. With the air filled with the shouts of everyone on board, and those in the boats surrounding us, the first men aboard were handed bowls of posho to sell to the hungry passengers. Those waiting to disembark had to fight a losing battle against those trying to board, and it was each man for himself to get where he needed to be. At the same
time, local fishermen tried to get their catches of dried fish, heading to the markets in Lusaka, before the boat left (and taking with it, their fortnightly chance to earn a living). And the whole scene was played out in front a black backdrop, with the spotlight of the boats bridge lighting casting a yellow glow over everyone, sending shadows streaking across the deck and the lake, and only adding to the tension. When the last package had been loaded, the last passenger had escaped, and the final purchases of posho and fish were complete, another blast of the horn announced our departure, and off we disappeared into the night, leaving the fires of the village behind for another two weeks.
The morning stops were fairly sedate affairs, but as the sun rose and then fell, and presumable the local pombe started to be consumed, the later stops quickly turned into madness. Canoes would appear alongside the boat, racing to be the first to come alongside, and therefore the first to collect passengers. Engines would squeal in the water, the waves would crash around the bow, and the passengers would huddle for safety at the stern. At one point,
a launch got close enough for a young boy, no more than 15 years old, to jump aboard before we'd even begun slowing down. He quickly received a rope from the boat, tied it to the handrail, and as the Liemba continued forwarded, the boat was dragged behind, bow in the air at an almighty angle, and just inches from disaster as the hull ploughed into another hapless boat.
As night fell on the second day I snuck onto the very back of the boat, atop the corrugated roof of one of the accommodation sections, and I sat with my feet dangling over the wake of the boat, the ripples of water glistening in the light of the boat, with darkness all around, and the mountains silhouetted to my right. And I sat, and I sailed with the bright moon shining above, as my mind filled with thoughts of home, and the dreams of destinations still to come.
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