the old boma

---

i am deep south. the world has changed now from loose tree scapes and lonely long low shrub plains into the Africa you can imagine before having been, the one from movies and books. wide fields of incredible tall yellow grass in the wind with wild twisting trees poking up and lending shade to those old rusty bicycles and their rusty riders that take long breaks from the angry African sun. the road is thin and cuts to and fro and over subtle hills through the land past mud villages thatched with the very same tall yellow grass, but dried into shimmering light brown and bound in small bunches, tied down by coconut husk rope.
they don't run any business from their villages in the south, they keep a few goats and chickens about for their own dinners, the young women carry huge straw baskets of tomatoes or cassava root or unknown fruits balancing atop their heads and swinging peacefully and laughing down the road and i blow past in a roar and the village roars back. my hands began to bleed and burn from the open sun, a place little more than a few gathered withering men looked over my wounds, from the hidden places poured out more of the men and some young girls and a couple of excited young boys, the curiosity of white skin under then sun turned hard orange and stinging was to their great delight, they tore old cloth and wrapped my hands in shrouds and laughed.

pot holes along the way, a light bright neon red from the strange shining dirt and make good indicators in advance, the ones that are hidden and have to be hit cause a good buck from the bike but the bike holds true and i ride on in a flash, its good to have good road. the motorcycle is constantly clicking and ticking and shaking like a bomb as all sound motorcycles do. phantom sounds of the imagination and true sounds twisted into horrible disaster are always finding their way up to the ears of a fast rider, for with the slightest of real issues, a piece of fender say coming loose and threading through the front spokes, could end with a long buck and a long flight from the bike through the air down to the singing pavement below. never trust a motorcycle, the same as that you could never trust a parachute, it is too late already now that the thing has started, you've jumped, all faith is in the instrument.

the coast which has been hidden for some time by good stretches of hill and cloud, appeared once again and i descend into the bay of mtwara and mikindani village. everything is jumping and my ears are whistling from the wind and i whip along the shining sun-setting coast just a couple of feet from the waves where golden black fishermen count out the days’ catch in beached boats. the coast, the bay, is long and deep and perfectly circular if for the little dash way out that has the big sea flowing in. everywhere the royal blue skirts and pants and faded yellow shirts and hooded gowns of school children teeter home atop full size Chinese phoenix bicycles like little miniature men and woman. the children of Africa, along the sides of the roads stretching from north to south, reach a fully capable state of being at an age half that of children in the west. you can see a group of barely two year old shimmering negro babies miles from home jogging past with fishing rods and a basket of fresh caught fish. I've seen farther north along the dirt path highway between dar es salaam and lindi a gang of eight year old men swinging pick axes to break up chunks of rock for the older men farther down the line for road construction. i cut from the main road into mikindani village and up on the ridge, looking down to these crumbling brown Arab wrecks, stood a gleaming white fortress. a castle in the middle of the jungle, the blinding whiteness peeking up over mangled sea front jungles. two brass cannons stand ready to the water as the whole sky behind brings the building up like a towering church, so distinctly different and imposing in context. the old boma.

i pulled towards the place, bumping up the long driveway to the top of the ridge and it became an ancient German relic, set to overlook the deep harbour and manage the underlying peoples of the village. the British took it from the Germans, then the Africans took it from the British, until the British came back as charity and restored it into a hotel, such a hotel the likes i have never seen. long arches adorned with hard dark wooden beams and fancily carved out paisley on gold trim, stretching up for miles to the ceiling and shining chandelier. the deep maroon chesterfields of the wide open lobby where no one would ever dare sit, set only for to stare at from the entrance way. tiled floors by some unbelievable pattern leads across the great scape through pillars and under ivory tables to the main desk, a long walk across the towering room. nobody is there. nobody is in this place. the pool, stretching off from one side of the building sparkles and waits along a deck covered in very comfortable looking sun beds and tables with umbrellas, but nobody is there. eventually a little man comes forth but i turn on my heels and find my way out under the figure he quotes for one night. through the village and past everything that can't be said by words, there is another hotel and here i made a great friend. it was here that i did stay for some nights and spent the nights with this friend. the hotel lay in the dirt, under the shadow of the German castle on the hill. the cave in which i was assigned, windowless and a walk from the bathroom, i made very comfortable by laying out my things in such a way as to decorate it, and anyways most of the time i sit out under the sun or moon and stars and look out to the bay and eat pepper squid with my friend, who is the bartender.

mikindani village, where the above things are mentioned, is an eight kilometer journey from mtwara center, which is the regional capital. the drive is along the water again and is one that is easy to make under the sun and a very luxurious to ride to take in the morning and in the evening return. mtwara its self is a few ancient relics of buildings strewn among many men and many strange goods under mud huts. one of these buildings is the mtwara regional library which i have become a member of and have spend enough time hunting through. it’s a dusty old hall enclosed in a dusty shell of corrugated metal sheets and coral walls. jerry-rigged shelving arranged in rows is lit barely by a couple of trembling gas lamps along the tall roof. the books are ancient and yet clearly few of them have been opened often. i took treasure island and this side of paradise, both very ratty copies and both me being the first stamp in the log of this millennium. i read them both greedily and went back for moby dick and the old man and the sea.

my friend, Osman the bartender, took me to his room in one of the once very proud Arab structures under the shadow of the castle and lent me a change of clothes as that mine might be washed. where once might have sat a great middle eastern prince on a throne under golden pattern and royal purple walls now sits Osman's ratty mattress under peeling paint and stolen plating. you have to watch your step for the gaping holes in the wooden floor, two stories up. at least fifty poor African monks now squat here and they are surprised to see me buttoning up a borrowed shirt. we went to visit his fiancee, he is twenty two and his fiancee is seventeen and the wedding is actually tonight. she sat in her aunt’s hut on the edge of the village and squirmed and giggled and was not allowed out of the hut. i was very excited for them and i am invited to the wedding. Osman is a very handsome young man, he has a very good nose and keen friendly eyes, his whole face comes to a sort of wedge, like all African faces, right down the middle, and the big lips, always explaining something that i can’t understand but do try to and nod.

tonight i left my cave and ventured up the winding road to the castle on the ridge and rented out a sea view room for two nights, there is hot water, a European menu, a pillow on the bed, and some very good places to watch the sunset from over the bay and read moby dick. before the real thing starts that is Mozambique i am reading the last good book i am likely to see for a while, while i sit and watch Africa turn and live from my own private deserted castle on the ridge.

---

Comments

[jane]

Hi Jasper, Looks like you are experiencing Africa to its full- the good and the bad - perhaps you are beginning to understand why in the colonlal times they referred to isot as Darkest Africa- but it has soul that you cannot mistake and I sense that you have experienced that as well- Mozambique is beautiful- I went there as a child when it was still really a Portuguese colony to all intents and purposes as the Portuguese population still ran everything..you will be coming in I think through Northern Natal (Sodwana Bay) in to Zululand if you going direct south (unless you are planning to head into Zimbabwe first- need to make sure if you are off the beaten track that you avoid the landmines.- let me know your plans and I can get you in touch with my sister where you may be able to have a few days with a hot shower - only maybe- sometimes the water there too is dicey!! Your mom sent me your blog today- it made me laugh and cry as I read through your journeys - what an experience you must be having- keep up the journals..maybe your next book should be Conrad's Heart of Darkness- you might be able to relate from where you are now Love Jane