TRAVEL and thoughts

Ok so I find myself in the midst of long bus travel and is bears a description. The first day started a bit on the frustrating side. I had somehow gotten down to my last few shilling and if i wanted lunch it was imperative to get some more.

I had had to take a large chunk of cash out from an ATM last week to pay for my safari. In Seattle i can buy a $2 coffee with my Visa and no one bats an eye. Though this practice is less common the farther east you travel. In NYC i once had to pay cash for a $100 bar tab for my self and friends.

Here at least i expect that my visa will almost never see the light of day. But a five-day safari in cash! And the ATM spits out 10000 shilling notes (about $9 each) so it is quite a wad of bills!

So anyway, i withdrew money just fine but returned from the wilds to find the bank had disabled my card. Ugh. To compound the problem, ATMs in Tanzania are notorious for problems (most often running out of money, but also only about 60% being operational at any given time). Couple that with not really knowing which banks accept my credit union ATM card and not always knowing where the banks are, and getting money can sometimes be quite a chore.

So after a long quest i finally did get some money, grabbed my bag from the hostel, and headed toward the bus. I quckly noticed a couple of backpackers on the same route and struck up conversation. Leslie and Mathew are a couple of Canadians just finishing a six-month program working with a NGO (non-governmental organization) in Kenya working with farming cooperatives to improve marketting and streamline business models to improve competitiveness and sustain independent farming. They had lived in Nairobi and in some small villages up country.

I was fascinated to get their perspective on Kenya in regard to the ethnic rivalry and rioting which occured following a flawed vote in ... was it January. Apparently the Kenyans euphimistically refer to it (1000+ dead, 30,000 displaced was the last i read in February) as 'the problem'.

One of the more reassuring things I learned from these two was that they are just as confused by the violence as I am. In fact they tell me that most Kenyans are also confused. Some of this confusion comes from our western nationalism. We tend to subconsciously draw lines at national borders and I may not agree with everything a Californian thinks bit i still identify with them as an American. It is sometimes difficult to see tribal or ethnic divisions and to not think "But you are all Kenyan" even though, of course, colonial lines were drawn arbitrarily by Europeans.

But i think that more of the confusion comes from the fact that the actions of many people doesn't match the words that leaders like Kibaki and Odinga are telling the world.

What is amazing is that No One believes that the 'problems' are merely a result of election tampering - especially when most informed people believe that there was vote fraud on both sides.

So the ride was 10 hours from Arusha in the north to Dar. I am taking the nicest of the bus lines for a few extra shilling, this gets me a much nicer bus with a toilet and a departure very close to my hostel.

This bus turns out to be the nicest public transit i've taken. in Africa: I get biscuits and a soda at mid-morning and a bottle of water in the afternoon. And we stop at a tasty roadside restaurant for lunch. Really the only downside is that they insist on playing a video of this horrific Tanzanian soap opera that is apparently a national obsession. Imagine being stuck on a 10-hour bus ride watching "Days of our lives", but with fewer production values and louder. There is one woman on the show who spent 10 consecutive minutes screaming and crying and bawling and yelling and screaming again. This was followed by a non-stop yelling argument by two other characters. And culminated in what appeared to be an exorcism by a raspy voiced priest. Ugh. My earplugs wouldn't help so i turned up my music prefering to further deafen myself than to snap my patience completely.

On the bright side again, the bus is only half full so i have both seats to myself. That is until we hit a rainstorm around 2pm. Then a Tanzanian woman, Daphne, comes up and asks to sit next to me as it is leaking water by her seat. I gladly consent and have a wonderful conversation. She showed me pictures of her kids, I show her pictures of Julie, she bought me some cashews, and helped me figure out how to get to Mbeya, the border town on my way to Malawi.

She actually lives in Mbeya and said that if her husband weren't on his way to Dar the next morning that i would be more than welcome at their house. How many of us have ever or would ever invite a stranger on the bus to come dine at our house? Maybe we should do it more often.

So my guidebook talks of the failed socialist experiments of Tanzania in the 70s. The Tanzanian government instituted a sometimes forced relocation in an effort to set up farm cooperatives across the country. In the end production was extremely low and the failing economy and foreign donor pressure ended the practice. It was interesting to hear Daphne's perspective, however. Both to hear about her time as a teenager in the national service camps where she learned farming and worked. But also in terms of the result of the relocation and integration in terms of breaking down tribal divisions and differences. No, i'm not at all saying that forced integration is even morally conscionable or that loss of tribal identity is good. But the result is that many people in Tanzania know three tribal languages in adition to Kiswahili and English and are related to, and identify with, people all over the country. In Kenya, for example, the people have been intermarrying for generations and the tribal divisions along which the current ethnic strife occurs is both arbitrary and untrue. People there claim heritage to one tribe or the other but their family tree tells a very different story. Tanzanians tend to identify first as Tanzanian though tribal practice and custom and identity are much more alive than on Native American reservations where it was actively discouraged.

In Dar, Daphne gave me all three of her mobile numbers in case i have any problems either in Mbeya or at the border. Wonderful.

I share a taxi and then dinner with the Canadian couple and then off to bed as my bus leaves at 6:45 the next morning.

...

Heading west today away from Dar, the landscape is lush and fruitful. Much of the population here are subsistance farmers, growing just enough food on their small plots to eat and take to market. I see banana trees, corn fields, potato plants, rice paddies.

So I was explaining the difference between America and Africa yesterday and I said that a major difference is that in the US if I want something, I have to go seek it out. Here people bring their wares to you. People run up in the street with 25 shirts on hangers, or walk around with fairly ingenious coffee tins with built in charcoal stoves underneath, or everytime the bus stops, 20 people run up with boxes full of soda and cookies and bananas on trays and little skewers of grilled meat. They surround the bus and make sales through the window. It's really quite convenient though maybe a bit inefficient due to over-competition. I mean how many times a day is someone going to buy a NY Yankees stocking hat out of a bus window that happens to stop in Morogoro?

This also happened when our safari vehicle stopped. Sometimes it was convienient: all the driver had to do to go grocery shopping was pull over and yell out "bread, eggs" and people would come running. Sometimes it was annoying as we stop for a second and 5 guys bring out the same low quality bead- and artwork. But I was very good about explaining that i wasn't interested in commerce but more in conversation and i would often find someone willing to just chat for the few minutes.

In some ways, I have to go seek out African culture much like i seek out retail at home. And the Africans I meet have European and American and Asian culture brought to them much like they are used to bananas and clothing being brought to the bus.

Having stayed up late and risen early I spend much of the day asleep (I wonder if I will ever sleep normally again) and wake at one point to find that the ground had risen around us. Steep hills covered in acacia trees and scrubby undergrowth tower overhead to one side and the cliff drops away to the other. We are on a winding road up the mountains under a sky inspired by or inspiring the opening credits of the simpsons.

The Mbeya bus terminal is typical: me walking around with an entourage of 10 guys trying to guide me while I tell them over and over that I would prefer to explore by myself for a bit. There are LOTS of ways to get to the border from here where I can walk across and pick up some other bus on the other side but I'm tired and want something to be easy so I am looking for a bus that goes the whole distance. Eventually the guys around me lie to me and tell me that this exists (I find out later that there aren't any busses that travel the whole distance - likely due to the Malawians trying to tax the bus as being imported). So i buy a ticket and find a bed.

...

Next day, due to me trusting someone who turned out to either be a flake or actively trying to make things harder, and due to my lack of dilligence, I miss my bus. I'll take the blame though I am still angry with one of my 'friends'. Oh well, so as I said, getting to the border isn't usually a problem so i get some assistance and board a minibus (daladala in the local tongue).

Here is where my travel takes a downward turn. The bus sits for a while filling up (about 15 seats) and finally pulls up to the terminal exit. Here begins a complicated game/practice/torture. I don't begin to understand it so i will describe what i see. There is a rope across the exit and an older man who lowers it to allow minibusses to depart. On the other side of that are about 50 tanzanian guys who appear to have nothing to do other than hang out near the bus terminal. They are laughing and joking and hanging out, standing in the street at 7am. Perhaps it is the waiting area for minibusses which will load shortly. Perhaps this is where the bus touts wait before the arrivals start later in the day. Perhaps they just don't have anything better to do.

We arrive at the rope and with a series of honks communicate with the blank stare of the rope-handler. Tthis continues for 5 minutes and the driver and conductor have a loud conversation followed by various conversations with the rope-handler and a number of people in the vicinity.

Other minibusses depart around us. Some sit behind us and join in the various honking. At one point three of us are honking for 60 seconds. Then nothing happens and we stop. At one point our bus does leave, forces its way bodily through the throng of people who don't really get out of the way until we bump them, pulls into the street, into a driveway, backs up and goes back into the bus station where we pull up to the rope and begin a new round.

I'm thouroghly confused and extremely tired but I watch as it seems like this might be a huge insight into Tanzania as a whole.

Eventually we do leave and make our bumpy way forward. Daladalas do not have luggage storage other than some space to tie things on the top/sides/back. So I am again thankful to have packed lightly as my bag rests across my knees for an hour.

We pull into a bus station and everyone departs the bus. As I tend to take transit to the end of the line, this is usually my cue but i have no idea where we are yet. There are already 5 guys pushing into the bus door with a stream of "where you going, mister?", "My friend, come with me.", "Are you going to Malawi, mister?". And three pairs of hands reaching for my bag, my shoulder, my hand. And all of them yelling at each other, jostling for space and crying out at me. I'm not in the mood for this at all. I give a desperate look to the driver who indicates silently with a nod of his head that i should follow him. I pull a hand off my bag, shake another off my elbow and push through. We all nearly get caught in the door like a slapstick comedy but I am not laughing.

Now there are at least 10 of the bus touts following and they realize that the driver is helping me so they turn on him. They are mad. I hear heated arguments as they defend their 'jobs' but we push through. I get on board another minibus (and manage to grab the front seat) and relay my destination to the driver. I see the other driver still in heated discussion but as it is too late tempers are calming rapidly.

I know that unemployment is extremely high here and that these guys need to work for the pitiable wages they get but most countries have signs ("this way to eastbound busses serving Bellevue, Redmond") and maybe an information desk to answer questions. Here are 45 guys running at you and fighting with each other. I am trying hard to appreciate the cultural and social differences but sometimes it stretches the limits of my patience.

Another 45 minute ride and we turn off into a small village where the driver turns to me and says, "here is the border". Well I don't see this mythical bridge to Malawi so i ask and they point me down the road (2km). Here the name of the game is money exchange and bike rides to the border. I walk in order to clear my head and to see the countryside and have 25 different people ask to exchange my Tanzanian shillings for Malawi Kwacha.

I joke with all of the money changers: calling out "Hey mister!" before they have a chance and try to exchange my Egyptian Pounds for Icelandic Kroner or Mexican Peso. It is sunny and I'm almost to a new country and I'm happy. Even more happy to be off the minibus for a spell.

I do exchange my last $40 of shilling and have to endure everyone assuming that i would never carry such little money. I explain over and over that yes, I'm white, yes, I'm American, yes, I'm traveling, and no I am not rolling in gold, nor do i carry a sack full of $1000 notes. One of the worst things we ever did for travellers like myself was to convince the world that America is the land of milk and honey where the streets are paved in gold and everyone has a job and we all drive mercedes and wear the clothes that we advertise.

So my experience is that most border crossings have signs and lines and you can't just walk into the next country accidentally. Not so Tunisia! I see a big building called 'customs' and I walk in and ask a man at a desk whether I need to do anything here. He says no and points at the bridge to Malawi. I walk that way. I see another uniformed man and say hello, I'm going to Malawi and he points at the bridge. I walk about 2/3 across the bridge and see the 'Welcome to Malawi' sign and think "shouldn't I have gone through Tanzania immigration first?" and a truck pulls up beside me. A serious and slightly perturbed man looks out and asks me why i didn't get a stamp to leave Tanzania. I look at him, bewildered, and relay my story. He drives me back to the same building and points at the immigration counter. It is NEXT TO the guy that i asked first. Does the customs officer not know that the immigration officer is right there???

I get to the Malawi side and get my visa. And then nothing. Not a sign "this way to malawi", not a waiting onslaught of minibusses and no one saying "Mister this way". Nothing but an open field. And a road. I walk to the road and ask how far to Karonga (the next sizeable town). It is 45km so I guess walking is out of the question. There is a town adjacent and a hole in the fence so i am directed that way to find a taxi.

I take a shared taxi with a Tanzanian man here for business and a woman with her mother and her 2-month old adorable baby.

In the 45km we hit THREE roadblock checkpoints. They ask me where I'm from and are satisfied with "America". But the poor Tanzanian guy has to get out three times to show his passport and answer questions. It seems they want money from him. I have no idea if he pays but we continue on.

He is actually going to Mzuzu as well so I am relieved to have some help navigating. The bus ride is uneventful and I was too tired to really give you much description other than we went through a gigantic tea farm. I had no idea that there was Malawi tea. I'll have to try some.

I see a sign for the Mzuzu area and some guesthouse advertisements. The bus pulls over and a number of people get off. I'm about to go ask if this is Mzuzu when my Tanzanian businessman comes over and signals that this is it.

I get off to a dusty road with some shacks and a petrol station. This is not the "grand tree-lined boulevard" from my guidebook so i ask the conductor a few times to be sure. He says, "yes, just go left on this side street and you're there". So i do. The Tanzanian guy (I know, I need to remember more names...) sees a Tanzanian originating truck and asks the driver about guesthouses. I follow because inside information is always worth knowing. We end up at a moderately grimey place and after checking it out, I say thank you and go look around for something better.

I ask about the places in my guidebook and most people have never heard of them. I ask about the banks and finally determine that yes, I am in Mzuzu, but not even close to downtown. A suburb! So this is the third time this trip that I was led by someone off of public transit into the wrong place. The problem is that the locals get off on the outskirts where they live, and I want to go to the city center where there are tourist activities. No not always and yes it is often a rewarding experience to hang out where the locals hang out but this was a bit of a pain.

So i ask one of the bicycle taxis for a lift. Do not picture this as a cushy bike-rickshaw with a plush seat in a cart. no this is a padded bike rack right behind the 'driver'. I straddle the bike and sit and he pushes off on his 1-speed and steadies us surprisingly well as I have my backpack and a shopping bag. We move quickly downhill for a while and i see the city on the next rise. It was about half-way up the hill when i really start to feel bad for the $0.80 that I've paid for this ride. This guys is working HARD as I have 35lbs of luggage.

So I am now a short ride away from Nhtaka Bay - a bit of a party town on the beach of Lake Malawi. I'll go in the morning and stay a bit. Finally I can spend some time not on a bus!! Yay. It was three full days to get here (about 1000 miles).

I hope to drop some pictures onto my previous posts today. Love to all.