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.