The border crossing from Mozambique into Tanzania was exhausting - not the crossing of the border itself, but the transportation there and away. Following a night of fitful sleep in an overpriced, rat infested pensao in Mocimboa da Praia, we boarded an empty pick-up at 3am. By the time we finally left there were 25 people crammed into the bed of the tiny truck and the sun was starting to beat down on us, the morning air clouded with flying termites and dust. Not long into the ride, I was forced into an awkward and very uncomfortable spot by another passenger - the only asshole of the bunch - who continued to talk shit (in Portuguese) throughout the whole trip. I eventually gave up fighting for the 6 inches of sitting space and settled on top of the giant pile of luggage over the tailgate. The bumpy road was tossing me around, sometimes I came down hard on the bags. Occasionally I would hear a loud crack as one of the suitcases, a giant plastic one at the bottom of the pile, crumbled underneath the weight.

Eventually the owner of that suitcase, an older “traditionally built” (read: very large) mozimbicana, took notice and started hurling abuse at me in Portuguese. I tried to move away from the luggage but the damage had already been done and my fellow passengers wouldn’t (and couldn’t) give an inch of space. She realized that the suitcase was broken and demanded that I pay for it. I refused, claiming that it was the fault of the driver for overstuffing his truck and packing the luggage poorly. I offered to trade seats with her, even though that would have been impossible - she was twice my size. The argument dragged on and soon came to involve the entire truck. Everyone was shouting at each other in English, Swahili, Portuguese, Makua, Makonde, Arabic and I don’t know what else. Opinion on the matter was divided. I was resolved not to pay for the suitcase and there were at least a dozen other passengers standing up for me.

After about 5 hours under scorching sun, of muddy rutted roads and heated argument, we arrived at the Mozambican border post. The border itself is a river, so each country operates a post on either side, with about 3km of “no man’s land” on each shore. Getting stamped out of Mozambique was a breeze, but crossing the river was a little less pleasant.

After exiting Mozambique, we piled back into the truck and disembarked again the shore. A mass of frenzied, screaming people surged forward, all trying either to shove their way onto the truck we were unloading or to be the first onto one of the small boats waiting to ferry us across to Tanzania. The three of us (Vicky, Daniela and I) made it onto a boat along with about 20 others and set off for the other side. The river is quite large - our boat traveled about 1km in total. Money was collected as we putted across. There was a lot of confusion over currency; I overpaid hugely because I had no Tanzanian shillings yet. At one point the engine died. We all sat in silence for a few minutes, the boat taking on water, as the driver tried to fix it. He finally got it started again, but then refused to land the boat due to an argument over someone’s fare. He threw down the anchor defiantly and shouted for about 10 minutes until some kind of agreement was reached. Then, on the shore, the same insane frenzy scene was repeated. We rode to the border post in another truck and obtained our Tanzanian visas. $100 now for US citizens! Ouch.

A pair of officers at the customs shack called me over while I was waiting on my visa. They wanted to “inspect” my backpack. They gave it a half-assed once over and were about to send me off when they saw a little bundle of Mozambican meticais (cash) that I was carrying - I planned to change it shortly.

“You can’t take that to Tanzania,” one of them said, “It’s illegal. You should give that to us.”
“No,” I told him.
“Why not?”
“Because that sounds like extortion!” I smiled.
“Extortion?” They chuckled and waved me on.

The Tanzanian border officials were very friendly and the rest of the crossing was easy. We sat on a bus for a few more hours and spent the night in a small town (I’ve forgotten the name) before catching a fast coach to Dar es Salaam in the morning.

I decided to head straight for Zanzibar on the ferry and sort out accommodation for the festival coming up in a week. I spent the week exploring Stone Town and relaxing.

Stone Town, Zanzibar’s largest city (town?) is a fascinating place with a vibrant history. Many of its abundant colonial-style buildings are left-overs from its former role as one the most important slave markets of East Africa. Nowadays Zanzibar has embraced tourism as one of its major trades and the old Portuguese, Arab and Indian shops and homes are being actively restored and preserved. I got lost in the narrow streets and alleyways nearly every time I set out from my hotel.

Zanzibar boasts its own unique culture which draws upon African, West Indian and Arab influences. Even the Swahili spoken on the island is peppered with words and phrases from several other languages, including Arabic and Gujarati. Particularly impressive are the beautiful ornate carved wood door frames, usually featuring elaborate Arabic inscriptions. The island is predominantly Muslim, but is also home to a small Hindi population.

Becky, Dave, Daniela, Darlene, Serena and Oezlem all showed up over the next dew days. Before the festival started, Becky, Dave and I went along with their friend Debbie on a tour of the spice plantations and out on a boat trip to swim with the dolphins off the east coast of the island. I almost touched one!

The music festival (Sauti za Busara) was great, made 100 times better by the reunion with my friends from previous travels. The musical highlights included a band from Mali (Bassekou Kouyate & Ngoni ba), a Fela Kuti cover band (Bantu Afrobeat Academy) from Nigeria, and a sort of afro-fusion band (Yunasi) from Kenya. After the 4 night festival, we spent a couple nights at Matembwe beach on the east coast and then returned to Dar.

So much more to write, but I’m out of time for now. Coming soon: northern Tanzania, the long journey across bandit-country in northern Kenya, and my first week in Ethiopia.

After Zanzibar, the group split up again. Dave, Becky and I decided to head north up the coast and then cut westward toward the mountains further inland. From Dar es Salaam we caught a bus to Tanga.

Tanga is Tanzania’s third largest city, although you’d never guess as much even after seeing number one and two, Dar and Arusha. Completely lacking the tall office buildings and bustling streets of the larger cities, Tanga feels like a quiet little town. We stayed for three days, long enough to see some sights in the area: the ruins of an ancient mosque and some bat-filled caves. We also managed to get horribly lost walking around the countryside trying to find the famed sulphur hot springs. After a couple hours walking in circles, the “springs” - no more than a stinky, muddy stream - were a huge let-down. Next we caught a bus to Lushoto, the starting point for treks around the Usambara mountains. We organized a guided 3-day hike with the Friends of Usambara organization, a group which uses their proceeds to initiate local development projects and fund schools. Less than $30 a day covered all of our food, park fees, guide and accommodation.

The hike was excellent. Highly recommended. We walked through several villages, under rainforest canopies, over scenic mountain passes and ate and slept well along the way. At every village we were met by small crowds of giggling children. The bold ones demanded to be photographed - “Mzungu! Mistah! Pikchah!” - while the shy ones just fled in terror. Our guide, Amril, told us that some parents warn their kids to stay away from the white folks.

“They say that the mzungu will snatch them up and put them in their backpacks and take them back to Europe!”

The hiking wasn’t too strenuous but still took us up to some stunning viewpoints. From one we could just make out the hazy sillouhette of Mt. Kilamanjaro. If I had had more time to spend, I would have enjoyed adding two or three more days to the trek and exploring more of the Usambaras. But just before the hike I had laid new plans for the next couple months:

The great Gartholomew J will soon be leaving Bulgaria to return to the USA. He is set to go before I will able to reach eastern Europe so visiting him in Sofia will sadly be impossible. Instead, we’ve arranged to meet in Cairo on April 27 and spend two weeks adventuring around the Sinai peninsula. That means that from this point in northern Tanzania, I have about 2 months to travel more than 4,000 km through at least 4 very large countries (Kenya, Ethiopia, Sudan, Egypt).

I convinced Becky and Dave to join me in Ethiopia. Their original plan would have had them wandering slowly up to Nairobi to make their flight back home to England. Our new plan meant several days of punishing travel: sprinting all the way across Kenya to the Ethiopian border at Moyale.

Before leaving Tanzania, we visited Arusha, famous among travelers as the “trekking capital” of Tanzania. Being the biggest city within close range of the country’s most famous attractions - Mt. Kilamanjaro, Mt. Meru, the Serengeti - it is the best place to book safaris. We were hoping to find a good deal on a trip to visit Ol Doinyo Lengai, an active volcano near lake Natron, but unfortunately we learned that the volcano is currently erupting and is too dangerous to climb. Some tour operators offered to take us, but warned that the park authorities “strongly advise against it.” We opted to skip it.

Arusha is also tagged the “Geneva of Africa” due to its having been chosen as the location for the UN tribunal on war crimes commited during the 1994 war in Rwanda. Visitors are allowed to sit in on the open sessions. We listened to the cross-examination of a Hutu woman. She described leaving her home and going to live in a bus station with dozens of others until she was able to flee. She told of soldiers who tossed grenades into buildings full of people, and of the segregation of the Hutu from the Tutsi for group executions. These trials have been going on for many years - many of those responsible for the atrocities carried out during the genocide have yet to be brought to justice.

From Arusha we hurried directly to the border with Kenya and through to Nairobi. I wasn’t sure what to expect with all the dire news about the current state of affairs, but the scene was calm. Driving through the countryside on the way to Nairobi treated us to views straight off the pages of National Geographic - small Maasai villages full of robed, bejeweled men and women tending to their herds on the dusty plains.

In Nairobi we recieved plenty of warnings about wandering into the wrong parts of town, even during the day. The attitude of the locals was reminiscent of some i met in South Africa. No surprise considering the similarly bad reputations of Nairobi and Johannesburg. We didn’t have any trouble.

Nairobi is incredibly expensive compared to the rest of East Africa and even South Africa. The three of us split a triple room in a budget hotel for $30 a night. Trying to eat around downtown on the cheap proved futile as well. This, plus Nairobi’s reputation as “Nairobbery,” didn’t exactly endear me to the city. We stayed just long enough to secure our Ethiopian visas from the embassy (very nice staff, same day service, $60 for a 3-month multiple entry tourist visa) and then took a bus to Isiolo.

On the way out to Isili to get the bus our taxi almost drove us into the middle of a brick-throwing mob near Kenyatta Ave. I asked our driver what was going on.

“The street vendors. The local council wants to move them all into an indoor shopping complex where they will pay taxes like everyone else. Today was the deadline. They are fighting with the local police.”

We drove off as a couple bricks sailed across the intersection, smashing into a parked car. I was glad to leave.

I’ve traveled about 800 km over the past 72 hours. That may not sound like much to those of you who haven’t been to East Africa, but trust me, when those 800 km stretch across the arid, lifeless no-man’s land between Isiolo in northern Kenya and Awasa in southern Ethiopia, you’re glad to have them behind you.

The ride from Nairobi was pleasant. Just 5 hours in a decent coach on good tarmac roads to Isiolo. Dave, Becky and I walked around, searching out a hotel for the night, and before long we were approached by a pair of helpful locals. They showed us to a hotel, all the while giving us advice on how to proceed from Isiolo to the north and warning us about the “bad guys” around town who offer to help and then demand money. Then they asked us for money.

We quickly realized that almost everyone around town was zonked from chewing miraa (also known as qat or chat in other parts of the world, namely the Middle East). Miraa is a mild narcotic, enjoyed by chewing the leaves and young stems of a plant which is endemic to northern Kenya, most of Ethiopia and Eritrea. It is very popular in Yemen, Oman, Saudi Arabia and the Emirates, and is a highly profitable crop. In Ethiopia and Eritrea, it is the second largest export, after coffee - bundles of the stuff are loaded onto express planes and shipped daily to the Arab peninsula. Isiolo is a major local trading post for miraa, and everyone around seemed to be constantly stuffing the thin green stems into their mouths.

In the morning, Becky and Dave, my travel partners for most of the past two months, backed out of the plan to visit Ethiopia. I was sad to see them go, but had to push on. I had a long way to go yet.

I ended up stuck in Isiolo for two more days. Isiolo is a weird place. It is the “end of the road” in northern Kenya - and not just figuratively. There is no more public transportation available north from there. The only way up is to get yourself a spot on a truck carrying livestock or delivering goods. I wandered around asking anyone and everyone about these trucks. I hardly ever got the same answer twice.

“I just heard that one is coming in an hour.”
“Be patient. They always come around this time.”
“One just left! You missed it!”
“No trucks today, there was an attack last night.”
“Hakuna Matata. Have some tea.”

I spent most of my time in Isiolo sitting by the road, drinking tea and chewing miraa with the locals who seem to have little to do besides sit by the road and drink tea and chew miraa. When you’re stuck there for a while and have the time to just sit and watch, Isiolo becomes a very interesting place. It is a meeting point and trading post for many tribes of the area - Maasai, Turkana, Borana, Samburu, Rendille and others - each chatting away in their native languages and showing off their distinctive tribal hair styles, jewelery, clothing and weapons. I had plenty of chances to chat with all sorts of people, from students to tribesmen to farmers.

To my surprise, almost everyone wanted to talk about the American presidential race. And they’re generally very well-informed. One guy joked that he was “Obama’s campaign manager here in Kenya!” They all wanted me to know that Obama’s father was Kenyan. “He’ll do good things for Kenya.”

In the meantime, I had already tried and failed twice to get a place in a vehicle headed north. Every time one would arrive, it would get mobbed and the driver would speed off in panic / frustration without picking up anyone. Later on, I almost made it into a cushy land rover that was carrying a Kenyan businessman and his two armed guards, but that fell through just like the others. I was beginning to lose hope.

There is a good reason for there not being any public transport serving the road from Isiolo to Moyale: shifta. Shifta is the Swahili word for bandits, and the roads of northern Kenya are known for being their territory. Killings are not as common these days as they used to be, but some vehicles still make the journey as part of a guarded convoy. The shifta are usually after trucks carrying cows and tend to avoid causing trouble with tourists. Everyone in Isiolo was quick to assure me that everything would be fine. I was more worried about being able to get on a truck in the first place.

I had paid two guys to stay by the road on lookout for me when I went to eat my meals. When a truck full of salt, soap, empty barrels, buckets and loads of random crap pulled in at around 8pm, they ran into the restaurant and rushed me outside. It was headed to Marsabit - only half way - but I didn’t want to wait any longer. I paid 1500 shillings, which I knew was too much, but I didn’t care - I was finally on my way! As the truck was being filled up with passengers, I got lucky - a big bundle of boxes landed next to me and ended up making a fairly comfortable little bed and I had some room to stretch out.

Between Isiolo and Moyale lies 580 km of barren, dusty wasteland. It’s rough and inhospitable - there hasn’t been a drop of rain for 5 years and the road is nothing more than a wide rocky dirt track. As we bounced along through the night, I gazed up at the stars in the cloudless sky through the uncovered top of the truck. When sunrise came, the temperature went from bearably cold to positively roasting in about 15 minutes. Luckily we rolled into Marsabit only a few hours later.

My luck persisted in Marsabit - immediately after hopping off the truck I found a shiny new Land Cruiser with a seat available. 1000 shillings to Moyale - I took it! I had just enough time to eat.

***

I have to run now. Check here tomorrow for the rest of the entry.