Bribed Passage: The Cargo Ship to Uganda

Rival freighter

After spending a week in Mwanza, Tanzania, on Lake Victoria – the second largest fresh water lake in the world – I needed to make my way to Kampala, Uganda.  However, I was nowhere near ready to get back on another bus having just spent 15 hours crossing Tanzania only seven days before, and for what would be an even longer ride. 

I made a number of inquires around town about passage via the lake and was told that the only option was to take a passenger ferry for eight hours that would take me across the lake to Bukoba, requiring me to catch a bus from there across the border into Uganda and onto Kampala – still a solid 10 hours away by road.

View of the bridge from the bow

Taking matters into my own hands, I make my way to the commercial port to find an alternative. I reached the entrance to the port, but traffic was at a standstill.  Apparently two large trucks loaded with goods that had just come off one of the ships were attempting to squeeze up the narrow access road at the same time.  Neither driver wanted to yield for the other and an intense argument had broken out. I contemplated getting out and walking down to the entrance in order to bypass the traffic jam until one of the drivers ran to the cab of his truck and emerged with a large machete and started waving it at the other driver.  I stayed in the taxi.

Eventually traffic cleared and I made my way down the docks, which were buzzing with activity, as roughly a hundred men were hurriedly unloading two large cargo ships, putting the loads on waiting trucks.  I found one of the customs officials and he introduced me to the Chief Officer of a large cargo ship called the Umoja.

Train car rails

A few phone calls with the ship’s Captain and a negotiation with his Chief Officer, I paid 80,000 Tanzanian Schillings (US$50) for my passage, which is dramatically overpriced but I was all too happy to pay in order to avoid another long bus ride.

I was taken on board by the Chief Officer and shown my stateroom.  It is then that the officer informs me another 20,000 Tsh is needed to bribe an immigration official since I was not supposed to be using the port as a disembarking point.  I give him the cash and my passport and he returned a short time later with the proper paperwork completed.

The Umjoa was built in 1960 in Scotland and shipped overland to be assembled on Lake Victoria.  It was one of two similar ships ordered by the notoriously brutal Ugandan dictator Idi Amin. The total number of crew is around 30 and includes engineers, deck workers, officers, the cadets and galley staff.

Engine room

The cargo on this run was 100 tons of wheat, which was about 6,000 bags of 80 kilograms each. Every bag had to be loaded by hand from a truck on the dock and stacked on the deck of the ship. The Chief Officer tells me they have carried all manner of cargo from food stuffs, to styrofoam containers to Chinese tanks that have been purchased by or given to the Ugandan government.

Wheat

Once underway, it would take roughly 20 hours to reach Port Bell, Uganda. Before we head off, I go to lunch some of the crew at the port cafeteria where all of the boat crews, truck drivers, and dockworkers come to eat.  For 10 schillings, I get a hearty meal of chicken and rice and a cold Orange Fanta.

I spent most of my time talking with the cadets, since they were the most friendly and chatty.  There were four of them on board who are spending three months getting their practical training after their classroom work at the maritime college in Dar es Salaam. They called me Daoudi – which is David in Kiswahili.

Chess/Checkers

Following dinner, a couple of the cadets ask if I want a tour, which was just their excuse to go down and smoke weed in a hidden spot.   They informed me that Tanzanian weed is the best, but that it’s cheaper to buy it in Uganda because the Tanzanian schilling is stronger than Uganda’s currency.   Shortly after the two of them share a joint, they are laughing hysterically at how the First Mate is a “snake driver” meaning he does not keep the boat in a straight line and its wake looks like a snake.  They say it’s because he can’t see the compass properly because his eyesight isn’t so good.

Cadets

One of the young cadets says he needs to go to his station in the chain room, which has got to be the worst job on the boat.  When the ship brings up its anchor from the bottom of the lake, the length of chain is reeled in and stored in a compartment underneath the deck at the bow.  All the muck and gunk comes up with the chain and lands on the two crew members in the compartment who are ensuring the chain coils properly as it rests on the floor of the small room.

Raphael

I was put in the Chief Officer’s cabin because there were two bunks.  To say it was austere is to put it mildly, but the smell inside was overpowering.  I put a chair outside the cabin on deck and worked on my computer in the night air in order to minimize the amount of time I needed to be in it.  When time finally came for me to try and sleep, I needed to shove tiger balm up my nostrils to try and mask the smell just enough so I could rest.

Chief Officer

My cabin mate is a young guy named Anderson.  He sleeps on a bunk so small his legs dangle off the end.  It’s cold as the lake breeze slips easily into our cabin so he covers his legs with a towel and uses a life preserver as a pillow, although he spends most of the night on the bridge commanding the ship.

A few hours after dinner, when things on the ship had settled down, I wondered around.  I noticed that the life boats are old and decrepit – the cadets referred to them, perhaps inelegantly, as “death boats.”  I also see many signs announcing various pieces of rescue equipment such as fire hoses and extinguishers, life preservers and other safety gear but they have long since been stolen and sold off by the low-paid crew members, leaving only the signs.

Missing

I went up to the bridge and observed the crew steer the ship using an old fashioned wheel.  The motorized steering system was broken, so the ship was being controlled using the old wire system as a back up.  This method was not as easy to control and its age meant that jams from kinks in the line were common.  So every thirty minutes 3 cups of steering fluid had to be poured into the housing.

The Bridge

Lake Victoria is the largest freshwater source of fish in Africa, but the fisherman on the lake present a challenge to the captain and crew.  As the competition for fish increases, fisherman on small boats venture further and further away from shore and into the shipping lanes to lay their nets.  At night, the nets are impossible to see and the boat frequently runs them over, which can tangle up the propeller.  This means one of the crew needs to skin dive with a knife off the stern and try and cut away the entanglement.  The fisherman who are out at night present another problem as they are too small to be seen on radar and could easily be run over by the ship, so two crew members are vigilantly on watch with powerful spot lights to avoid hitting them.

Fishermen

In the morning, I wake up to find that something – most likely a rat – has eaten a hole through my canvass backpack in order to get to some food I had left in it.  I am just thankful to be able to go back out into the fresh air on deck.

Perch

Life on the ship for the crew is difficult.  They live in cramped quarters.  The food from the galley is very basic and offers little variety.  The work ranges from physically demanding to mind-numbingly boring and repetitive.  When they have down time, there is very little to do. A couple of cadets have made a game of checkers out of a board and blue and white plastic bottle caps, although they call it “Chess”.  They wash their clothes on board and leave them hung out to be tried in the wind or in proximity to one of the smoke stacks so the hot air from the engine can speed up the drying process.

Algae

We reach the Ugandan port by around 1pm.  As we approach the port, the water changes and is completely covered by a thick film of algae because the water has become so polluted.  As soon as we dock, I say my goodbyes to the crew and the cadets and make my way to immigration.  A quick stamp and I am officially in Uganda.  Just as I cross the threshold a taxi van is pulling up so I hop in and we take off for Kampala.

Port Bell, Uganda 

Common Humanity is Far Too Uncommon

Lake Victoria, Mwanza, Tanzania

In the early morning hours, I was looking for the bus that would take me from Dar es Salaam to Mwanza, Tanzania – another 15-hour bus trip that would take me all the way from the extreme right to the extreme left side of the country and from the shores of the Indian Ocean to the banks of Lake Victoria.

The station itself has the typical level of chaos to which I have become accustomed, although in this case it was hard to find the right bus in the massive, dark and poorly lit station.  When I arrived at the bus, it was difficult to push through the throngs of people who were jostling to get their baggage loaded underneath, especially since there were two equally large buses on either side of mine, also with passengers struggling to stow their belongings and board their respective transport.  You learn quickly that in many places you have be prepared to sacrifice your body, much less the two-foot personal space bubble we are so attached to in the west, and fight your way to get where you need to go.

Backpack secured in the compartment, I board the bus and realize that, to my surprise, the seat next to mine is empty.   Finally wising up, I decide to purchase the seat in order to give myself a little more elbowroom.  The additional expense is more than worth it as buses cram extra seats in wherever they can and the seat in front of me, unreclined, is typically resting firmly against my knees.



We pull out of Dar es Salaam’s station and before long I am asleep. We reach Morogoro, about four hours due west from Dar, and I wake up as we stop in order to drop off and take on passengers.

One of the new passengers is a very old man, who laboriously hobbles up the stairs to the second story of the bus.  He slowly shuffles from the front and makes his way towards the back with difficulty as he drags his lame right leg, aided by a wooden cane that looks like a worn walking stick he most likely fashioned himself some time ago.

Carrying nothing, the old man navigates his way past the other passengers and baggage in order to make his way to sit on one of the bags of rice laying in the middle of the narrow aisle near the back row of seats.  As he gets closer and closer, I know that my guilt will not allow me to let him pass without offering him the empty seat next to mine.

He eagerly sits and nods to me in acknowledgment.  The man’s clothes are muted and drab, threadbare and stained.  I am thankful he’s slight as it allows me a bit more room, but I soon realize that being over-sized is not as bad as being unhygienic and smelling like rotten vegetables.  I crack the window a bit more and settle in for the remainder of the trip – only 10 or so more hours to go.



As the bus rolls on, we do not talk to each other.  I am engrossed in my book and he dozes, but it wouldn’t have been possible anyway as he did not speak English.  A few hours later, we come to a weigh station and as is typical, vendors rush to the bus side to sell food, drinks, and other goods.   The old man reaches across me with a handful of coins and shouts down to get the attention of one of the vendors outside.  The odor hits me like a sack of old socks.

Snacks

His voice is soft, like a whisper, but not only because it’s weak but almost as though he’s used up all of the few words he has left.  Strained and weary and using only the bare minimum necessary to complete the transaction.

The man is frail, using much of his strength to lean far enough out the window, so I motion for to give me the coins so I can give them to the saleswoman.  Our eyes meet and I notice the whites of his eyes are nearly as brown as their center, mixed with blood red bursts of capillaries like a the traces of his long life.  Tired and dimmed like the fading light from a flashlight whose batteries are nearly exhausted.

I shout down to the woman and hand over the coins.  The man says something to her in Kiswahili and she hands back two small packages of groundnuts – they look like miniature peanuts.  I give them to the man as he sits back into his seat.

A moment later, the bus’ engine roars and we lurch back onto the main road.  I feel a tapping on my arm and look over.  The man has outstretched his deeply wrinkled and rough hand.  He opens his thin fingers to show me the small bag of nuts and taps me again and nods for me to take them.  “Oh no, thank you”, I say earnestly as I put up my hands to accentuate my point.  He taps me again, harder this time, and nods again towards the nuts in his hand more forcefully.   “That’s okay.  I’m fine,” I say to him.  He says something I can’t understand in his low whisper as he takes my hand and gently places the bag in my palm.

I take the groundnuts and look up at him.  He gives me a slight smile and a quick nod as he turns back towards the front.  We sit in silence enjoying the snack he has provided for us.



Any kind of road travel throughout Africa is dangerous.  Bus and van drivers speed, make risky overtakings of others, and the vehicles are not well maintained.  In 2007, in the 46 African countries comprising the World Health Organisation's African region, more than 234,700 people were estimated to have died on roads. This constituted one-fifth of the world's road deaths that year, yet the region has only 2% of the world's vehicles.

We came across a very bad accident along the way.  A packed mini-van was hit by a large truck carrying cases of soda.  In addition to the scattered glass, there were thousands of small fish strewn along the path the van had taken after it was hit.  People in the crowd said that many passengers on the van had been killed.

Crash

Fish

Van and Truck Crash

Salvaging the fish off the road

Well into the night and several hours later, the bus drifts to a slow stop on the side of the road adjacent to a ubiquitous snatch of rickety roadside stalls.  The driver of the bus hops out and disappears off into the dark.  Thanks to Google maps and a functional connection, I see that we are about 10 kilometers from our final destination and, for me, a much needed shower and a bed.

Ten minutes pass and the driver has not returned.  The driver’s door is still wide open and the bus idling in place.  After a full twenty minutes have gone by, the engine sputters to a halt after a last shudder.  Still no driver.

My fellow passengers spontaneously begin to rise from their seats, gather up their belongings and exit the bus.  I decide to follow suit.

I step down to the hard pavement of the road and almost land in the three-foot deep concrete culvert, impossible to see in the moonless midnight sky.  It’s cold and wet following a rain shower.  Save for the smattering of stalls nearby, there is nothing but empty road in either direction.

After I gather my backpack from under the bus and contemplate my next move, I hear a loud thud behind me.  I turn and see the old man face down at the bottom of the culvert.   Another nearby passenger and I jump down to help him.  He is conscious but slightly woozy and he has blood streaming down his forehead.

The cut isn’t bad and with a few napkins we get it to stop.  After a few moments, he seems dazed but okay.  A dallah-dallah (mini van) pulls up.  All the passengers milling about make a bum rush for van and quickly piles in.  Not having acted fast enough, the jam-packed van pulls off leaving me the last man standing on the side of the road.

Brief bus stop

For a few moments I just stare after the van watching it’s one working tail light get smaller and smaller in the distance until it disappears.  It is eerily quiet with the only light coming from the quickly fading headlights of the dead and pilotless bus behind me.  As I try to calculate the walk into town, I hear the putter of a small engine coming up the road and turn to see a small motorcycle crest the hill.

The driver pulls over and says “get on.”  The bike is a tiny 150 cc motor and the guy is half the size of my big backpack.  With no other option, despite hearing the loudly disapproving voice of my mother in my head, I sit behind him but on the luggage rack since my small backpack is slung in front of me.

Wasting no time, the driver lurches forward toward the road and I nearly topple off the back.  Gripping the seat with everything I’ve got, we speed down the wet tarmac, guided only be the tiny headlamp.  I shout over the motor that I’m not in a hurry and that he can go slow, but since he’s wearing the sole helmet, I don’t think he hears me or just chooses to ignore my pleas.

Racing down the road toward Mwanza at midnight on the slick road, passing over speed bumps without regard, a giant backpack and no helmet, I begin to imagine my the headline announcing my death:  “Idiot dies in obviously stupid accident”.

As we approach Mwanza, the lights in the valley below on the shores of Lake Victoria rise to meet us.  We ease into the silent and empty streets at the center of town and I tap the driver to let me off, feeling as though I have pushed my luck far enough for one day.

In celebration of my surviving another long journey, I splurge on a room at the best hotel in town.  The $80 a night room is about four times my usual budget, but I am thankful for the hot shower and crisp sheets.

As I drift off, I can’t help but wonder about the old man and where he’s sleeping that night or if he realizes how much of am impression he left on me with his simple act of common humanity that is far too uncommon.   Sometimes inspiration finds us in unexpected places.


P.S. – the groundnuts tasted like shit.

UP NEXT:  Bribed Passage on a Cargo Ship from Mwanza to Entebbe, Uganda

20 Minutes of Terror and My Enduring Racism

With only one week to go before touching down back home in New York City, I had the scariest 20 minutes of my entire 4 month-plus trek in Africa.

On Friday, I traveled by train to Mombassa, arriving at 10am after a 12 hour train ride from Nairobi.  One of my fellow train travelers was a 21-year-old Kenyan student from the University of Nairobi whom I met at dinner in the cafe car.  We talked about the upcoming elections in the U.S. and in Kenya, Kenya's different tribes, university education, the economy, etc.

The next day, we decide to share a tuk-tuk to the ferry on the other side of town which brings you one step closer to Diani Beach.  Half way to the ferry, she realizes she left her phone in her cabin on the train. I go back with her, but the train is deserted and the phone nowhere to be found.  We check with the station master, train police, even go to the hotel where the train cleaning crew is staying so we could ask about the missing phone. The girl is outright distraught at this point so the staff suggests we check the dirty linens from the train.

Back on the train parked at the station, several staff start helping us go through dirty sheets until I think to call her number. Thankfully, from within the pile of untouched laundry emerged a muffled ring.  Ecstatic, the girl thanked everyone and went on her way, reunited with her phone.

On the ferry from Mombassa, which is an island and similar to Manhattan in that regard although much smaller, I run into the girl again and she helps guide me to the matatus (small vans) going south towards Diani Beach.  She happens to be staying at a place not far from mine.  With her help, I take 2 different matatus and end up right in front of my hotel.

Quiet, white sand, warm water and nice waves.  After a couple of lazy days on the beach, I start the multi-matatu ride north back to Mombassa.  As usual, I am jammed into these things by a human shoehorn and need to be subsequently extracted by similar means.

Night has fallen by the time I reach the ferry back to Mombassa.  It's a basic boat with open ramps at each end.  Only about a 10 minute ride across the channel, it is usually filled with vehicles and people mixed together.  At the front of the ferry, I see the young woman from the train.  We chat about the weekend, the weather and the waves.  The ferry was nearly empty except for a few cars, a truck and a couple hundred people.

As we approached the dock in Mombassa, we see and hear a commotion on shore.  In the midst of a growing swarm of shouting and whistling, people began appearing from seemingly everywhere on the side we are approaching and making their way towards the dock.  The sun has set and the dock is not well lit but you could easily see wave upon wave of crowds surging towards us.

The woman's immediate reaction was that it was some kind of protest given how they were shouting and moving so aggressively and organized toward the ferry.  In my mind, as I watch the entire space between the front edge of the boat about to make landfall and all of the ground I could see on the receiving side fill with people, I remember all of the warnings about foreigners being caught up in protests and demonstrations as foreigners may be seen as a threat or source of provocation.  The danger is very basic - in a sea of local discontent, you are the sole item that does not belong and you are completely powerless and at the mercy of the mob.  Were they just upset because they had been waiting a long time to board or is this a protest using one of the city's most important, visible and frequently used public transportation assets to make a point.

The shouting and hollering increase as the first people among the crowd reach the edge of the water just in front of where the ferry is about to land. The comparatively tiny number of people, like me and the young woman, wanting to get off the boat are looking around nervously, wondering how to physically get through wall after wall of people hell-bent on moving rapidly in the opposite direction.  For the locals getting off, worst case is they get jostled and snarled at and maybe pick pocketted, but for me the risk is a different one.  As the lone white face carrying a large backpack and a smaller one, I am super-sized, totally encumbered with gear, and am about to go head on into a very large, and aggressively impatient crowd at night.

The young student suddenly starts getting visibly panicked and says she's worried about being groped and physically accosted while trying to make  her way through the unrelenting crowd of predominantly men.  Not knowing the intent of the crowd, I decide not to risk wading into the middle of it and trying to get off the ferry.   I can't go back or to some other place on the ferry for refuge because there is none, and very shortly every available inch of space is about to be filled with people.  Not sure what to do and just before my own panic sets in, one last look at the unrelenting waves of humanity marching down the narrow passage to the now filled ramp, I turned and saw a large truck parked on the ferry waiting to drive off of it.

Only the driver was in the cab. "Brother," I shouted up to the driver, "can you let us in" as I point to the young girl.  "We have money." The driver looked at me and her and back at the massive crowd and nodded agreement. I threw my bags up onto the seat and when I turned to reach for the girl, another nervous passenger also wanting to get off the ferry leapt up into the small cab of the truck.  I jump in behind him as the boat ramp reaches the dock with a loud screech of metal on concrete and people start pouring onto the boat.

Just as the first surge of people reaches the front of the truck I reach down and pull the mercifully light woman up into the cab and shut and lock the door. A split second later the entire vehicle is swallowed up by people on all sides and the ferry itself looks like a hollow log now completely overrun with teeming ants.

Safely crammed in the cab, it is eerily quiet among the 4 passengers:  a career road man who keeps muttering "this is not good" over and over; the Kenyan businessman who is sweating bullets staring out the window trying (and failing) to say nonchalantly "that's A LOT of people;" Me, trying to hide my white face from the thousands of angry eyes intently peering into the truck as they pass by, and the young woman who is simply petrified to the point her only movement is uncontrollable shaking.

We spend several minutes in the truck just gazing in amazement and fear at the sheer number of people who just keep coming. Once we were completely surrounded, we experienced a sort of collective calm as we realized the worst would not occur and that the aggression we sensed heading towards us was based on the concerted frustration of thousands of weary passengers at end of a long wait for the ferry.  As it filled up, the rush to board subsided to a trickle, and then people spontaneously parted in front of us and the large truck gingerly descended the ramp on to the dock.  Once clear of straggler passengers heading for the ferry, the driver raced the engine and sped us all out of the port area and into the clear.

Once out of the port and far from its chaos, I climbed down from the truck with my things and happily volunteered 200 schillings to the truck driver for his kindness.  I shut the cab door behind me and the young student rolls down the window and says "asante sana" - thank you very much in Kiswahili - and the truck drives off into city traffic.

Epilogue:

I first wrote this shortly after it happened as a sort of self therapy because I was fairly freaked out by it.  The following day while in a meeting with a Kenyan businessman, I shared the story with him.  He listened patiently and at the end he said that although he understood my trepidation in that moment, that Kenyans would sooner put themselves between violence and a stranger than to do them random harm.  Indeed, having met so many kind and warm Kenyans these last weeks and having no evidence to the contrary, I feel ashamed that I panicked the way I did, and wonder if over these last months I have learned anything at all.  Racism can be subtle, embedded, and unintentional.

The Knight Riders

The long and lonely ride in the dead of night through the heart of nothingness. 

Pitch black save for a sliver of moon and man made fires to keep sad people warm.

A worn and rutted road, shattering serenity through the clatter of metal and glass as we groan onward like enfeebled and bitter old men.
 
The night reveals nothing but its cold emptiness in the search for just a glimmer of familiarity.

But distant, tiny stars in the sea of dark sky shine our way home.

Part 4: The Long, Long Bus Trip

Lusaka to Dar es Salaam

The Gentle Giant

When I look up and see my seatmate for the 40-hour ride from Lusaka, Zambia to Dar es Salaam, my heart sinks because it is a young man the size of famous National Basketball Association star Shaquille O’Neill.

I curse my luck given that the seats on these buses are already built for passengers averaging a much smaller size than me much less the giant to my right.  In a flash I imagine the endless hours of road travel squished into my seat between the window and this mammoth of a fellow.

“Hey man,” he says as soon as he sits down, his massive hand outstretched to shake mine and a big grin on his face.  We shook, my hand dwarfed by his, and I immediately breath a sigh of relief.  “Shaq”, as I am privately referring to him, is clearly an extraordinarily warm individual and within a few minutes, I am struck by his intelligence and command of a range of complex issues related to development, economics, and politics.

It doesn’t take long before we’re laughing and joking and carrying on like old friends.  Granted, many of the people I’ve met along the way have been friendly and outgoing, but Shaq was an exception because of how well we seem to connect.  Over the course of our trip, I learned a great deal from him including that his real name is Kuda. 

Shaq attack

----

One of the more interesting things Kuda shares with me is how he and his fellow Zimbabweans struggle to make a living.  Although he is a well-educated and very bright guy with experience working for the UN and in other professional jobs, he makes the long, long, LONG trek from Harare to Dar es Salaam on a monthly basis in order to make a few extra dollars as a trader.

Out of all of the roughly 60 passengers on the bus, not only am I the only mzungu (white man), as usual, I am virtually the only one who is just a passenger and not a trader.  Most of the others have already been on the bus since Harare (I got on in Lusaka, which is a 12 hour ride north of Harare, Zimbabwe), and are going to Dar es Salaam in order to buy goods, import them back into Zimbabwe and sell them on the black market.

The bus is tall and has a very large space underneath the seating for cargo.  The hold has been completely hollowed out in order to make as much room as possible for hard goods. Kuda explains how people make the 60-hour bus ride – with only brief stops along the way – in order to buy a variety of goods in Dar es Salaam and bring them back across 3 borders and sell them back at home.

Fellow passengers/survivors

The only way this makes economic sense is that the goods being imported are smuggled over multiple borders to avoid paying import duties.  The profit margin for these traders is based on 1) the comparative strength of the US dollar in Tanzania (Zimbabwe is a dollarized economy), 2) the avoidance of duties at the borders, 3) and the sale of the goods back in Zimbabwe on the street corner or out of their homes where they can avoid sales taxes and other overhead.

Chickens ride underneath

When the traders arrive in Dar es Salaam, they have about 24 hours to shop for the goods they are going to bring back into Zimbabwe (the bus parks and waits a day to return).  Upon arriving back at the bus, the bus company determines the value of their goods and charges each trader a fee for transporting and smuggling them back into Zimbabwe.  This fee includes the cost of bribing the litany of border officials, traffic police, weigh station managers and anyone else along the way.

Lonely road

In addition to the cost of the goods and the smuggling fees to the bus company, the traders have to factor in the cost of their seat, one night in a hotel in Dar es Salaam, and food and drink along the way.  After all the costs are calculated, the profit margin is very small, and the toll it takes on the body, mind and spirit to spend 120 hours on a bus over only 6 days is intense.

Not that it was needed, but I have yet another reminder of how hard life still is for so many people here, including those who are smart, educated and hard working.

Bus interior

Still Life in Rapid Motion

The bus lumbers, sometimes careening, along the thin two-lane road, overtaking all manner of traffic from massive trucks hauling earth moving equipment, to the small 150cc motorcycle with a family of three on board.  Although the roads are shared by man, vehicle and beast alike, the huge bus rarely slows down in a relentless drive northward.  Time is money.

The very long road

Its such a long ride that there are actually 3 different drivers who rotate every 6 or 7 hours.  There’s also a cargo manager, 2 mechanics, and 1 guy handling the bribes.  Every seat on the bus generates revenue, so the staff sit on sacks of rice in the aisle or on a thin mat on the floor up front near the driver or on the hard stairs at the exit or, in one guy’s case, just standing for hours upon hours.

Every 30 miles or so, there is some kind of required stop.  It’s either a traffic officer who is supposed to verify the vehicle has the proper paperwork and that it’s road worthy.  The stop consists of an officer clad in fresh white uniform sitting under a tree waving down the driver.  The bus slows to a slow roll and one of the bus workers jumps out while it’s still moving to hand the officer a few bucks and then jump back on the bus that never came to a full stop.

It’s nice the bus wants to get where it’s going quickly, but then I wonder what the bus guys are trying to hide by bribing the people who are, in theory, entrusted with ensuring the safety of road travelers.

Fresh fruit 

At one weigh station stop, dozens of people coming running up to the side of the bus to sell drinks, snacks, belts, watches, loaves of bread, pre-paid cell phone cards, etc.  This is usual at most stops frequented by buses.  At this one, most of the vendors are children who have a strong reaction to the mzungu.  I chat with a few of them from the window and I try to negotiate to buy some popcorn and a picture.  After a little haggling, the boy agrees.  I hand down my money and he gives me the popcorn, but instantly turns and runs of so I can’t get a picture even though that was included in the price.  I shout after him and he simply turns and expertly gives me the finger.  Nice to see some useful gestures have made there way to youth of rural Tanzania.

Saleswoman

Dinner and a Movie

Night falls.  It is striking how dark it is outside.  There are no streetlights or lights in the small clusters of tiny mud hut and thatched roof homes a short distance from the side of the road.  Nothing at all other than the occasional cooking fire.  Every once in a while we would drive by a fire along the roadside that somehow got out of control.  You could feel the heat from it through the window as we speed past.

Fire

After 12 hours, the bus stops at an outpost in the middle of nowhere.  We are truly off the grid in the rural and desolate area a few hours south of the Tanzanian border with Zambia.  The bus refuels and everyone gets off to find food in the dozen or so stalls and shops.  Bustling with riders of a few different buses, a couple hundred people jostle in the dimly lit area to find something appealing before being hurried back onto the bus.

Pit stop

Twenty minutes later, we are on the road again.  As people eat, the bus manager turns on the huge TV at the front.  As the opening credits of the movie start up, I pray to myself that it is anything but a Nigerian film, which are just uniformly awful.  Fail.

The movie is indeed Nigerian, which means it has a painfully low quality in every respect, lots of scream crying, long scenes of people looking menacing into the camera, a horrible electronic music soundtrack, and over-the-top drama.

I wish I could recap the ridiculousness of the characters and the intertwined multi-faceted love pentagons involving a wide-array of relatives, friends, and household employees.  I also wish I could say that I didn’t become completely glued to it after about 30 minutes like a car crash.

The film was SO ridiculous, that the entire bus would often erupt in loud and boisterous laughter when characters were at their most dramatic and serious.  Nice to know I was not alone in seeing how crazy the whole premise was.  But when the DVD froze halfway through the movie, there was a collective shout of disappointment from the bus and calls for the bus manager to get it fixed so we could see how it all turned out.  Luckily it eventually started up again, but after watching it my brain felt like your stomach does after eating at McDonald’s.

Human Body Pillow

The movie has ended and most passengers are asleep including Kuda who has virtually collapsed onto me like a tree being blow down onto the roof of a small house.  I jam my elbow into his side and he just grunts and occasionally says groggily, “sorry bro” and shifts a fraction of and inch and then ends up back where he was.  I give up.

Shaq asleep

Just when I thought the ride couldn’t get worse, the blacktop disappears and turns into a deeply rutted dirt road.  Amazingly, Kuda doesn’t wake up despite the bone shattering bumping and clattering of the bus as it passes over this seemingly endless stretch. 

Having given up on sleep, I am thankful for the Kindle, glowing in the dark and distracting me from the ride.  Adding to the struggle is the conflict between the terrible smell inside the bus, and opening the bus window and subjecting myself to the very cold night air.

To top it off, as I rest my head on the windowpane, the light from the Kindle illuminates a cockroach heading towards me.  Adding to my dread is the fact that I am pinned between the window and Shaq who is fast asleep and hopefully dreaming of large women (another Fanta for the person who knows that reference).

Into Tanzania

20 hours in and 20 to go 

We arrive at the border at around 4AM.  It doesn’t open until 7AM, so we just have to sit and wait in the cold.  Once we can pass through on foot, we go through immigration and Kuda takes me to a small restaurant on the Tanzanian side for breakfast.  The border stop takes hours as the bus manager negotiates passage for the smuggled goods underneath.

While we’re waiting, I talk with the other passengers.  I learn that everyone calls me “Mr. White”, albeit with some affection and disbelief.  In addition to my skin color (or lack thereof), my fellow passengers are incredulous when I tell them I am not married.  My status as an oddity increases dramatically. 

Hams

After another day filled with endless traffic stops/bribes, warm Fantas, hours of Kindle reading, and Kuda crushing me, we enter our second night on the bus.  At one point, we pull over and stop when the driver sees that a bus broken down on the side of the road is one of the other buses from his company.

Twin Towers

It is around 10pm, very dark and cold, and the driver and mechanics from the other bus are huddled around a small fire to stay warm.  All of the passengers have already been gradually picked up by various passing vans.  The crew from the broken bus has no food and expect to be waiting for days in the middle of nowhere until a new part to fix the bus arrives.

Tron Bus

A couple of them board our crammed bus to ride with us the rest of the way to Dar es Salaam and get the part they need.  Others remain behind to stand guard.  We gather up food from passengers on our bus and leave it with them.  After a few minutes, we continue on.

Dar es Salaam at Last

The bus pulls into the city at around 2AM.  We exit stiff, grumpy and tired.  I go with Kuda and two others to a nearby hotel to crash for the night.  The only way to describe my hotel room is to picture the move “Being John Malkovich” and the office where John Cusack’s character worked.  It was half a floor in a building where you couldn’t stand upright the ceiling was so low.  My room was truly a closet with a bed in it.  At this point, it hardly mattered and I collapsed into bed.

Yah, whatever

The next morning – only a few hours later – Kuda and two of the other traders are up and already heading out to shop for the goods they plan to bring back and sell in Zimbabwe.  I wander with them through streets looking at things to buy when a team of pickpockets try to steal my wallet.  A haggard mzungu laden with two backpacks is an easy and obvious target.

I say goodbye to Kuda, hopeful our paths will cross again, somehow, somewhere, someday.  I will miss talking about the economics of smuggling, Bob the A-hole president of his country, horrible Nigerian movies, and arguing with him about chalupas at 1:30 in the morning.

Kuda said one thing in particular during our many hours of conversation that will stay with me.  We were sharing our personal stories and lamenting our failures and regrets.  I asked him, with an element of self-interest in answering the question for myself, how he manages a hard life fraught with so many challenges and disappointments.  After a pause he said: “we are all soldiers.  We get back up again.”

Well said, Shaq.   Godspeed.

Part 3: Lusaka, Zambia

Harare to Lusaka

It’s 5AM and the Harare bus terminal is fairly active, but lacking the usual level of freneticism that seems omnipresent in the transport hubs I’ve been through.  It’s somewhat subdued, probably because of the early hour and the fact it’s uncharacteristically cold. 

After about an hour, reading my book and sipping on the gloriously hot Nescafe (instant coffee), its time to board the bus to Lusaka.  It resembles a Greyhound.  Tall, two rows of two-by-two seating, with a large space for luggage storage underneath. 

I hand over my ticket and place my backpack underneath, remembering all the tales about luggage disappearing the moment you take your eyes off of it.  Comforted upon seeing it shoved behind a crate of sugar packets and evaporated milk, I climb aboard.

Harare Bus Terminal

When I bought my ticket the day before, I strategically pre-selected a middle seat in the very last row of the bus in order to maximize my chances for legroom.  Fail. 

By now I should know that any mode of transport is going to be jammed well beyond normal limits.  This bus was to be no exception.  There are 30 rows of seats four across and the row in the very back, which is six across equaling 126 seats.  By the time we set off there are roughly 150 people, 7 of whom are sharing the back row with me in the middle.

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Being the only mzungu (white person) often has some advantages.  After a short while and a lot of curious looks, people tend to ignore you.  At first it’s slightly off-putting because you can sense how out of place you are, but as soon as you start to engage someone, the floodgates are opened.  It is then you that you appreciate the ubiquitous warmth and friendliness for which most Africans are well known.

I’m sitting next to a young fellow from Zambia.  After a few days of holiday in Harare, he’s heading home to his wife and child.  He works in one of the Chinese copper mines.  To my right are two brothers.  One of whom is mentally challenged and clings to his brother.  In front of me is a mother of 5 children who is going to Lusaka to buy dresses and women’s clothes to bring back to Harare and sell.

We chat throughout the trip.  Some people sleep or look at the window.  As we roll by stunning, expansive green and fertile fields, I am reminded of how Zimbabwe was once the jewel of Africa’s agricultural crown.  After Bob took over, productivity cratered and the country’s endless fields remain uncultivated and overgrown with weeds.  In a few short years, the country went from providing food to the nations of Africa and far beyond to becoming a net importer while once productive fields remain dormant. (See previous post regarding Bob and my invitation for his lips to embrace the naked backside of my swimsuit area.)

After a few hours people start snacking on whatever they brought with them, universally offering what they have to one another including me and then staring wide-eyed to gauge my reaction.

The young miner to my left sitting next to the window buys a small bag of what look like tiny apples – each no bigger than a pea – from a vendor outside the bus when we stopped at an intersection.  He offers me one and as I try it I notice out of the corner of my eye everyone around me watching.  “It’s good,” I say as I struggle to hold back the intense urge to pucker my face because of how tart it is.  “Have some more,” he says, and not wanting to be rude I take a small handful.  I regret I had nothing to contribute but, honestly, I’m pretty sure they didn’t even take notice or care.

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At the Zimbabwean border with Zambia (they call it the “Zim-Zam”), we have to all disembark and go through a customs check and an immigration line.  Virtually all such African borders still involve a dizzying amount of paper.  Throughout the border hall it’s a chorus of stamping of ink blotters, passports and forms in triplicate.  If a fee is to be paid, as in my case, the border agent has to write out two separate receipts by hand.

Once we’d all weaved our way down through the twisted bowels of the Triplicatous Stampasorous and came out the other end, we re-boarded the bus.  As I settle into my seat, one of the guys who had been next to me that I’d spent a fair amount of time talking to gets my attention from outside the bus.  He’s not continuing on to Lusaka.  Suddenly he hands up an ice cold Sprite toward the window and I politely decline.  “It’s a gift,” he says, smiling.  “Thank you for coming to Africa.”  I take it and thank him.  The bus pulls away and he waves goodbye.

A few hours later and we are at the outskirts of Lusaka.  One of the first things to catch my eye is the massive “Great Wall of China Casino” on the edge of town.  The sign is in Chinese first and English second.  Not surprising given how deeply vested China is, and has been, in Zambia’s mining sector.  As we go deeper into the city, there are signs of Chinese culture everywhere including restaurants, hotels catering to Chinese visitors, and even Chinese herbal health stores.

By the time we pull into the Lusaka bus terminal, dusk is settling on the city.  Mercifully, I find my bag right where I left it underneath the bus.  I chose a cab driver among the two dozen shouting for my attention, and we head off towards the other side of town.

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Once again, I have not pre-arranged accommodation, so I ask the driver to take me to a backpackers place near town.  Lusaka is just a stopover on my way to Tanzania, so all I need is a shower, a good meal and a night’s rest before getting back on the road.

We go to a couple of places but they are full for the night.  The one I settle on has no more single rooms, but they have plenty of space in the 10-bed dorm.  Fine.  I am beyond the point of being choosy.

Kitchen

The dorm is one large room with 10 bunk beds around its periphery.  There are only a couple of people in it.  The bathroom is outside and across the courtyard.  I take a cold shower in a small room like a closet.  Luckily I packed a shammy since accommodations here don’t come with a towel.

It’s chilly so I dress warm and go to the little restaurant on the compound for dinner.  A number of local dishes are laid out in warming pans.  I am drawn to a large pan of green cylindrical things that look like pasta and smell delicious.  The chef tells me its chiloli – fried grubs.  I consider it for a moment only because I hear my stepbrother Kip’s voice in my head saying, “Do it.  Do it. DO it.”  But I have the fish instead (sorry Spaz), which was amazing.

Snapper

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I manage to sleep fairly well in the dorm.  The next morning a cab takes me back to Lusaka bus terminal.  I have some time to wait for the bus to Dar es Salaam, so the cab driver and I sit and have coffee and talk.  When we’re seated, I ask him why the coffee vendor and all of the other customers were laughing at me and he said it’s because I don’t take sugar with my coffee.  Tough crowd.

The terminal takes chaotic to a new level.  It’s broad daylight but it’s still very unsafe.  Between the swarm of vehicles moving in and out and throngs of people, theft is common and violence frequently breaks out between rival bus companies jockeying for customers.

Before the cabbie leave, he deposits me with the employees from the bus company I am supposed to be on.  They are waiting at the empty bay for the bus to arrive so they can unload and reload it with cargo.  They give me a small wooden bench to sit on with them as I sip my coffee and observe the goings on at the terminal.

Waiting

 After watching and chatting with the guys for about an hour, the terminal’s hierarchy emerges.  Different regional bus companies idle nearby, waiting to be filled up with passengers before they depart.  The longer it takes to fill-up, the longer they wait, and the less money they make.  Therefore, with many different buses, competition is fierce. 

Lusaka Bus Terminal

Young guys who get a commission for each passenger they get on a bus aggressively go after customers.  I saw several fights break out between rival companies, each claiming dominion over the other's passenger. On more than one occasion, I saw the pool of bus guys rush a smaller, weaker guy and literally push him kicking-and-screaming onto a bus.  Apparently, as soon as they know what direction you’re headed and they think you can be over-powered, you’re getting on the bus they want you to be on.  But when a prospective passenger shows up with a load of cargo, that’s when things just get ugly.

An older woman pulled up in a taxi and had a porter from the terminal take her sack of rice out of the trunk. They were walking toward the regional buses and the bus company guys jumped on the porter forcing him to drop the sack of rice.  They then dragged the sack and put it under their bus, essentially giving the old woman no choice but to buy passage on their bus.  She resists, but as the men crowd around, they force her onto the bus and finally she acquiesced.  And the porter, the lowest rung in the terminal hierarchy, never got paid for his troubles.

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My bus finally pulls in and the flurry of activity begins.  Haggard passengers descend from the two-story bus, stringy porters fight to unload the cache of cargo from underneath, and food vendors rush in to sell to the tired and hungry. 

Saddle up

The cargo bay resembles the aisles of a warehouse store with huge pallets of everything from coffee, sugar, milk, Fanta (nice), truck tires, generators, diapers, etc.  I come to learn that it’s the cargo that earns the bus company more money per trip than the passengers, but more on that later.

I pre-purchased my ticket and this time I picked one near the front by a window.  I ascend the stairs to the second level to stake my claim.  The seat is not at the very front near the driver, but is the first seat near the bus stairwell.

After about 90 minutes, the bus is re-loaded and ready to start the 1,500 miles toward Dar es Salaam.  It’s estimated to take 40 hours with no stops other than for the essentials.   My confidence in my ability to handle almost anything is rapidly receding as I contemplate just how long that is.

In my seat ready to endure the long ride, my steadily increasing trepidation turns into pure dread as soon as my seatmate arrives.  One look and I can only think that karma has dealt me a serious blow.

NEXT POST:  Forty Hours to Dar es Salaam