African meanderings - Part 3

Maasai at Namanga. The border between Tanzania and Kenya

Namanga town sits on the border between Kenya and Tanzania, we drew up behind a queue of traffic waiting to get through immigration. While we waited, John and I got out of the bus to stretch our legs. There were a scattering of buildings there and a small duka (shop) selling snacks and drinks. Standing outside it were three Maasai leaning on their long spears talking. They looked very tall, noble and handsome and wore types of orange tartan cloth over their shorts. Colourful beads adorned their necks and wrists. On their feet, they wore hand-made sandals, with leather uppers and soles made from recycled car tyres.

John immediately grabbed his camera to go and take a photograph of them. “Hang on, mate,” I warned. “You can’t just go and do that. You have to ask their permission first”. “Oh,” he replied. I went on, “I’ll go and ask them to see if that’s OK”. I walked over and spoke to the tallest, noblest-looking one. He looked regal and about 8 feet tall. So, in my best Swahili, I said, “Hujambo, rafiki yangu ni kutoka Uingereza na angependa kuchukua picha yenu nyote, mtafikiria tafadhali?” (Hello, my friend is from England, and he would like to take a photograph of you all, would you mind please?). His reply startled and amused both of us. In my mind’s eye, this noble Maasai lived in the wilds of the Serengeti, or another untamed place. He would be protecting his cattle and village from marauding lions and leopards. This image was utterly shattered when he replied, in a weighty Welsh accent, “I don’t mind boyo, he can go ahead, we don’t mind”. With that, he and his friends laughed out loud, and John and I couldn’t help but join in. “What!” I exclaimed? “How come you have a Welsh accent? “Well,” he said, “I went to Bangor University in North Wales for four years to study for my degree, didn’t I. After I’d finished I came home again as I didn’t like the cold and rain there!” I said that I lived near there too, for a year, and didn’t like it either! John took his photographs, we shook their hands and thanked them.

Arusha, Tanzania

We got through immigration quickly and without fuss, push-started our beloved bus again and sped towards the city of Arusha. We dropped off passengers at various stops and gathered others as we drove on. We stopped in Arusha for an hour. Both John and I were bursting to go to the toilet and asked locals where it was, we were directed to the busy market square.

Tanzania’s Independence Day was on 9th December 1961, 11 years previously, and many things since then seemed to have been let go. I noticed that general infrastructure and community welfare appeared to be suffering. Public toilets were obviously way down the list of priorities now, if they were on any list at all. This one looked like it hadn’t been tended since Independence Day itself. There were inches of faeces, used toilet paper and urine everywhere on the floor of the entrance, flowing back into the dark abyss of the interior. The walls were also daubed with faeces, it was fly-ridden, putrid and smelled of ammonia. It was, indeed, truly awful. We peed outside, in full view of amused onlookers.

As we drove on, it began to get dark. The dirt road now changed to deep, earthy red colour. Fine dust seeped into the bus through the many rust holes in the floor. It got into our lungs, hair, mouths and even found its’ way inside our well-sealed luggage. It stuck to the sweat on our faces, so we began to look like red pandas.

Cape buffalo often sleep on roads at night. © Duncan Smith

I asked the driver to put his headlights on as darkness was rapidly approaching and we were hurtling along, at speed, into blackness. “They are on, Bwana!” he said. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Ndio, ndio Bwana!” (Yes, yes). He sounded irritated now. We were plunging pell-mell into a black void, with headlights no brighter than two glow-worms. I was getting more and more concerned as buffalo, mules, cattle and even elephants often slept on these roads at night. Any moment now we could run straight into one or more of these. It was apparent that the headlights weren’t working.

I asked the driver to stop. “It is fine, Bwana,” he replied. “No, it is not fine, you have to stop, you will kill us all!” I exclaimed. “No it’s OK, it is fine, I can see! Don’t worry,” he said, still grinning at me. By now all the other passengers were getting really agitated and concerned too. Exasperated, I stood up and yelled at him in Swahili, “Acha sasa” (Stop right now!). This did the trick. We ground to halt and the following red dust overtook us and billowed around the bus. Everyone cheered with relief.

I’d spotted a small village about a mile back, which may have had a phone, and asked one of the passengers if they could walk back and call the bus company to tell them what had happened. He trotted off happily into the black night and returned half an hour later with the message that a relief bus would be here in 3 hours. It was now getting freezing, and it was pitch black. I suggested that we gathered firewood and light a big fire in the middle of the road to keep us warm. It would also ward off lions and let any drivers travelling at night that we were broken down.

It was like a big, happy party with Africans laughing excitedly, rushing in all directions to bring back arms full of firewood and logs. We soon had a massive fire blazing. Orange sparks swirled manically skywards in all directions, to join the myriads of stars overhead. John and I warmed ourselves for a while before going back to the bus to try and get some sleep. It was a fitful night.

The relief bus never came, and the hours crept painfully by. Eventually, a thin horizontal sliver of light blue in the east began to split the land from the sky as the sun started to heave itself from the earth. It promised to be a hot, cloudless day again.

When there was enough light to see, we woke our beloved bus from its slumbers and carried on.

We arrived in Dar es Salaam after 31 hours on the road, 15 hours late. My aunt Helen was there to greet us, and we drove to her beach home at Kunduchi, 40 km north of Dar.

Helen’s beach house at Ras Kiomoni, north of Dar es Salaam. © Duncan Smith

To be continued in Part 4. Hope you’re enjoying it so far!

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