There are two possible routes you can take to cross Tanzania from Dar Es Salaam to the border with Rwanda: the North Road and the South Road. Get out your maps.
The North Road climbs up the coast before turning inland, skirting Mt. Kilimanjaro on its way to Arusha. It then banks 90° to the right and proceeds to Nairobi, where it about-faces back towards Tanzania, approaching Mwanza and Lake Victoria from the NE.
The South Road, meanwhile, heads directly inland to Dodoma, after which it bushwacks through the remote towns of Singida and Shinyanga, finally arriving in Mwanza from the SW. At Mwanza, the two routes become one and a second choice must be made between proceeding directly W to Rwanda, or else taking a ferry to Bukoba and coming back down.
Some points to consider:
1) It is necessary to pay $20 for a Kenyan transit visa when using the North Road. There is also a distinct possibility that you will be made to pay $50 for a new Tanzanian visa upon your return, even though you're not supposed to. Why? Because you're White!
2) Arusha is the getting-off point for Kilimanjaro treks, the Ngorongoro Crater and Serengeti National Park. As such, buses on the North Road are full of package tourists.
3) The South Road is extremely rugged. So much so, in fact, that the Lonely Planet recommends you outright avoid using it.
I saw no reason to be ambivalent when it came to choosing a route. Nuts to you, North Road!
DAR -> DODOMA
The South Road breaks you in nice and easy. The highway to Dodoma is well-paved and the trip only takes 6 hours. You even get water and stale cookies on the bus!
Say, can anyone enlighten me as to how Dodoma managed to usurp Dar as the capital of Tanzania? It's a dusty, one-horse town that has no electricity half the time. It makes about as much sense as would moving the Canadian Parliament from Ottawa to Moose Jaw, SK.
DODOMA -> SHINYANGA
I was feeling confident at this point, but things soon came unraveled. The bus for this leg of the journey looked like it had endured a mortar attack. I was stuffed into a seat at the back, sitting next to a manatee-sized woman, with my bag wedged between my lap and the seat in front of me. There was no room for the bag in the hold of the bus, since the space had already been filled with many large bags of charcoal. It seems that someone was planning a record-breaker of a barbeque at the expense of my physical comfort.
20 minutes out of Dodoma, the road conditions changed from "nicely maintained" to "obstacle course". A network of craters suddenly appeared, some of them big enough to swallow the manatee, who by this point was doing battle with my bag for that strategical bit of seating space on my lap. The asphalt virtually disappeared, replaced by sand, with a generous helping of large boulders thrown in to ensure that we would all be ejected out of our seats every 3.8 seconds. And, just to ice the cake, the road began to slant to one side, causing the bus to tilt precariously. All this at 100km/hr.
You think I'm exaggerating? Not a chance. This was hands-down the worst bus/bad road combination I've ever seen. The steel bars from the seat in front of me were exposed, and I soon had blood running from my knees due to the abrasion. On the side hills, the manatee would crash down on me like a piledriver, her sideways momentum being delivered to the frame of the bus via my ribcage. I could continue to rant, but I won't. This Hell lasted 11 hours.
We arrived in Shinyanga at 9PM. The bus wasn't scheduled to leave until 3AM, so I spent the better part of the break drinking beer with a Tanzanian detective while his cute kid played with my iPod.
SHINYANGA -> MWANZA
Things took a turn for the better as the paved surface reappeared and the manatee found a new seat. My knees were swollen and my head throbbed from the beer, but we arrived in Mwanza by 7AM. I split a cab with the detective, who showed me around his house and then directed me to a good hotel. It had a TV, so I squandered the day sleeping and watching the Discovery Channel, failing to give Mwanza even the most cursory glance.
MWANZA -> BUKOBA
I purchased a ticket for the ferry, but I almost missed the boat. When Swahili people tell time, they use 6 o'clock as a reference point instead of 12, so that 1PM = 7PM etc. The ticket agent informed me that the ferry would depart at 6PM, so I was all set to show up at midnight. Fortunately a local guy set the record straight for me, but by that point it was after 5 (English time) and I had to hustle to the port.
Normally, the Mwanza-Bukoba voyage is serviced by the MV Mwanza. The trip takes 8 hours and there are cabins available for sleeping. I regret to inform you that the Mwanza is currently under repair, and is at present being replaced by the cargo vessel MV Serengeti, which does the trip in 12 hours and has no cabins. So I slept outside on the deck.
It was cold. Bloody freezing. Luckily, I was befriended by a Ugandan guy named Moses, who'd brought along a bottle of whisky with him. It was that second-rate Irish crap, but it did the trick, and I was soon fast asleep, my hand clutching my bag to deter some sketchy kids who were trying to steal it. If they had done, I would have fed them to the tilapia.
We arrived in Bukoba just after dawn, and Moses insisted that I spend the day with him. It was a very interesting day. Moses is a construction sub-contractor and part-time liquor smuggler, so we split our time between supervising some brick layers at a hotel, and shipping bottles of Jamieson's on buses headed to Kampala.
In the evening, Moses decided we'd dine on Lake Victoria fish, so we plunked ourselves down at a local bar and paid some kid to bike down to the shore to buy today's catch. The bar had no kitchen, so Moses paid the place nextdoor to grill everything up. It was excellent, and I was thoroughly enjoying myself, until Moses decided that he wanted "dessert" and called up a prostitute halfway through the meal. Ha ha... awkward!
Anyway, Bukoba is a pretty town. Very leafy!
BUKOBA -> THE BORDER
Escaping the country proved easy. I woke up at 5AM, spent 15 minutes banging on my hotel door so that they'd let me out, and walked to the bus station. I caught a bus to Lusahunga, and though the road was little more than a dirt track through the jungle, the bus was in good shape and the ride was pleasant.
The leg between Lusahunga and the border is the tricky bit. There is no public transportation available, and from what I've read, foreigners rarely use this route, electing instead to enter Rwanda from Uganda.
I bought some provisions from an 8-year-old shopkeeper, then sat on the side of the road. The locals were absolutely shocked at my presence, and to be honest, they should have been. I've never been more nowhere in my life.
As luck would have it, I found a Rwandan fellow who was taking his mother home from a hospital in Tanzania, so the three of us split a taxi to the border. I felt quite content, sitting in the front seat of the car with my legs stretched out in front of me, watching the countryside roll by. The area is pretty, with palm and banana trees speckled over rolling hills painted in lush green.
Near Rwanda, we began to see refugees. They were Burundian, and have been living in Tanzania since the Hutu/Tutsi conflicts boiled over in their homeland in the late 90s. They had that awful look of desperation about them, and I tried to imagine how terrible their struggle must be. I couldn't.
The cab crested a hill, and Rwanda exploded onto the scene. I instantly felt the excitement of coming to a new country, as well as the satisfaction of having crossed the old one in a most unorthodox manner.
I spent nearly a month in Tanzania, and though I enjoyed it, I can't say I was a huge fan. Tanzanians aren't too fond of foreigners, and they let you know this at every available opportunity. That, and White people are generally thought to be walking ATMs.
As I crossed the bridge into Rwanda, I didn't look back.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Monday, November 26, 2007
Marooned at 6°S
In Arabic, Dar Es Salaam means "Having the Peace". For me, it meant a place I was stuck in for 10 days. That's a long damn time! So let's discuss...
First and foremost, Dar should be commended for being one of the safest cities in Africa. Day and night, it is perfectly okay to stroll about in the town, without having to fear a violent attack or a terrifying mugging. Even in the wee hours of the morning, you can see groups of women meandering around, free of the fear that hangs over more perilous cities such as Nairobi and Johannesburg. Tanzanians will tell you that this is due to their country's peaceful history; even in the imperial age, no blood was ever shed here.
Due to its eclectic mix of cultures and close proximity to the sea, Dar is a food lover's paradise. Seafood is available everywhere, and the fish will taste good at even the shabbiest local eatery. (I recommend the grilled changu at the YMCA cafeteria). On the restaurant scene, your choices are practically unlimited, with quality Indian, Lebanese, Chinese, Ethiopian and Zanzibari cuisine on offer. It's a refreshing departure from the ordinary Tanzanian fare, which is oily and salty and generally awful. Example? A classical local breakfast is a french fry omelette. I tried one. I could feel myself getting fatter.
Islam is very prevalent here, and the architecture tends to reflect that. The city skyline is dotted with minarets that are painted in pink and blue and white. The spires cast their shadows on the walls of the modern office towers next door. Down below, Muslims peacefully mill about the streets, chatting in groups over a cup of chai, awaiting the call to prayer that emanates from the mosques. The first call comes at 5AM. I know this because it woke me up every damn day.
Dar has two excellent markets. The first, known simply as the Fish Market, is in a massive lot next to the shore, where many tons of ocean delicacies change hands 7 days a week. The place is a massacre of blood and entrails, where young men walk about with giant stingrays draped over their backs, and even younger boys use giant machetes to hack away at 50lb yellow-fin tunas. On the nearby beach, fisherman bang away at the woodwork of rickety dhows, preparing the small crafts for the next day at sea.
Back in the city is the Kariakoo Market, which acts as the centre of commerce for the local agriculture and livestock industries. Tropical fruits are sold by the truckload. I wanted to buy a ton of pineapples, but didn't have the correct change.
One of the buildings is dedicated solely to spices. Cardamom, cloves, saffron, cumin seed and a multitude of other small fragrant pellets are on display there, stored in giant burlap bags that line the hallways. If you close your eyes, your olfactory senses run wild, and you could imagine that you're swimming around in a very large curry.
But it's not all that pleasant. On my way out of the market, I found myself in the live poultry aisle. There must have been hundreds of crates containing thousands of chickens, stuffed into the boxes with their feet tied together. The smell was rank and the sound - an orchestra of pleading clucks - was haunting. I booked it out of there as fast as I could, preferring as I do my blissful ignorance when it comes to eating flesh. It goes without saying that I ordered a Greek salad for dinner that evening.
Sick of Dar city? Good thing there are some nice beaches nearby. A quick ferry across the bay and a 10-minute minibus ride takes you to Kipepeo, a stretch of sand and palm trees so pretty that you could never imagine a giant city was just down the road. I spent a great day at Kipepeo, roasting my outers in the sun and wetting my inners with Tusker Lager. Then I spent a night being horribly dehydrated.
Did I say safe city? Well, even the greatest of utopias still have jerks. On my ultimate day in Dar, a potentially dodgy situation manifested itself while I was heading to lunch with a pair of American girls. As we were walking on the road between the moving traffic and some parked cars, we were passed by a couple of local guys proceeding in the opposite direction. Suddenly, one of the guys stepped on my foot, then wheeled around and grabbed my wrist, looking at me as if in apology. Just then, I noticed that his buddy has his hand in my pocket.
It's remarkable how fast your instincts can kick in. In one movement, I wriggled free from the grip of the first guy and lunged at the would-be pickpocket, my hands going directly for his neck. He recoiled quickly, but I still got a handle on his shirt collar, and I shook him violently. Apparently he was just looking for some free cash and not for a fight, because he immediately went limp and raised his hands in the air. The first jerk came over and began to yell, saying that it had all been an innocent mistake, but I'm no fool; I saw exactly what was happening and so did the girls. No big deal in the end, though I did feel bad for one of the Americans... she had just arrived in Africa that morning and spent the rest of the day muttering about wondering what she had gotten herself into.
But it matters not. Dar is a cool city. Even if there are a couple of shit-for-brains thieves hanging about.
First and foremost, Dar should be commended for being one of the safest cities in Africa. Day and night, it is perfectly okay to stroll about in the town, without having to fear a violent attack or a terrifying mugging. Even in the wee hours of the morning, you can see groups of women meandering around, free of the fear that hangs over more perilous cities such as Nairobi and Johannesburg. Tanzanians will tell you that this is due to their country's peaceful history; even in the imperial age, no blood was ever shed here.
Due to its eclectic mix of cultures and close proximity to the sea, Dar is a food lover's paradise. Seafood is available everywhere, and the fish will taste good at even the shabbiest local eatery. (I recommend the grilled changu at the YMCA cafeteria). On the restaurant scene, your choices are practically unlimited, with quality Indian, Lebanese, Chinese, Ethiopian and Zanzibari cuisine on offer. It's a refreshing departure from the ordinary Tanzanian fare, which is oily and salty and generally awful. Example? A classical local breakfast is a french fry omelette. I tried one. I could feel myself getting fatter.
Islam is very prevalent here, and the architecture tends to reflect that. The city skyline is dotted with minarets that are painted in pink and blue and white. The spires cast their shadows on the walls of the modern office towers next door. Down below, Muslims peacefully mill about the streets, chatting in groups over a cup of chai, awaiting the call to prayer that emanates from the mosques. The first call comes at 5AM. I know this because it woke me up every damn day.
Dar has two excellent markets. The first, known simply as the Fish Market, is in a massive lot next to the shore, where many tons of ocean delicacies change hands 7 days a week. The place is a massacre of blood and entrails, where young men walk about with giant stingrays draped over their backs, and even younger boys use giant machetes to hack away at 50lb yellow-fin tunas. On the nearby beach, fisherman bang away at the woodwork of rickety dhows, preparing the small crafts for the next day at sea.
Back in the city is the Kariakoo Market, which acts as the centre of commerce for the local agriculture and livestock industries. Tropical fruits are sold by the truckload. I wanted to buy a ton of pineapples, but didn't have the correct change.
One of the buildings is dedicated solely to spices. Cardamom, cloves, saffron, cumin seed and a multitude of other small fragrant pellets are on display there, stored in giant burlap bags that line the hallways. If you close your eyes, your olfactory senses run wild, and you could imagine that you're swimming around in a very large curry.
But it's not all that pleasant. On my way out of the market, I found myself in the live poultry aisle. There must have been hundreds of crates containing thousands of chickens, stuffed into the boxes with their feet tied together. The smell was rank and the sound - an orchestra of pleading clucks - was haunting. I booked it out of there as fast as I could, preferring as I do my blissful ignorance when it comes to eating flesh. It goes without saying that I ordered a Greek salad for dinner that evening.
Sick of Dar city? Good thing there are some nice beaches nearby. A quick ferry across the bay and a 10-minute minibus ride takes you to Kipepeo, a stretch of sand and palm trees so pretty that you could never imagine a giant city was just down the road. I spent a great day at Kipepeo, roasting my outers in the sun and wetting my inners with Tusker Lager. Then I spent a night being horribly dehydrated.
Did I say safe city? Well, even the greatest of utopias still have jerks. On my ultimate day in Dar, a potentially dodgy situation manifested itself while I was heading to lunch with a pair of American girls. As we were walking on the road between the moving traffic and some parked cars, we were passed by a couple of local guys proceeding in the opposite direction. Suddenly, one of the guys stepped on my foot, then wheeled around and grabbed my wrist, looking at me as if in apology. Just then, I noticed that his buddy has his hand in my pocket.
It's remarkable how fast your instincts can kick in. In one movement, I wriggled free from the grip of the first guy and lunged at the would-be pickpocket, my hands going directly for his neck. He recoiled quickly, but I still got a handle on his shirt collar, and I shook him violently. Apparently he was just looking for some free cash and not for a fight, because he immediately went limp and raised his hands in the air. The first jerk came over and began to yell, saying that it had all been an innocent mistake, but I'm no fool; I saw exactly what was happening and so did the girls. No big deal in the end, though I did feel bad for one of the Americans... she had just arrived in Africa that morning and spent the rest of the day muttering about wondering what she had gotten herself into.
But it matters not. Dar is a cool city. Even if there are a couple of shit-for-brains thieves hanging about.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Mushroom Farm
You'll have to forgive me - this one sort of fell by the wayside, so we're going to have to play catch-up here. I invite you all to time travel with me back to Malawi.
Livingstonia: A small town nestled high up in the hills that adorn the Northwestern shore of my good friend Lake Malawi.
Hard to find and even harder to access, Livingstonia is a sleepy and oft-overlooked place which has little to offer to tourists in terms of excitement. It does, however, have one major draw card: one of the best views in all of Africa.
To reach Livingstonia, you must follow a dirt track, which is at times no wider than a car, as it snakes for 15km up the side of a mountain, switchbacking 21 times in the process. There are very few vehicles making the trip up, especially during the rainy season, so for the most part it's hike or bust. Not a pleasant task when it's hot as Hell and you're carting everything you own on your back - trust me. The good news is that most backpackers - myself no exception - choose to stay at a hostel called Mushroom Farm, which is 5km closer to the bottom of the hill.
Why Mushroom Farm? Quite simply because the place is a famous landmark on the South/East Africa backpacking circuit. It is a self-sufficient, fully sustainable lodge (read: smattering of bamboo huts) that comes complete with solar-heated water, a composting toilet and a shower built into a tree. The owner is a rather eccentric Aussie named Mick, who seems to have taken a page out of Carlos Valderrama's hairstyling manual, and the chef is a Mr. Bundu, who cooks up a wide selection of organic vegetarian dishes in cauldrons that bubble over an open flame.
Right, this is beginning to sound like a brochure for the place, so let's cut the crap and get to the entertaining bit: my walk up.
Despite an honest effort, I wasn't able to reach the base of the hill until 5:30PM. The daylight dwindling, I was faced with a decision: do I call Mick and have him come down in his Land Rover to pick me up, a service for which he charges 35USD? Or do I walk up the hill alone in the dark? Forget Option #1; 35 dollars is a complete piss-taking. But the second choice is equally dicey: I don't know how safe the road is.
A very nice thing about Africa: as long as you are willing to pay, someone will guide you to anywhere you wish to go. I had only to stand at the entrance to the access road, and before long there were two teenage boys who were keen to come along. We agreed on a price of $6, and set off.
The pace was gruelling. You'll know, if you've ever watched an athletics competition, that Africans are light on their feet, quicker than the wind and have unlimited stamina. I'm no couch potato, but with 30lbs of weight on my back I simply could not keep pace with these guys, bounding as they were up the slope like gazelles. I did my best to stay with them, but they kept shouting at me to go faster, only relenting when I threatened not to pay them.
To make matters worse, they lead me on a series of shortcuts: near-vertical climbs through rock gardens and root ladders that have formed on the face of the mountain. Technically, these did save a lot of time, but clambering on my hands and knees was exhausting. By the fifth or sixth shortcut, I began to teeter with lightheadedness.
It was during one of my frequent "catching my breath while trying not to wretch" breaks that I remembered an interesting fact: Northern Malawi has an abundance of poisonous snakes. I asked one of the boys if he knew about that.
"Oh, yes!" he chirped enthusiastically. "There are definitely green mambas and puff adders here!"
He must have seen the terror disclosed in my face, because he hastened to add:
"But they are not dangerous!"
A very problematic thing about Africa: people often are not educated about what can hurt them. Green mambas are highly venomous, and one bite is potentially lethal to even a full-grown, healthy adult. Your only hope of survival in the case of being bitten is to administer the appropriate anti-venom as quickly as possible. My guess? The closest bottle of serum to Livingstonia is in Lilongwe, 11 hours away by bus. By that time, you'd be carrion.
Anyway, after nearly two hours we arrived at Mushroom Farm. I paid the kids and threw in a generous tip - they'd earned their keep. Mick, who'd seen me coming up the path, sweating profusely and near the point of losing consciousness, greeted me in the most Australian way:
"Oi, Mate! Noyce ta see yeh! Care foha bee-uh?"
Did I ever, Bruce.
Needless to say, once you do the walk up to Mushroom Farm, you can't be arsed to leave for a few days. But it's not exactly a taxing holiday; the prices are cheap, the food is delectable, the music is good, and the view - HOLY SHIT - the view is mind-blowing.
From just about any spot on the property - the bar, the tent platforms and even from the seat of the composting loo - you can see the entire valley below, along with a huge piece of the lakeshore, as well as the mountains on the opposite side. The latter are 50km away. In Tanzania. Since the rainy season was just about to begin, farmers were lighting massive brush fires (to sterilize the soil and flush out the rats, which are captured and eaten), and the landscape glowed at night, with red and orange balls of flame dancing against the black backdrop. It felt like you were staring into space, only the universe was below you, and the stars a Hell of a lot closer.
So I stayed for a while. Probably would have stayed longer, if it wasn't for the fact that I ran out of money and had to make for the border. On my last day in Malawi, I walked down the hill and hitched a ride to Tanzania, feeling a bit sad that I was leaving a country I'd grown to love. Then, one kid made sure that even my last few moments would be unforgettable.
I heard the call as I walked across the bridge between the two nations:
"MAAAAAAAZZZUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNGUUUU!!!"
It came from all directions at once, as if riding on the back of the wind. I froze. I looked around, but I couldn't spot the kid who belonged to the voice.
"MAAAZUUUUNGUUUUU!"
Got him. He was just a head and torso, swimming in the river about 100m downstream. I raised my arms in the air, questioningly.
"GIMMMMEEE MONNNNEEEEY!"
What did he want me to do, throw some bills in the river? I shook my head, laughed, and continued along.
Just then, a group of Africans passed by me, and they laughed too. A few moments later, they burst into song.
Livingstonia: A small town nestled high up in the hills that adorn the Northwestern shore of my good friend Lake Malawi.
Hard to find and even harder to access, Livingstonia is a sleepy and oft-overlooked place which has little to offer to tourists in terms of excitement. It does, however, have one major draw card: one of the best views in all of Africa.
To reach Livingstonia, you must follow a dirt track, which is at times no wider than a car, as it snakes for 15km up the side of a mountain, switchbacking 21 times in the process. There are very few vehicles making the trip up, especially during the rainy season, so for the most part it's hike or bust. Not a pleasant task when it's hot as Hell and you're carting everything you own on your back - trust me. The good news is that most backpackers - myself no exception - choose to stay at a hostel called Mushroom Farm, which is 5km closer to the bottom of the hill.
Why Mushroom Farm? Quite simply because the place is a famous landmark on the South/East Africa backpacking circuit. It is a self-sufficient, fully sustainable lodge (read: smattering of bamboo huts) that comes complete with solar-heated water, a composting toilet and a shower built into a tree. The owner is a rather eccentric Aussie named Mick, who seems to have taken a page out of Carlos Valderrama's hairstyling manual, and the chef is a Mr. Bundu, who cooks up a wide selection of organic vegetarian dishes in cauldrons that bubble over an open flame.
Right, this is beginning to sound like a brochure for the place, so let's cut the crap and get to the entertaining bit: my walk up.
Despite an honest effort, I wasn't able to reach the base of the hill until 5:30PM. The daylight dwindling, I was faced with a decision: do I call Mick and have him come down in his Land Rover to pick me up, a service for which he charges 35USD? Or do I walk up the hill alone in the dark? Forget Option #1; 35 dollars is a complete piss-taking. But the second choice is equally dicey: I don't know how safe the road is.
A very nice thing about Africa: as long as you are willing to pay, someone will guide you to anywhere you wish to go. I had only to stand at the entrance to the access road, and before long there were two teenage boys who were keen to come along. We agreed on a price of $6, and set off.
The pace was gruelling. You'll know, if you've ever watched an athletics competition, that Africans are light on their feet, quicker than the wind and have unlimited stamina. I'm no couch potato, but with 30lbs of weight on my back I simply could not keep pace with these guys, bounding as they were up the slope like gazelles. I did my best to stay with them, but they kept shouting at me to go faster, only relenting when I threatened not to pay them.
To make matters worse, they lead me on a series of shortcuts: near-vertical climbs through rock gardens and root ladders that have formed on the face of the mountain. Technically, these did save a lot of time, but clambering on my hands and knees was exhausting. By the fifth or sixth shortcut, I began to teeter with lightheadedness.
It was during one of my frequent "catching my breath while trying not to wretch" breaks that I remembered an interesting fact: Northern Malawi has an abundance of poisonous snakes. I asked one of the boys if he knew about that.
"Oh, yes!" he chirped enthusiastically. "There are definitely green mambas and puff adders here!"
He must have seen the terror disclosed in my face, because he hastened to add:
"But they are not dangerous!"
A very problematic thing about Africa: people often are not educated about what can hurt them. Green mambas are highly venomous, and one bite is potentially lethal to even a full-grown, healthy adult. Your only hope of survival in the case of being bitten is to administer the appropriate anti-venom as quickly as possible. My guess? The closest bottle of serum to Livingstonia is in Lilongwe, 11 hours away by bus. By that time, you'd be carrion.
Anyway, after nearly two hours we arrived at Mushroom Farm. I paid the kids and threw in a generous tip - they'd earned their keep. Mick, who'd seen me coming up the path, sweating profusely and near the point of losing consciousness, greeted me in the most Australian way:
"Oi, Mate! Noyce ta see yeh! Care foha bee-uh?"
Did I ever, Bruce.
Needless to say, once you do the walk up to Mushroom Farm, you can't be arsed to leave for a few days. But it's not exactly a taxing holiday; the prices are cheap, the food is delectable, the music is good, and the view - HOLY SHIT - the view is mind-blowing.
From just about any spot on the property - the bar, the tent platforms and even from the seat of the composting loo - you can see the entire valley below, along with a huge piece of the lakeshore, as well as the mountains on the opposite side. The latter are 50km away. In Tanzania. Since the rainy season was just about to begin, farmers were lighting massive brush fires (to sterilize the soil and flush out the rats, which are captured and eaten), and the landscape glowed at night, with red and orange balls of flame dancing against the black backdrop. It felt like you were staring into space, only the universe was below you, and the stars a Hell of a lot closer.
So I stayed for a while. Probably would have stayed longer, if it wasn't for the fact that I ran out of money and had to make for the border. On my last day in Malawi, I walked down the hill and hitched a ride to Tanzania, feeling a bit sad that I was leaving a country I'd grown to love. Then, one kid made sure that even my last few moments would be unforgettable.
I heard the call as I walked across the bridge between the two nations:
"MAAAAAAAZZZUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNGUUUU!!!"
It came from all directions at once, as if riding on the back of the wind. I froze. I looked around, but I couldn't spot the kid who belonged to the voice.
"MAAAZUUUUNGUUUUU!"
Got him. He was just a head and torso, swimming in the river about 100m downstream. I raised my arms in the air, questioningly.
"GIMMMMEEE MONNNNEEEEY!"
What did he want me to do, throw some bills in the river? I shook my head, laughed, and continued along.
Just then, a group of Africans passed by me, and they laughed too. A few moments later, they burst into song.
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