Week 17 update:
Day 113:
I’m almost sure it was the utter silence and lack of wind that woke me up shortly after sunrise. I became aware of our Swiss friends packing up and with the start of their engine marking their departure; I decided to brave it outside the relative warmth of the tent. To my surprise, the temperature was quite comfortable and the lack of wind made it a pleasant morning on the hill top.
The normal duties of packing up and showering took no time at all despite getting stuck once again under the ridiculously nice hot shower. We decided to take the main road out as we were unsure about how long our day’s journey would take us. The 60km from the camp site to the gate took about an hour and a half and we saw very little game. The road seemed to be graded to such an extent that the surface was powdery. This meant that every vehicle was closely followed by a humungous cloud of fine dust, so it wasn’t surprising that the game would shy away from that road.
The only way to reach our destination was to backtrack to the town if Rhumpi where we had planned to source some more vegetables and a fresh stock of red wine. We found a small market by the road side and after parking the car I noticed a Barber Shop. As my last hair cut was before we left home, I was in desperate need of a trim, so ventured inside the small wooden shack to enquire about the price. The price list was displayed, which I always found added to fairness and a lack of being charged “Skin Tax”. My selected “crew cut” was prised at MK 70 ($0.4) and with my agreement to the price; the barber kicked his sleeping friend out of the leaning chair and waved a welcoming hand towards it. The inside of the cabin was completely covered by posters of people with great haircuts and some body builders for good measure. The dirty mirror was just big enough so I could see a faint reflection of my locks before the slaughter. I had asked for a No4 comb to be added to the clippers, but the man felt a lot more comfortable with a 3mm comb. What the hell, I thought and nodded my agreement. I’m pretty sure he spent at least twice as long on my head than what the norm was and I’m pretty sure he loved the way the whole village seemed to congregate around his shop to see him cut the Masungu’s hair. The Nett result was that I walked out, about 20 minutes later, with an almost bald head to the great delight of the 20 or so children who were watching the whole affair. I paid the man MK 100 for his trouble and left happy in the knowledge that my next haircut would only be needed four months or so down the line.
Leaving Rhumpi we chose the minor of two routes towards Livingstonia, our “mission” for the day. The route hugged the border of the park we had just left and meandered through valley upon valley of rich and well used farm land. At some point we came upon a barrier over the road. I stopped, waited for a man to walk to us from his hut and opened the window, waiting in silence. The silence lasted almost a minute before he broke it with a simple: “Give me your money” Disbelieving I looked around for a weapon, or threat at the absence of any such thing I politely replied: “No”. This was met with a very confused expression from the man who started telling me that I had to pay him to fix up the road as it was in a terrible state. I had to agree, it was in a terrible state, but blockading it and charging tourists a toll fee to… well, just blockade it and make no attempt to fix it was not really something I had time in my busy schedule for. I politely told him that he had two options: Option one was to leave the barrier as is which would force me to drive through it and break his timber. Option two was to remove it quickly, before I could engage a gear and let me through. I explained that neither option involved any money being handed over. With a bottom lip long enough to trip over, we briskly walked over and removed the barrier. As I was driving though I shook my head, wondering if he tried the same trick with local traffic.
We saw very little for sale, but saw huge fields of Banana trees, Maize and a heap of other plants before climbing a steep incline with hairpin bends using high revs and lowest gear. The road spat us out on the top of the mountain and close to the famous Livingstonia Mission. After a quick cruise through town to see the lay of the land we decided to source our accommodation for the next two nights.
The guidebooks talked of two places: Lukwe Lodge, and Mushroom Farm. I had heard from friends about a Belgium traveller who had settled in the area and ran a self sustainable lodge and camp. This was where I wanted to stay and from the names guessed it would be Mushroom farm. On the way there we stopped at Lukwe’s and after establishing price and facilities left to investigate the farm. Mushroom Farm offered no way of camping in a Roof Top Tent and had the atmosphere of dope smoking hippy land and mushrooms of the magic variety. We left fairly quickly and returned to Lukwe’s. After checking in parking the car, the owner came to greet us and it was indeed the place the sought. And what a place it was!
There were chalets on the side of a very steep hill, overlooking a ridiculously deep valley. The bar and restaurant had an even better view. Including a huge bay in the lake. The individual camp sites were just big enough to manoeuvre Maggie to maximize the solar panel’s performance. This exercise attracted Aucke, the owner and sparked his interest. His lodge is all about Permaculture, sustainable energy and being completely self sufficient. Solar energy was one of the big contributors to his daily life. We discussed wattage and effectiveness and soon agreed on a small competition to see whose batteries would have the highest voltage at the end of the next day. It was overcast, so not a great day for solar energy.
I quizzed Aucke about his place and expressed a real interest in the way he did things. Apart from the usual dry compost toilets, the LED lighting and battery operated fridges and freezers, I was also very interested in the terraced gardens and vegetables in them. This got irrigated by rain water mostly and some of the ornamental gardens from the grey shower water. The plants in his garden ranged from tomatoes, eggplant, papaya, lettuce and carrots to coffee (I instantly became jealous of any man who grew his own coffee) and pineapples.
Catt and I spent the rest of the afternoon in the incredibly tranquil ornamental gardens, reading books, talking about dreams and generally doing what two travelers in Africa do best… relax a little. After the sun hit the horizon darkness came at an alarming rate, but with the help of our energy efficient light, we managed dinner and an epic game of Bawo before tiredness took over and forced us to the comforts of the roof and into a well deserved deep sleep.
Day 114:
It seemed that we were the only people who had decided to stay for more than one night. The mass exodus was announced before 7am with no less than 4 big diesel engines being started up. The labouring of the poor machines up the steep hill to the main road echoed through the valley next to the camp site and a slight guilt for being lazy eventually drove me out of bed. It was a day earmarked for exploring and hiking.
A visit to the compost toilet, the shower that irrigated the gardens and a strong mug of coffee completed the preparations before setting off down the garden path towards the 150m high waterfall near by. Aucke’s son guide3d us through the vegetable gardens and his dog, Kilimanjaro showed us the rest of the way to the entrance. The falls are “looked after” by the local village and a minimum charge of MK200 per person ($1.50) secures your entrance. From the ever accurate Lonely Planet we were expecting to walk down steps for a bout an hour to reach the bottom of the falls. There were in fact 7 steps (I counted them) to the top of the falls, and a trail that led far enough away to see the falls from straight on. They were impressive! The dense indigenous and untouched forests around them and the slightly overcast skies gave the impression of rain forest, primates and impenetrability. On the way back towards the gate the lady who was on duty directed us to the caves behind the falls. These were used by the ancestors, as she described them, to hide away from the Arab slave traders in centuries gone by.
Her directions were almost as good as Kilimanjaro’s knowledge of the trial. We crossed the two streams feeding the waterfalls before heading down an almost vertical slope, using hands, knees, elbows and chins to prevent that terrible falling sensation. We found the caves shortly after and breathlessly admired the tenacity of the ancestors and giggled at the laziness of the slave traders. It would not have been hard to find people there, should one make the effort to look. On the way back up the hill we came across some local kids carrying maize to the village. There was no English to be spoken, but they obviously had a soft feeling towards our guide dog. They called him by name and patted his head and scratched his ears which caused a vigorous wagging of his tail and I swear I could hear a purr coming from his mouth. He was obviously a well known pooch.
We had decided to walk back to the camp for lunch and head up to the mission in the afternoon. Aucke came by to inspect my battery power and was visibly impressed by two things: It started to rain a little and we effortlessly pulled our awning out without pausing the chat. He liked that! The second thing was our newly purchased battery, after a an afternoon and morning of cloudy skies and a full night running the fridge was still on 12.6V which was obviously better than his bank of batteries. At this point I had to admit that our battery was brand new, and that we had driven 6 hours the previous day, which would contribute to the voltage. He seemed relieved. He also gave me a fantastic idea for charging batteries without wind or sun. He explained that a friend who lived in Mzuzu had a stream running through his property. He used a water wheel and some fancy gearing to power a car alternator to charge his batteries. GENIUS I exclaimed and started drafting an email to some engineering friends (Catt and Ollie) in the UK to punch some numbers.
The afternoon’s walk was expected to be 4km uphill to the mission followed by 4km down the same hill back to the camp site. Catt and I had been used to walking more than that on a daily basis and even after a few months spent in the car we managed double that a day on Zomba, so we weren’t scared. I was slightly bothered by the amount of small children greeting us in a friendly manner followed by a start and direct “Give me money” or “give me pens” with an borderline aggressive attitude. I did not blame them as much as the fucking idiot Musungu that corrupted them in the first place by handing our money or pens. I so wish I could one day find that person and cut his balls off… Not that I have any strong feelings about it of course.
The hill was a lot steeper than we had anticipated and the day a lot more hot and humid than we gave it credit. I did have the foresight to take some water along and that at least provided some much needed soothing. At the top of the hill we found the market and stocked up on potatoes. We also bought 5 bananas and two deep fried pastry things for the princely sum of $0.25. Close to the mission we found a coffee shop and curio store. The writing on the wall, so to speak, informed the visitor that all proceeds from the shop went to an orphan care project in the village. It seemed a much better way than “give me money” to contribute something to the community, so we entered. The most shocking thing for me was the realization of how much the carvers on the streets and in the markets were trying to rip off the tourists. This shop, on the top of a hill by a mission was the only curio shop around and had a steady stream of captive tourists to supply to. Their prices were less than half of what we had seen on the streets and no one touted you, influenced you or bugged you. It was fantastic and we supported them.
We found the mission, started by David Livingstone a short while later, but for the third time on our trip was denied access to a church. My shoulders visibly draped down with disappointment. I really wanted to see the inside and the famous lead glass picture of Livingstone himself making contact with the local chief. It was simply not to be. A nearby man told us that the church had a service the next morning at 8am, being Sunday, but I already knew that we would not have the time to attend. It was with a strange sadness and sense of failure and disappointment that I carried my tired carcass back down the hill and back towards Lukwe’s tranquil gardens and camp site. I seriously could not understand how the locals or powers that be did not allow tourists entrance to the church, charging a small fee for the pleasure. Years before I walked into a huge Cathedral in Blantyre, met the priest, had a chat and left a sizeable, voluntary donation for having the absolute privilege to view the magnificent building. Why these guys did not do the same was dramatically beyond me.
Day 115:
The loud, jovial birdsong in the forest woke me up just before the sun stretched its legs over the hills. This marked the 30th, and last day in Malawi for us and nothing left to do apart from packing up, waving a fond good bye to our friendly host and heading north, to Tanzania, our 5th country for the trip. At the very top of the infamous decent towards Chitimba and the lake we came across four backpackers thumbing a lift. I normally don’t pay much attention to that sort of thing as we cleverly removed all but the two front seats of the car. These poor kids seemed desperate though so I offered the running boards to stand on and the roof rack to hold on to while we could have their luggage inside the car. At first they were sceptical of the seriousness of my offer, but gladly accepted it when they determined the validity of it. So there we were, 6 travellers making slow but steady progress through hair pin bends and down a very steep mountain. While we were chatting away and sharing fond memories of days gone by we noticed that we were engaged in a race… Two local boys who knew all the short cuts kept appearing in front of us, looking back and smiling. They were impressively agile and quick.
Close to the bottom of the mountain path we were stopped by a local guy who owned the lodge our new friends had stayed in a few nights before. He explained that he had lost a key, found another key and found some contact lenses in the room they had occupied. This sparked an unpacking mission of some bags which revealed the keys he had lost and the absence of the keys he was holding. The big swopping of keys and handing over of lost property was accompanied by loud and excited chatter and smiling while I noticed that our competition managed to slip past, smiling and speeding up on the home straight. We had lost the race.
The road towards the border was smooth and easy and we made great time. I was always a little apprehensive when it came to border crossing days. I had never be known as the most patient person in the world and the false friendliness I had to project to officials who could either speed up or slow down my progress always bugged me a little… not to mention our unique engine number issue. On the Malawi side the formalities were dealt with quickly and easily. I even managed to convert our left over Malawi Kwacha to Tanzanian Shillings. Being a Sunday, the banks were closed, but the crooked money changers kept no office hours. I was glad to have chosen my money changer before the mob came. He was as keen to keep them away and secure all my business for himself as I was to keep away from a mob. He tried the old, and by then familiar trick of handing over notes in denominations of 100ds instead of 1000nts, but soon realized that I was not that kind idiot and game me the fair and agreed upon rate.
The Tanzanian side of the border was as quick and easy, but not free. We had to pay $50 each for visas and a further $25 for road tax and toll, or something to that effect. The man at the gate, taking down the details of the Carnet was the slowest writer I had met since dealing with the Arabic translator of passports in Pretoria. It took him a good 15 minutes to write one line in his book. Discussing our address for our allowed 90 days in the country took half of that time.
Once we had cleared the border, we realized with a shock that we were at least two hours earlier than expected and that our planned stop over place was so close that we decided to pass it by. The perpetual African village that knows no borders carried on relentlessly and finding a quiet place to stop for some lunch proved quite a challenge. Fuel was in ample supply though and we did need some of that. After the town of Tukuyu, fuelled and lunched we started climbing a mountain. I expected to gain some altitude after leaving the lake behind us, but this was phenomenal! The road side was dotted with overturned and broken down trucks around very sharp and blind corners and there was simply nowhere to pull off should you develop a problem. With that thought fresh in my mind, Maggie was plagued by the hick-ups. Every time I needed power, the engine would stutter and protest and offer little of what was needed to drag the weight up the steep incline. The problem was obvious and non fatal… our first fuel in Tanzania was dirty.
We bypassed Mbya and headed east towards Iringa, aiming for the Iringa Camp site for our stop over. We knew it was far, but felt confident that we could make it before dark. The GPS’s eta was an hour before sunset after updating itself to the new time zone. I had read and heard stories of crazy bus drivers in Tanzania before and around that time I had come to the shocking realization that no matter how many people told you these stories, you could never really appreciate the sheer insanity of it until you have experienced it yourself.
I’ll try to explain: I still had no idea what the general speed limit was. I did notice that in some villages the limit drops down to 50km/h and in others it drops to 30km/h. Our comfortable cruising speed on African tar in the Land Cruiser is around 100 – 110km/h. We slow down for villages as that would be the obvious place goats, donkeys, cattle, chicken, sheep, dogs, bicycles and children, to name a few, would indiscriminately try and commit suicide by running at your vehicle. In Tanzania they also seemed to love adding some very severe speed bumps to the already impossible equation of watching out for all the obstacles. The busses… well, they don’t care. Even driving at 120km/h on a straight piece of good tar, I was overtaken by bus after bus after bus almost pushing me off the road. In the villages we were almost rear ended and shouted at many times for slowing down for speed limits or speed bumps. I tried following a bus for a while, but after going airborne from hitting a speed bump too fast, I gave up and allowed the four that was queuing behind me to overtake. It was obvious that the challenges of driving in Malawi were pale in comparison to Tanzania and that the danger can even come from behind… in the form of a 40-seater bus!
We persevered and survived our first day in Tanzania and reached the Iringa Camp site, as predicted, an hour before dark. I was a little apprehensive as we had been told a few very scary horror stories about campsite facilities in Tanzania. This place was obviously not on that list! Without making a huge fuss or mention of it, they had neat and sparkling clean long drop toilets and hot showers in white tiled cubicles with solar lighting. The camp site we were allocated had a thatched roof to sit under which provided perfect shelter from the chilly evening breeze and came complete with the resident, massive Bull Massive guard dog. I felt at ease. We ventured to the bar for a celebratory “first day in the new country” drink and were not disappointed! Iringa Camp site turned out to be a fantastic place to stay which was not mentioned by anyone we had asked advice on Tanzania from.
Over a dinner consisting of steak and Malawi potatoes and salad we discussed our plan of action for the next day. It was obvious that the roads were good and the busses cleared the way for the braver driver who could keep up and we noticed that we were almost half way to Dar Es Salam. The decision was made. We would get up early, pack up quick and drive like the wind (Or the busses) to reach the south beaches or Dar by nightfall.
Day 116:
The plan kicked into action early and precisely. We were on the road and doing great before 8am and I already had visions of sipping my second Kilimanjaro Beer on the beach well before sunset. Funny thing about Africa though… or the universe… it always seems to want to surprise you.
Within an hour of setting off and after not being able to keep up with any of the busses who had passed us, we hit the road works. To be fair, this was the first road works that hindered our progress since we left the insanity of South African roads some months before, but we instantly concluded that we did not miss them, nor did we have fond memories of waiting in a cue for someone to decide that it was your turn to use the single lane. I had also learnt by then that in Tanzania, the most aggressive driver has right of way and the slightest hesitation showed a weakness that would be exploited by any other driver sharing the same piece of tarmac and you may as well then put the car in neutral and wait for the sum of all vehicles in the country to pass you by. It was easy for me to adapt to this way of driving and I simply started following the most aggressive driver I could find… until a more aggressive driver came past in which case I would start following him. It also came as no surprise that the government owned vehicles were the most aggressive, followed by the busses, followed by the trucks, followed by the safari operators, followed by the minibuses, and followed by the overland trucks and lastly the tourists.
The lunch hour marked our first stopping for the day and a well deserved ten minute rest. We needed fuel, but I desperately wanted to work through the dirty stuff before putting a fresh batch into the tank. I also saw a noticeable drop in pressure in one of our tyres. I was sure that the road works claimed the third puncture of our trip, but it was slow enough to not warrant changing it for a spare. One fuel stop, one tyre fill stop and some amount of hours later we started coming up to the tail end of the traffic of the city of Dar Es Salam. We were running on time and very pleased with our progress. I had also read and heard about the traffic in Dar before and that didn’t make me apprehensive… it damn right scared the hell out of me! We needed to find a cash machine and a camp site that was all. The cash machine was fairly easy and although we struggled through traffic a little, my new approach of following the most aggressive driver paid off big time!
We tried the WMCA and YMCA in the city but they were both full so decided to head to the southern beaches and Kipopeo Camp which had been recommended. This did mean driving through the centre of the city at rush hour, but there was no other way. Just as I though I had the road rules and traffic under control I was shocked by another bizarre and unfamiliar phenomena. One of the main roads had three lanes. Sometimes the middle lane was used by our side of the road, sometimes by the other side of the road, but there was no logic not markings to indicate when the switch came. It was also erratic and caused bottle necks of people trying to merge into the correct lane. The crossings were even more chaotic! I always approached with care, following MR aggressive but noticed that there were no rules at all and if you wanted to cross a busy road, you simply started driving until someone lost their nerve and stopped for you. The massive bull bar on the front of Maggie meant that I did not loose my nerve fast, but every once in a while I had to hit the breaks to let a bus or truck in.
We survived that ordeal, taking an hour and a half to travel the 9km across town, arriving at the ferry port incident free… or so I thought. Mr Police officer pulled me off the road and started explaining that I had come down the wrong way of a one way street. BOLLOCKS! I tried to explain that I was following my GPS (Thanks T4A) and it was not malicious, but an honest mistake. He did not seem to care. He explained that the procedure was that I had to pay a THS60 000 ($45) fine as I broke the law. I couldn’t really argue, as I did in fact break the law, but started to appeal to his kind nature, explaining that I honestly did not see the sign and as it was only my second day in Tanzania, he could really let me off with a warning… only once. Yeh right! He saw this as the perfect opportunity to tell me that I could get stuffed and I had to pay the fine. I walked into the office where two of his colleagues sat and asked for a receipt for my money. This was met with the same disbelief as every other time I had asked for a receipt for something that was obviously going to be a bribe. After quizzing me about the reason for the receipt he reasoned that he was trying to help me, and would charge me half the normal fine, should I not want the receipt. I decided to call his bluff and refuse payment without receipt. This was instantly met by him calling my bluff and instructing his friend to start writing. As he was behind a door, I could not gauge the validity of this receipt, so suggested a fee of one third of his original price… without a receipt. This was accepted, I paid my first bribe in Tanzania and we were allowed to get on our way after a smugly friendly explanation of the procedure lying ahead of us. Welcome to Tanzania!
Dar Es Salam is split into two parts by the port and linked by two ferries carrying passengers and vehicles across the harbour. Why there was no road or bridge linking the two was beyond me, but the ferry seemed cheap and efficient enough for us. Before my blood cooled down from the interactions with local law enforcement, we were on the car deck and floating across to the other side. It was still before sunset and we were still on schedule. Disembarking was a by now familiar chaos of aggression to make the slightest headway, but before long we stopped at the gate to the Kipopeo Camp. Their facilities seemed great, their prices fair, there was even free Wifi. The downside to the otherwise perfect place for us was the unmistakable and overpowering presence of “the great unwashed”. The camp site was covered in the universal 2m x 2m canvas dome tents of the Overland Truck companies. It was too late and we were too tired to look elsewhere so after paying for one night we found a secluded corner in the camp site where a Biker we had seen at Zomba’s Trout Farm was trying to hide away from the masses. We formed an instant bond.
The success of the day’s hard travelling deserved yet another celebratory drink from the bar. This meant that I did indeed watch the sun go down over the ocean with a cold Kilimanjaro in hand. The temptation of the reasonably priced restaurant also meant that we did not cook our own dinner or wash our own dishes. The day drew to an abrupt close as two tired people attached their pillows, not realizing the astonishing view the newt day would bring.
Day 117:
The plan was NOT to get up early. This plan would have been successful was it not for the over excited Overland Truck guide waking her clients at 4:30am by singing to them, then demanding that they get up just before insisting which was followed by a slightly aggressive delivery of ultimatums. I could not help but think: “They paid for this….” The noisies left shortly after and we managed to fall back to sleep, waking up from the sound of gently lapping waves around 8am. For the first time we opened our eyes to our surroundings and were absolutely unequivocally blown away! The sea was the most perfect turquoise you can imagine. The waves were smaller than on Lake Malawi and the water was phenomenally clear!
After the obligatory mug of Mzuzu Coffee we passed through the wooden gate, onto the perfectly white sand and into the inviting freshness of the Indian Ocean, our first site of it since Port Elisabeth, and some three and a half months before. The sea was as flat and calm as your average bathtub and the water not much cooler than that. It was fantastic and we instantly wanted to move there!
We had a plan to meet up with Riaan, a T4a contributor in town that day. Tearing ourselves away from the beach and ocean, we jumped in the car and headed to the ferry port once again. The GPS calculated our journey of 20km would take about forty minutes, but I knew better. I left an hour and a half to make the trip and arrive at lunch time at the designated shopping mall. Only the well described traffic system in Dar had other plans. If possible, it was even more chaotic than the previous day and after waiting an hour to cross the harbour we still took two hours to reach the meeting place. I was exhausted, and it was only 13:00!
The chat with Riaan proved very fruitful as he explained the lay of the land to us. He also suggested how to handle potential fines and told me that the maximum spot fine, with receipt was only THS20 000, which was what I paid in bribe money the day before. Mmmmm. As Riaan was a Trentyre employee he also directed us to one of their fitment centre to get our slow puncture sorted. After our first fast food Hamburger and chips in four months we shopped in a well stocked supermarket for the first time in three months and were absolutely gobsmacked by the variety of goods available on the shelves. I felt like someone from the wrong side of the iron curtain emerging into Western Europe for the very first time.
We struggled back through traffic and found the fitment centre. A short investigation produced an easily fixable result. It was the original first puncture from the Tankwa Karoo which started leaking again. The boys in Cape Town’s repair gave up. These guys fixed it in little time and sent us on our way, back into the jaws of rush hour. It took us surpassingly little time to get back to the ferry port, using the correct one way system this time despite what T4A was trying to tell us. The friendly official from the day before waved a smug, smiley hallo as we passed him. He won that round and he knew it.
Back at the camp site we were horrified to find the arrival of a few more trucks of people since we had left. Apparently the groups had just returned from Zanzibar, and thankfully were only staying for one night. We almost did not have a space to park Maggie, but managed to nestle in between the back wall of the kitchen and a room we thought to be a generator or compressor room. We successfully blocked one of the two main paths to the toilets and showers, but couldn’t really care less. We had a fire to make, a steak to cook and wine to drink and no one was going to stand in our way.
Day 118:
The departure of the noisies happened before sunrise. Although that obviously woke us, we didn’t even bother to open our eyes, knowing that it would be over in a relatively short time and that we would be able to go back to sleep as the drone of big diesel faded behind the sound of lapping waves. The noisy ocean eventually woke us long after sunrise. We were in no hurry to go anywhere or do anything. It was to be an admin day.
No admin day by the beach can ever start without a refreshing morning swim, so that was first on the agenda. The inviting turquoise hotness kept us busy for a good while during which time the chores were waiting patiently. We had fallen into a bad habit of leaving
Our dish washing overnight which was to be chore no 1? This was followed by the necessary laundry, some computer work and then lunch…
We planned on heading to Zanzibar the day after and wanted to turn the fridge off while we were away. The biggest chore of the day was to cook all the fresh produce in our freezer and fridge. Catt did an absolute expert job of using our mince to cook a Bobotie mix which she then wrapped into pastry to make samoosas. Genius idea I though.
The lazy morning drew into a lazier afternoon and an even lazier evening. Every time we felt hot, which was often, we would take the 50m stroll into the sea to cool down. We worked our way through an immense litreidge of water and juice and fruit and eventually just had to hit the showers around 19:00 in the evening.
We had multiple chats to Neville, the motorbike guy about where to leave vehicles, how to get to9 the ferry port and which ferry to take to Zanzibar the next day. We were confident that we had the best plan mapped out before bedtime.
Day 119:
It had to be an early start to ensure we would get to the right ferry at the right time. For some strange reason, we had no noisies in camp over night, so we became the first to rise. We did do it quietly. One last swim in the ocean to wake us up was followed by a quick shower, a ridiculous amount of Papaya for breakfast and a huge mug of Mzuzu Coffee to kick start the day. We left Kipopeo around 8am as planned and arrived at the Mikadi Lodge shortly after. Neville had established that they charged $2 a day to look after your wheels instead of the $5 a day of our chosen place of accommodation. The German owner greeted us at the bar and agreed on the pre established price, took our details and offered help organising a Tuk-Tuk to get us to the first ferry crossing. From Kipopeo the reception lady advertised a $20 taxi faire to get us to the Zanzibar Ferry. From Mikadi we paid $2 for a Tuk-Tuk to the crossing ferry, $0.07 for the crossing and could easily walk the 1km from the other side to the Zanzibar Ferry. Neville seemed like my hero by then, saving us at least $40 by investigating all the options.
We bearded the crossing ferry by 9am and felt confident that we were way ahead of schedule! As the announcement came that the ferry was about to leave, and the chain went up to block all traffic on and off I looked at Catt with wide eyed bewilderment announcing that we forgot to pack our passports! We had food and clothes and toiletries and two full sets of Scuba gear. We had our stove and kettle and coffee and milk and everything including the kitchen sink, but no passports. We did a u-turn on the deck and started running, leaping onto dry land while the ferry pilot was expertly reversing his vessel from the port. The security officer looked at us in amazed bewilderment but after explaining our predicament he allowed us back into the waiting area without another payment. He also allowed Catt to sit with the luggage and me to leave the area. I grabbed another Tuk-Tuk with a driver who only spoke Swahili, but understood where I needed to go. He raced me back, I grabbed our passports and he started racing me towards the ferry again when, without ceremony or explanation, he suddenly left the road and started darting in between huts and houses on dirt tracks through the village. I was a little apprehensive with my wallet in my pocket and two passports on me, but his meaning soon became clear as we re-joined the main road after passing a police road block. He obviously had something wrong with his vehicle, but I did not really care. I sprinted back to where Catt was and made it in time for the return of the ferry, wasting only one crossing.
This time we were almost last to get on board and nestled ourselves in between a Land Cruiser and a bicycle stacked with Coconuts. It was too tempting not to try one! A coconut that is, not a Land Cruiser. For $0.03 we got handed a fruit the size of a football expertly shaved and sliced open at the top. We drank the natural temperature, perfectly clear nectar with surprise on our faces. It was not milky as we had expected and it tasted nothing like Coconut as we had expected. It was very pleasant though, probably fairly nutritious and very cheap.
When the ferry reached the other side of the harbour we discovered that being a pedestrian offered different rules to driving a car. People were still assertive, but strangely polite. They queued, apologised for bumping into you and even allowed others to go first. This was a very unfamiliar phenomenon in Africa! We walked the kilometre to the Zanzibar ferry, carrying Scuba gear, food and wine with relative ease before being bombarded by touts and “helpful suggestions” as to where to buy which tickets. I got rid of the first onslaught by proclaiming to have prepaid tickets, but when I noticed the sign to the Flying Horse, our ferry of choice, and mistakenly pointed it out to Catt, the second wave was attaching with no mercy! We pushed our way into a small office advertising the tickets, made our enquiry and struck a deal. The price was $25 per person, as we had expected it to be. To my surprise the salesman had to leave to the office to validate the tickets. Despite wanting payment upfront, which I refused, he returned with authentically looking tickets complete with our names and nationality written on them within a few minutes. I sceptically inspected them and found no fault apart from the written $20 per ticket instead of $25. He explained, while pointing at a stamp on the ticket that the extra $5 was for port tax. It seemed logical, so handed over a $50 note which he inspected with the same scepticism I had seconds before. Once he was satisfied that the note was as authentic as the tickets, we parted happy.
At the entrance gate t the Flying Horse Ferry Company I spotted a sign advertising tickets for $20 per person including port tax. I felt slightly ripped off, but also admired the tout for keeping his cool and convincing an already sceptical well travelled fellow African that his price was fair. We arrived in the waiting area an hour ahead of schedule and I was not about to run around trying to find the bugger for $10.
The Flying Horse was one of the slowest and cheapest ferries to Zanzibar, which was the basis of our decision to take it. We still ended up with first class tickets and entered a closed top deck of leather sofas and massive arm chairs. We were the first to arrive. The second class had, as expected, some families with bananas and chickens and a few other wares. In first class however, we were soon joined by a mass of Japanese and Chinese tourists. I never thought I would feel ethnically out of place in Africa because of being swallowed into a group of Orientals. Surprise! To watch them was fascinating! They were not only true to cliché with cameras and video cameras and more gadgets you can shake a stick at, but they had mysterious mannerisms as well. Some of them wore gloves in the 45 deg cabin. Most of them had long trousers and long sleeved shirts on. The pulled bandannas over the faces when catching a nap and their lips never touched a bottle or class rim when drinking. There was no issue sharing a loaf of bread or an orange though. It was all a little weird.
This Ferry was clearly NOT the Ilala and actually ran on a time table. It left at 12:01, a mere minute late. Being a Catamaran it was much more stable and it obviously had bigger engines as you could see a wake behind it. I ventured to the upper deck outside at some point and stepping over sleeping children and bags of produce realized that it was economy class, with plastic seats. There was however loads of fresh air and a great view, but no spare seats, so we had to return to the badly air-conditioned environment of VIP class before long. We arrived at Zanzibar port two and a half hours later, as scheduled and joined the cue for Passport control. Man I was glad that we had remembered our passports when we did!
As predicted, as soon as we left the relative safety of the port enclosure we were absolutely swamped by touts advertising their own special rates and always referring to us as “My friend”. My first instinct was to sarcastically enquire about this friendship they so cherished and how you could propose to help friends before insisting on payment for the help. I resisted this, as promised to Catt, but could not resists conversing to everyone and anyone in Afrikaans only, refusing to understand or speak a single word of Swahili or English. It was greatly effective, very amusing and highly recommended to keep the “Ticks” as they are called in Swahili away from you.
We picked a direction, hoping it was the right one, and marched at a pace that your average marathon runner wouldn’t have been able to keep up with. One MR Relentless manages OK though and every time we stopped to look at our map he would appear and
Offer advice. We purposefully ignored his advice and took a different route, also speaking to him in Afrikaans until he finally gave up and let us be. I have to admit that you’re first visit to Stone Town in not easy and a little intimidating. We found one or two landmarks we had identified, but finding the actual hotels was a complete nightmare. It was purely by luck that we managed to find the first one, which was full. We found the second one which was also full and the third which was also full with the help of some guy who insisted on following us. We eventually found suitable accommodation at the Mange Lodge for $30 per room per night and made a point of explaining to the owner that we found it by ourselves and that no commission to the relentless follower was due. She smiled and accepted our explanation. It was 16:00, some 8 hours since we set off from the idyllic south beaches of Kipopeo and we were shattered!
The day was not over yet! We had some cooked meat from the day before, but needed some fresh produce, so headed for the market. Even though we had brought a GPS, it was completely useless as T4A had very little to no information on Stone Town to show. We however quickly figured out our main directions and found the market with little effort, passing a variety of interesting shops and stalls. We evens topped for a street coffee which is presented in a small cup like espresso and seems twice as strong. It was fantastic! The market was surprisingly good as well. I expected poor quality produce from a small island as we had experienced in Likoma in Malawi. This market however had huge fruit and healthy vegetables at similar prices to what we had become used to. I was impressed.
On the way back to our hotel we walked passed a tourist information centre and enquired about a Spice Tour. They gave us the lay of the land, the price and tried to commit us instantly and expertly. We did not have enough money on us, so headed back to the hotel for the wallet. On the way back out the door I asked the owner if the price was fair. She confirmed that it was indeed, but also offered to book it for us. It seemed simpler, so we agreed, handing over $15 each and making the appointment for the next day.
Dinner consisted of a freshly made salad of massive proportion, some cold Malawian pork sausages and a Bobotie samoosa or two. It was indeed a feast which just had to be washed down with some fine red wine while chatting to three wide eyed, freshly arrived English girls who came to Africa on a volunteering trip to hand out books in schools. I was almost amused by their naivety and had to tell the story of our Ilala experience to their great shock and amusement.
If I had to do it again:
I think I should have made the effort to return to the Livingstonia Mission on the Sunday morning we had left. One of the reasons I didn’t was that I felt that I would disrupt the normal practice or local people’s religious practices. I desperately did not want to do that.
The only other thing for the week I would do differently is to take a calm and relaxing day to visit the Zanzibar ferry offices to scope out the best deal and the right place to buy the right ticket.
The rest of the week… honestly, I would not change a thing.
