First impression of Tanzania

From Bangwuelu swamps (previous blog) we have been traveling via a few stunning waterfalls in northern Zambia out into Tanzania. It is my first time, but August's second.

It doesn't seem possible that a national border could have such an acute influence on the culture. But so it seemed to me, for when we crossed from Zambia into Tanzania, everything changed abruptly. Perhaps I had just grown used to Zambia. The rush of nostalgia that hit me there is hard to discribe -  I had only been in East Africa once, Uganda, and that for four months in 2013. But there was something familiar about Tanzania now that felt different than anything else on the trip before. I think for both of us the crossing into Tanzania seem significant. Some of August's Swahili came back to him (mambo, njuri, keshwahiri, asante), from when he travelled here with his bicycle in 2012. His fondness for the landscape and people is evident in his eyes. Driving from the border post into the rural landscape, he told me for the first time of the police officer in Tanzania who bought him a cold drink. "Yes, he asked about my trip, told me to follow him (which I did nervously) and then he bought me a coke. The Tanzanians are super friendly." That incident, I thought afterwards, perhaps so singular among other stories about officials in Africa, will remind me of the exceptions that always break the rule.

The landscape has also changed. We noticed a slight change in gradient and the hint of rolling hills in the north of Zambia, but it was nothing like after the border, when suddenly we were surrounded by mountains, high forested hills, houses and plantations, in my mind heaving up-and-down like on an undulating ocean. Suddenly there were layers in the landscape (to my painter's eye), not just the immediate 10m radius in so much of the South. Is this the start of the great rift valley? I asked, awed. Even the plants, as if inspired by the lively red soil beneath it, burst with more energy.

While waiting in the car queue for fuel after the border, the smell of rice mix with that of exhaust fumes, grinded metal, tar and of humanity everywhere. Rice! Spiced rich. And just as I realised it's lunch time, the call of the Imam begin sounding for prayers. And I see long white tunics (for moslem men) at a street vendor, and women wearing full body covering (burka or chador). There are bright red tuk-tuks burring past us, and trucks and busses, and the streets are more frantic than any we've seen on the trip so far. It must be what India must feel like. A woman with a plastic basin full of grapes walked past, the first grapes I had seen in months, and then another with oranges. There are kids with buckets of sugar cane on their heads, and parked motorcycles glistening in the sunshine. A man with 10 trays of 24 eggs each on his head hurry past the car. Schoolgirls wear ankle long dark blue skirts. The sensory overload, like in my Kampala days, is overwhelming.

I try to hide in the car from it all, but later join August at a mpesa booth (mobile money transfer point), tucked between 5 other small vendors and pavement stalls. We have to pay there for the comesa insurance a few offices down the road. Behind the sooty glass is a girl, about my height, wearing hijab, busy handling a card machine in one hand and dealing out cash with the other. There seems to be four transactions happening at once, dark hands reaching into the glass from behind us, some changing dollars for shillings, others making card payments and some counting greasy bank notes. I am reminded briefly of childhood church basaar paper money - the shillings feel so numerous (R100 equals TSH15,000). The girl catches my eye and steals me a small, but earnest smile. I feel drawn into her life, exchanging places for a brief moment and wondering at her. Swamped by the grasping hands of the shopkeepers and agents, hustlers and endless transactions, while young as she it, she seems to keep it all together, calmly. How strange life is - I tell myself. Her normal life, her reality, so extravagant in my eyes.

We have a few bucket list items for Tanzania, the obvious being serengeti and zanzibar, but the hours and hours spent in 'getting there' (the daily grind as August calls it) is just as much part of the trip. The slowness of the journey is something we both value. It is full moon now (our tent has mesh in the roof) and last night I asked whether we really were just at Vic falls the previous full moon - it feels like a lifetime ago. We don't want this kind of slow but rich experience to end. If we find out how, we'll let you know. For now we'll just savour the beans-and-rice and the brightness of fanta and plastic chairs and tables.

Shoebill tracking on election day

It was an interesting drive to Bangwuelu. The gatekeeper is formal at first. He ushers us into his small office. I notice that there is a blanket and makeshift pillow crammed in on the sement floor, the pillow is a folded sail or canvas. He takes out a white mask with chinese brand name on it, and I ask if we should wear ours too. He says, if possible, yes. Apart from a desk there is a small empty book case and I note a toothbrush and a bar of soap on the bottom shelf. He writes with a hard grip, like someone who learned to write later in life. He starts smiling when he hears August's name. Fills in the two reciepts, identical, one for the conservation levy and one for the vehicle. On both he writes out three hundred and fourty kwacha in full, then writes his name beneath it and makes a calligraphic signature next to it. I wonder about his age and notice that there are small grey hairs in his eyebrows. He has a warm smile. While filling in our forms he tells us that the previous visitors were very happy and saw the shoebill. Happy in this instance means lucky. He hopes we will be happy also, and that we wil feel very welcome at bangwuelu and that we will experience all we expected. We pay a lot of money to be here, he says, gesturing to the bank notes on the table, so he hopes and prays we will be rewarded. After finishing and stapling together the two receipts, he stands cordially and walks us to the car. By now, our exchanging smiles have made him at ease and less formal. He sends us off warmly, saying we will be in his prayers tonight, and that God will bless our stay. After opening the gates, he comes back hesitantly. Mr Augustine, is there perhaps space for one person. And luggage. Yes we can offer someone a lift. Two ladies, one with a small baby, approaches from under a tree a few meters away. August and the elderly gatekeeper lift the big white bag of maize onto the back seat, and I shuffle around all our stuff, damp clothes, sweets packets, a coffee flask and two towels, to make space for the ladies. Finally on our way, the gatekeeper says through my window, these women don't know this grammar. But they will signal us when we reach the place they need to get off. Language can be a problem, I say-ask warmly. He once again blesses us earnestly, his eyes shining, his voice almost choking up. Thank you for assisting us in this way, he says.

The way to the village is long, about 35km of road heavily potholed and we average a mere 40km/h. The ladies are quiet, and apart from quickly looking back, crooning at the baby once and making eye contact with the adults, I dont attempt any conversation. Instead we turn the music up loudly, and hope the ride wont be too awkward. Its funny how your playlist sounds different when hearing it through someone else's ears. Almost an hour later, nearly missing the turn to the village, the women beat loudly on the centre console between the two front seats. We turn off towards another dirt road. In the nearby village the kids scream and wave excitedly at the vehicle, being used to foreigners. We wave back but I don't think the ladies do. One gets off earlier, her brown hand back falling in the dust as she climbs out with all her things. We say a brief goodbye with kids swamping the car, and the car wobbles further on the uneven road. The elder lady with the baby and the bag of maize sits patiently until we reach her place. There the car is immediately surrounded. A few youths help with the maize, and small kids ask for biscuits and sweets. One sprightly girl seems to have lipstick on, as well as a red blotch on her forehead. I wonder, strangely, if it is religious, since this is a Christian area. But I suspects its only from playing dress up, like little girls do. We wave our goodbyes and I catch the lady's eye as she dissapears between the other people.

We are close to the camp site now, and at another small settlement along the same road we stop uncertainly to look at a map, when a man with a blue shirt and only wearing a pair of boxers approaches the car. He seems embarrased but dignified, walking up to the passanger car window. Yes this is for the camping, he will meet us at the camp. My first impression is that he is less engaging than the gatekeeper, somewhat bothered by our presence. On the flat grassy plains we see his bicycle fom afar. He parks off to one side and stands waiting akwardly. When talking about the camp and the shoebill tracking, he is stiff and uninterested. I try and figure out why our interaction just an hour before seemed so easy compared to this gentleman. Perhaps it is because we decided to arrive just before election day, and presumably his day off.

This morning he isn't in a beter mood. Half past seven, after packing up the final coffee making things, we let him climbs with us in the car and we head into the endless stretch of flat yellow plains towards the river. A shallow wall appears in the nothingness before us, and August explains that this is built by the local fisherman to cordon off the fish. It resembles an empty rice paddy, or a small wall of china, or a chalky ridgeline in an english landscape. Later small huts appear on the flatness, abandoned makoros half filled with water, and other signs of human settlement. At one of these make shift villages we park the car, close now to the edge of the water. Our guide greets an elderly man and speaks to the gathering people in the local language. Curious children stand closer, and some mothers with babies on the hip. They children are quiet, not demanding sweets like those in the village. Instead their eyes follow us as we pack a few things for the trip and board the small, but larger than makoro size boat. It has seats and two men board with us to paddle the boat. I am secretly hoping this is where grumpy man leaves us, but he also boards the boats. 3 zambians to look for one bird, I think annoyed. I was hoping for more privacy.

Yet, as we glide through the papyrus and water lilies, morning sun baking off last nights cold, the freshness of green on the crystal clear water, I feel a deep sense of contentness. The grumpy guide starts pointing out birds, and I surmised that he acts as the bird guide, whereas the other two men only do the labour of pushing and navigating the boat, and also can't speak english. We see coucals (vleiloeries), large groups of egrets, weaver birds sitting on water lilies, and a harrier dark against the sky. It is perfectly tranquil and quiet, except for the rhythmic sound of the poles being dipped in the water, the scraping when we enter a narrow passageway or the talking of fishermen or young boys poling other boats around us. Throughout, I feel increasingly calm, happy and content, being on the water, being here on this trip, being next to august in the beautiful narrative of the past few months.

At a narrow reed passage, too narrow even for the skilled boatman, we stop and the two boaters get off on the floating reed islands. Unsure, I look at the guide who is taking off his socks. He tells us to wait in the boat for a while the others scout ahead. But just as he says it, the younger of the two boatman swings down suddenly on his haunches, gesturing wildly. I hear a clapping sound, not sure if he made it himself. His arms are signalling to keep quiet, and all three the men crouch low to hide in the dense reeds. I know that he has seen the bird, and my heart is pounding. The guide whispers for us to take off our shoes and follow him onto the swampy islet. The wet mottled grass is cold and gives way under my soft feet, but we go only 3 or four 4 meters from the boat when he signals and we see the shoebill on our right hand side. He is truly majestic. He stands dead quiet, his strange yellow eye fixed on us and his beak downwards. I cannot believe that such a bird really exists. From where were standing we can only see his head above the reeds. He doesnt seem to be frightened of us, and the guids cautiously leads us a bit further back so we can see more of the beautiful creature. Through binoculars his large, unusual beak and eye becomes even more strange and unsettling, and I wonder what those who saw him for the first time must have thought. I admire the respect the guide and boatman has for the creature, maybe they were told by the conservationists not to disturb it, or maybe they had an innate admiration for it already. But everyone is dead quiet and almost reverent.

When we finished watching it for a few minutes, taking some pictures with my hopelessly inadequate lens, we sneak back to the boat. The guide, translating for the boatman, asks whether we would like to approach it from a different channel and try to get another view. Yes, if it is possible, August answers kindly. And we get to see the stately shoebird even closer the second time. Rustling his feathers irritably, as if to say, thay is enough thank you, or I will fly away and then you will really be 'disturbing' me. We submit, dutifully, and the oarsman start pushing the boat back through the dense weeds and grass. You are very lucky, the guide later tells us, and I dont think he's merely saying it. It is only 09:30 in the morning, we've only been looking for an hour and a half. I think he had a good day too.

After the boat trip the long, bumpy road back to the main road follows and then to our next destination. The guide, now looking pleased and smiling a bit more, asks for a lift back to the village. Everywhere people are in the streets and on the road. Some sit in groups, others are on bicicles and others are walking. Those eyeing the cruiser first look at us, then at the older man in the back and many smile at us. The further we drive, the more we are taken in by the feeling of festivity in the air, the more we laugh at the noisy kids yelling 'how are yoooou!' And the excitement of voting day. And the longer we drive the more the small rift between us and the grumpy guide seems to dissapear. This is my house, he later points and laughs. And he talks through the car window to people we pass on the road, and he speaks to the children who asks for sweets and laughs with us about it. Now and then he shouts through the window jovially in the local language, and the only word in the tumbling sentences we understand is 'vote! Vote!'. Some people we pass make fist symbols in the air, smiling, and some of the young guys gesture their hands like a salute in the air, 'forward!' Forward! Our host exclaims Forward! back at them, his eyes alive now and joyful.

Finally dropping him off at the polling station queue, with some curious eyes glancing at us, I am almost breathless from all the excitement and laughing. First the amazing shoebill, then the festive air of election expectation. Okay, okay, bye, bye, we greet each other. He is open and friendly now, and Im thankful that the ice has melted. We greet some more and wave, trying to be off before people crowd the car, or before we feel awkward and too out of place.

It is almost dusk before we reach our next camp site, and I'm exhaused by the mental excitement of the day and the physical strain of the jarring dirt road, the slow moving traffic later on the tar and the sudden swerving on the highway for unexpected potholes or oncoming trucks. It has been a long but unforgettable day. Just before we left Bangwuelu reserve, we met up with the friendly gatekeeper again. Mr August, he greets us. Madam. We saw the shoebill, we exclaimed, and we are very happy. Then I am very happy, because you have enjoyed your stay at our park. And I want to thank you once again for the great service you did me yesterday, when you were transporting those ladies. God richly, richly bless you. Because I have seen, that you are open to everybody. God bless your journey. God bless you.

And I know that he will.

Malls, missing items and millions of churches

From the source we have been winding across the copperbelt region, mostly sticking to the main highways and its many slow moving freight trucks. Here the tarmac is way better, and there are plenty of fuel stops and towns. We even spotted a Woolworths in the mall at Kitwe, with a Spur and italian ice cream shop next door. Malls are definitely a thing in all the urban centres we've passed. Some towns, like Palapye, have 4 or more, all built in the last 5 years or so. They all look more or less exactly like those in SA, and are probably run by the same people.

I couldn't help wondering whether large franchises like Shoprite, bringing so much value to remote towns such as Kitwe and Solwezi with truckloads of produce from SA, also transports back all the plastic waste to somewhere it can be recycled or disposed of properly. I had hoped the system would leap-frog into the future (i.e. the past) where food stuff and other consumables are sold in their natural state without the need for single use packaging. Anyway, what do I know of these complex things. 

Everythere we go people have been really good to us, friendly and engaging, asking about South Africa and about our trip. To our shame the looting in SA has been in the local news and Zambians often curiously ask us how things are now and if they have calmed down. This was also the subject of a few jokes; a Zambian police official asking us with a chuckle if we didn't perhaps bring him a fridge or two from SA. 

Driving in a 4x4, although I love the trip, isn't an ideal way to get to know a place - we both think cycling, walking or backpacking is more synchronised to the pace of everyday life here. But at least the roads are staccato'd by veterinary checks, police checks and toll gates, so we frequently get the chance to say hi, how are you, and make some small talk, albeit only in a semi official way. One of the spin-offs of covid is that we're usually the only foreigners at any given place (except the PCR qeue, haha), so at restaurants, guesthouses and campsites it is mostly Zambians enjoying what the tourist scene has to offer. 

Althought we've been camping for almost 3 months, we still make rookie errors. Today we had another false start as we realised, after driving a while, that my phone was missing. We drove back to the camp site, searched the grass, and of course, eventually found the thing folded up in the roof tent. Despite our rigid system of packing this was the third time we 'lost' something up there, the other was a kindle and a coffee mug (both still fine thankfully!)

Yesterday we had another funny and fortunate false start when, stopping to check the tires, we noticed that the tire pressure monitor (an expensive little bluetooth device) on one of the wheels was missing. We drove the bumpy road back to camp and 20 min later, tail between our legs, started searching in the grassy camp grounds where we camped. The caretaker and few of the other locals immediately started helping, and eventually an elderly man, with one squint eye and very broken English, found the silly thing. 

But yes, we've never had issues with our equipment, apart from there being too much of it, and we giving half of it away en route. Sometimes we misplace things or forget to tie down the chairs so they come rattling down onto the passenger seats on a bumpy road. Usually, though, there is space for extra passengers, so now and then we give someone a lift. Having extra people in the car always triggers vivid memories of public transport  and long, dusty roads with bundles of onions, baskets of fish or a small baby wrapped in cloths. Even this last sentence reminds me how steeped I feel in the Biblical story whenever I'm traveling in Africa. Is it the millions of churches here? Or do I just feel part of a rural vernacular in which sowers, wise men, shepherds and priests aren't children book characters, but real life adults sweating and living their lives. I imagine that Simon Peter and Andrew must have owned Mokoros and that Mary was the young girl in the back of the car with her baby yesterday. All these biblical objects and persons are so much more alive here. Suffering, poverty, joy, so much more pronounced.

My ukulele, which August kindly consented to bring along despite its size, is still in one piece and is a great joy to me around the camp fire or during an idle hour or two. Our other most loved luxury items must be our kindles, our bialetti and our audio books (dankie oom Okkie). The daily ritual of setting up and breaking camp is now like second nature, although of course we get tired of it, and, admittedly, we've only done it in pretty good weather. I'm sure when we hit the torrents (and humidity) of the equator we'll do some proper 'character building' in this regard. 

It is also a real luxury to have contact with home, with whatsapp being cheap (10gig for about R70) And of course there are apps and GPS, and travel guides and medicine, making it all pretty comfortable. Traveling definitely isn't as hard core as it was in the past, but maybe someone will look back on our time and think the same.

To new friends along the way,

Y&A

Impressions of Zambia

We are in the North of Zambia, heading for the source of the Zambezi which borders the DRC. Drom there we will turn back, meandering across Zambia's kidney shape until we cross over to Tanzania in the North East, if all goes well.

Travelling the past week has been more strenuous than what we have encountered so far. Roads are badly potholed and allows for slow and jarring driving (we do a little victory dance every time we're able to switch to fifth gear, which isn't often.) It is also more common to stop for fuel only to be told there is no diesel, or to have your picnic lunch accompanied by inquisitive kids standing 10m off, watching you. Whereas in Botswana and Nam you usually had a choice of accommodation options, we've encountered very few camp sites; the little tourism that exists caters mostly for fly-in guests.

But driving off the beaten track is great and the kind of traveling we love. We're listening to an audio book about one man's motorcycle journey across the world, an inexperience brit who left London in 1973 and traveled for four years. Even just the first chapter resonates so deeply with me, with a little rueful laughing at how he describes his misadventures of course, but especially when he says "I was alive to every nuance". Maybe that's why traveling makes us feel alive.

A wagon drawn by two oxen, flashing past you as you drive; a kid with a bottle-wheeled 'draadkar' with little election flag on top; a man in a black suit facing another, holding arms, praying; huge white bags of maize pushed on bicycles; a figure pounding mud into a mould at a brickmaking yard. Our fleeting impression of the landscape so swift and superficial, so easily entitled to speculation, so fast to judge and analyse. So I try to just be 'awake' and to let the journey change me in that intangible way taveling so often does.

I think we saw more people in the town of Solwezi than in the whole of Namibia and Botswana combined. People everywhere, markets, phone booths, spazas, taxis, children, buying, selling, walking, music, megaphones and rally music, carpenters and bike mechanics. Today is Sunday and the first of August (!). Today we plan to go camp at the source of the Zambezi, which will probably not be anything glamorous, but they say there are beautiful trees. The rainforests are waiting!

Wish us luck with the potholes, and go check out the happy photographs I was able to take of a leopard in Kafue National Park.

Regards from East Africa

Y&A

PS Victoria falls is really special, especially being able to experience it first at sunset, and then with ful moon and a 'lunar rainbow'. We also had a bit of a mud incident at Busanga plains, lol. But Zambia is great so far