WorldTripping.net - Tanzania travel writing and travel articles.

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"Glimpses" extracts from Leah's journal.
Lake Tanganyika.
The MV Liemba waited patiently at the dockside, her sides banging gently on the tug beside her. Dockworkers, busy as ants, loaded their wares on her decks. We squeezed our way aboard, relieved that the tussle over the price for the bikes was over.
We watched the loading drama unfold from the relative luxury of our first class deck. Dock men struggled to carry their multifarious goods aboard. Farm machinery was hastily manhandled down the rickety gangway. Huge white bales and green matoke bananas, balanced, head high, followed. The men seemed to be paid by the item and would run back to the gate and argue over who was taking the next consignment. Trucks came and went and so did the departure time. Only when all the space on the loading deck and the area in front of the first class cabins was full, were the other passengers allowed to board. The tranquil Liemba of only a few hours previous was turned into a bustling party ship. Engines chugged into motion, the horn was blown and she sallied forth.

Night Calls.

The lights flickered on and I presumed we must have looked like one giant christmas light display as we passed by the sleepy villages on the lake bank. As soon as the horn blew, small, hollowed out canoes packed with passengers and goods, slid out of the darkness. Paddlers leapt from their vessels, splooshing and hollering, showing off to their captive audience aboard the Liemba. Adults clamboured on deck, gripping luggage. Children were passed from boat to boat and finally handed safely to waiting arms aboard ship. A watersnake curled around a swimmer's arm then looped back on itself to disappear into the depths. Food wrapped in vine leaves was offered for sale to hungry passengers. Some of the canoes were letting in water as quickly as the men were baling it out. The sound of the ship's horn sounded as a warning to the boats that she was to resume her journey South. Soon the boat was sleeping and moonlight gently caressed the glassy surface of the lake.

The Mountains are burning.

The red and stone-pitted road stretched out before us. An occasional lorry trundled past, whipping up a torrent of choking dust. Southern Tanzania. We left the road and followed a path into the wilderness. Several days of off road cycling were ahead as we skirted the Tanzania-Zambia border to reach Malawi.

We came to a fork and were unable to decide which path to take. We waited in the heat, hoping someone would be out walking and would be able to help us. A cattle herder approached. He was dressed in rags, barely covering his emaciated frame. The cows were just as thin, their long, curled horns swaying as they dragged by. We repeated the name of the village we had been told would have an inn for the night and he pointed first one way then shook his head and pointed the other as if suddenly understanding our question.

The path was deeply rutted and we tight-roped our way along the central ridge of dried mud. We passed through a couple of small settlements of wooden or mud huts. Fields of blackened tree stumps lined the route. Charcoal is the only means of survival for these people but despite their excruciating poverty, they still manage a "haribou" (welcome) to strangers.

As we cycled towards quite a large town, we unwittingly interrupted a football game. I glanced back at Simon, who was thronged by a huge crowd. I counted down the rows, shocked as I estimated at least a hundred! We had grown used to the attention we received in Africa but this was ridiculous. When he reached me and dismounted, they raced away to a safe distance, one or two children crying in fear, some giggling, all curious. Drunken but jovial men emerged from a nearby bar and we were able to ascertain that we were, in fact, on the right road. One swayed, speaking in broken English a welcome to his house but we thanked him and cycled on, our ears ringing from the "safari n gema" (safe journey) shouted to us from the crowd.

It was dark as we reached the outskirts of the village which promised shelter. The houses illuminated only by the licking flames from the mountains behind. A man, on his way homeward, turned back and led us down ever darkening passageways to the "guesti". We thanked him and supped "chai". We were handed paraffin lamps and made our way down the cramped, soil floored corridor and pushed open the broken door to our room. No bucket bath, the toilet a hole in the floor of a reeking building around the back. Exhausted and filthy, we collapsed in our tiny single bed.

The M.V. Victoria. Crossing the lake to Mwanza, Tanzania.

hollowed out canoes packed with passengers and goods

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Before here we were in Uganda. After here we were in Malawi.

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