Western Tanzania

So, of course, in keeping with the folly of my exit from Burundi, I add to it by screwing my Tanzania entrance as well.

On hitting the tarmac you rise up a gentle banking turn until a low concrete building is on the right, then a clear ahead stretch is seen of wonderful new road to a roundabout a few hundred metres ahead. On passing I note the building is for the Police, who have stopped a local minibus on the side of the road and are giving the driver the customary hassles; but I pass unheralded.

It’s only once I’ve gone almost as far as the roundabout – in fact T4A is announcing my upcoming right turn – when I am pulled over by a (civilian) car carrying two uniforms. I have crossed the border I am informed. Where? Back there he says, gesturing to whence I came. I say I saw no border but a police stop only and he admits that because of the new road being constructed “we all must share now” and Immigration is in with Police, while Customs is across the road “in a shed.” I follow them back and, while being duly processed for 30 USD Transit Visa (14 days) and road tax, all is great laughs all round at the affair. At Customs – again no sign it is Customs – I must hang about for a bit as no one is to be found there (nor anyone to ask where anyone might be found ...) but after some 10 minutes of walking in circles I am greeted by a man shuffling out of one of the surrounding buildings, slowly tucking his shirt in, snuffling, coughing and generally moving about in a manner that displays a whole lot about his napping, but very little professional motivation. But border #27 has now, officially, been crossed.

And so to Jakobsen’s Beach in Kigoma, on the shores of Lake Tanganyika (and dead in line with where the border with Burundi should, logically, be as it appears on the map). I learn from ‘Jakobsen’ – I never do get his given name – that he, originally from Norway,  has been in the area for over 30 years working with the UN and on retirement was given this plot of land by the Tanz government as thanks for his services – and with a mandate, a caveat, to in turn promote tourism to the area. He has been asked to build 10 cabins on the property but in the past year since moving there permanently has build just one so far; however, he does run a booming trade in access to his private beach, a set of scalloped bays that are truly stunning. He’ll get around to building the other 9 cabins “sometime” ...

Meanwhile - and by (apparently very careful “How did you hear of me? I am surprised to see you.”) word of mouth only (though it is listed in LP – something he is not altogether happy about) - he is more than happy to take on campers at one of two great spots on the site, and has in fact just had a dozen tenting it right on the beach for 3 nights waiting on the ferry back down the lake to Zambia (arrivals on Sunday, departures on Weds). I, however, am for the 3 nights there the only one on the property (with the exception of some long-stay NGO’ers in a self-contained compound by Reception; who greet my arrival like I am from outer space and display no interest whatsoever in interacting; so I leave them to their self-important exile).

By 0800 each morning, my descent from the tent greeted by a pack (herd? gang?) of four Zebra that, with that unblinking, emotionless stare-back of a beautiful girl at the bar who’s caught you eye’ing her up and for her own entertainment and appraisal locks it in without giving back the slightest of reasons why, give a grunted acknowledgement that I may share their space as they graze away about the yard of his house (“They are beautiful, hey? But look what they do to my yard! I cannot keep the grasses!” ... Not your usual gardeners complaint ...), just 50 feet from where I am parked.

Then a few duck-dives about in the lake in lieu of a shower (‘no, crocs, no hippo, no bilharzias – just like at home!’) while the kettle sets to boil and it’s another long lazy day of reading, an easy walk about the property in search of anyone new, and by 1600 a sundowner interrupted by occasional rock-throwing at the ever-present and opportunistic Vervet Monkeys I have grown to treat as the Nemesis to my sense of calm in campsites across the continent ...  Jakobsen has found himself, and most importantly has set himself up in an economically self-supporting way, that piece of Paradise we all aspire to, or long for while thumbing through the travel section. Stunning ...

But, now, it’s the Hard Grind.

Western Tanzania – despite containing Tanzania’s third largest game park (Katavi National Park) is very remote, well-off the beaten tourist track, and very un-supported: it will be at least 2 days until I reach a decent-sized town and on the way should there be any mechanical issues it will be a very long – and not very easily negotiated - tow into Zambia for Lusaka before I will find mechanical support. Plus no fuel, no food, and no water. And no finished – or finished anymore - roads.

A quick run down the ‘highway’ to Ujiji, one of the oldest villages in Africa and site of yet another Livingstone Memorial – this being where he died (the access road to which has been blocked off to vehicle traffic by a huge berm built up across the road by the locals – so apparently not a site wholly supported by the local Chamber of Commerce ...) before turning back to refuel in Kigoma – quite a sorted little town – and take on 20 litres of drinking water and a packet of wieners before turning left at the junction and pointing the compass – and not without some sense of trepidation for the route ahead – ESE.

JAYYYYZUZZZZ - what a drive.

9 hours and 379 kilometres later I arrive in Sitalike - on the very, northern, edges of Kitavi National Park and site to the renowned Hippo Camp – with (if I had any) every filling shaken out of my on-edge teeth and every off-road driving skill I’ve ever earned the past year sorely-tested beyond where they’d ever been before. Plus in those 9 hours passing less than a handful of other vehicles, almost all heading between one works camp to the other, and so of little benefit should I have required any assistance and some of – if not THE most – rugged, damaged roads I’ve ever had to work my way through ... Misery - 9 hours of nothing but hard grind, hillsides on fire for scenery (controlled burn for Tsetse, uncontrolled effects of controlled burn for Tsetse or slash-and-burn agriculture it was impossible to know, but surreal landscape to drive through with flames licking the sides of the truck and ash clouding the sky – all without a soul about for miles to care for the damage being wrought ...) slow progress and hard, hard technical driving in one of the most remote areas I’ve ever gone though ...

I arrived at Hippo Camp just past dark, guided into Sitalike by what I first mistook for car brake lights in a traffic jam going up the surrounding hillside but soon realize is instead yet another burn consuming the ground, running uncontrolled up and away from the town. Hippo Camp is famous for being located almost directly on top of a hippo pool, but is (as per the LP guide and first-hand feedback) all a bit down-on-its-heels shabby now for the death of the owner. I am the only one there I note on pulling up, but there are electric lights running and a very happy-to-see-me fellow running for the truck so it all looks good enough for me here – and no way I’m moving anywhere forward regardless so nowt to do if it’s not ...

Yes, he assures me, camping is fine here, he has “gun for camping, no problem.”  Sorry? You have a gun for camping? “Yes, gun for camping, it’s all fine for you sir, no problem.” Sorry, seriously, I need a gun to camp here?? “A gun? Um, a gun ... uh ... ummm ... AHHHHHH ... No! Not a gun!! Ground! Yes; I have GROUND for camping; yes, yes, no problem, camping ground right here is all fine sir!” Well, okaaaaaaaaay then; yes, camping (without gun) would be very good, yes please ...

I ask, second to the camping requirement, if he has beer. “Beer? You need beer?” Yes, I very much need a beer: do you have any? “Oh YES sir, I have beer!” At which point I grab him up in a huge beer hug – he all huge smile and very awkward hug-in-return - and thank him for being my saviour of the day. “Sir, you must need a beer very much right now so we will have that first and speak of camping later!” At which he quite literally leads me, right arm around my waist, left on my left, to a chair in the patio area while calling out in local dialect to staff unseen (“I need a beer here, STAT!”) and I am quickly facing a frosted 500 ml’s and, for that – and my hosts winning customer service, as he sits in silence near me, ready should needs be but never intruding on my decompression – for that do I feel I may survive now to fight on another day ...

All is fine, if not slightly disconcerting for the constant grumpy-old-bastard calls of the unseen but very close hippo, until 0430 when, awakened by the grunts and shuffles of movement all about me find myself quickly reaching out for both sides of the tent like a sailor cast about in a storm as I am hip-and-shouldered by a passing grazing hippo and rocked wildly back and forth for it ... Least that’s all they can do - not like an elephant who could knock me over and in rolling the truck pancake me – so I look out through my side mesh and follow their grunting and grazing as they pass on by with awe and wonder ... Be a fantastically humorous beast, massive sausages on stumpy legs with great big shovel mouths shaped like the splayed-out lips of a jowly dog asleep on the floor, were it not for their deadly attitude towards those found to be in the way of their return path to the river. But amazing to watch from above, and so close I could have arse-smacked one were I feeling particularly suicidal so early in the morning ...

Once all appears safe from my perch, the sun’s bright rays having chased even the most lazy of grazers back to the cool of the pool, I’m spotted on my descent and greeted with great smiles, waves and helloooos, and quickly brought a hot bucket for the shower and for that, feeling like a new man, by 0800 – photos of farting, grunting, yawning hippo complete (the wallowing area I learn, by the dawn’s early light, being about 50 feet from my truck ...) along with a few shots of four giraffe seen grazing 100 yards downstream – ready (or at least must get ready and underway whatever my mental state be) for Phase 2 of the Great Grind.

As for Hippo Camp itself: it may be quite rundown, and smell like a cesspool from the hippo waters; but the staff are absolutely wonderful and obviously care deeply about the camp, and doing as best they can for the circumstances and for that – should you be in the neighbourhood - definitely deserving of support; and the natural surroundings and opportunity to interact so closely with the hippo (and giraffe, and whatever else may make its way on through) truly spectacular ... I hope somebody comes in and invests to bring it back to its prior glory; or, that this western Tanz route becomes much more popular and so drives tourist dollars into the camp to allow for local re-development (though apparently a local airport is being built – “for 200 person planes!” which all see as the key to their salvation ...). Because for its getting-right-close-to-nature location and unobtrusive, man-and-nature-both equals-in-this-place-together ethos it sure deserves to be a highlight on anyone’s tour of Tanzania ... And save for the truly-gagging’ness of its overwhelming smell, I did love my stay there and – if you can get there – I highly recommend ... And do hug buddy for me, he’ll get you a beer right quick for it ...

Entering Katavi Park itself, just the other side of Hippo Camp, I am within minutes and yards of crossing the small bridge over the river/stagnant stinking pond confronted by 3 giraffe and a herd of antelope all within yards of the road, glaring imperiously at me as I disturb their morning routine. Fantastic ... And so for that am lulled into a (false) sense that this first phase may be a wonderful route through nature’s wilds ... And it is, but for all the wrong reasons as, within minutes and like stepping through a curtain, I am hit by a wall of Tsetse flies bombarding the truck (and me before I can get my window rolled up and go to town against them with my paperback-novel-of-death), which, in great mass swarms, will then follow the vehicle for at least 80 percent of the park (I’d never guess a fly could do 30 kmh – the speed I could not go above due to the violent corrugations of the road, which were by my recollection the worst I’d experienced anywhere on the continent), super-aggressively banging against the glass of my windscreen and side windows seeking access into the cabin (are there no other victims to be had anywhere in this park for EFF-sakes ...??!!??) and a chance at my apparently highly in-demand blood (and thence prime incubation site for Sleeping Sickness). 

Bastards ... But, as I am to learn, it will not be the only place with them; nor, will their actions/aggressiveness vary otherwise ... Insane, never seen anything like that swarming (until it happened again, then again, on my crossing ...) ...

From Sitalike to Sumbawanga, through hills of fire, great horizon-wide vistas of drab bush land, little human presence, and an unrelenting, gruelling grinding through all manner of road conditions: thick sand, broken rock, dry riverbeds, broken dirt, diversions for road-works, corrugations, isolation, Tsetse flies, a whole lot of nothingness for miles and miles on end ... It is a truly gruelling (or a truly continuing-to-be-as-gruelling-as-was-the-day-prior) grinder for almost 8 hours and I am well-done for it by the end. But also admittedly feeling damned chuffed for having conquered it successfully, all very much alone.

Sumba’s a sorted little town, with internet, post office, car repair and parts shops and enough sundry others to make it a useful stop on a west-east run. Stayed at the Conference Centre (not Community Centre as it’s listed as being on T4A), bit stark and bible’y, but clean rooms and decent hot water. Food was terrible though – hate it when I think I’ll treat myself to someone else’s cooking and it’s shite (and $5 ...). Went up the road after to the grandly named Country Club for a beer (which was fully booked with long-stays in its few rooms) and think the food looks far better there, with a number of tables getting stuck into huge piles of assorted curries (compared to at mine having sat alone gnawing through a quarter of desiccated deep fried chicken and half-cooked chips, which was all on offer). Went out ‘on the town’ with two engineers – one Dutch, one Irish – managing the local road reconstruction projects (both utterly contemptuous of the Chinese companies providing the labour, as the Irishman put it “100 million dollar project and they put 10 guys in a single room and don’t even build latrines for them, just open pits. And they’re all prisoners. And the roads they build are total shit – came in with good quality at low cost, undercut all competition, but now build low cost, low quality. Fooking awful people ...”). Am also told there is no crime in Sumba as it is the centre of witchcraft in the region and all believe if they do something you will not go to the police but instead put a curse on them which is far worse ... All in all a very entertaining evening, until it got too cold sitting out street-side to enjoy another beer, and my companions growing too interested in the local talent, and I called time early.

Ordered by my opinionated companions to avoid the Tunduma border crossing at all cost as (according to them) there had apparently been a lot of hassles there recently, with some of their company cars forced to queue with the truckers and so stuck there waiting to cross for three days. I have no focus on that part of Zambia anyway and Malawi seems to have settled down so I aim further east to cross. Tunduma, which you must almost drive through to get past, lives up to its reputation – all whores and hawkers, with an (I later learn from a motorcyclist who measured it on his drive in) 8 kilometre queue of trucks parked on the side of the road (or, more accurately, blocking the left lane completely) ... I watch motorcycle crashes – bundles of attached goods, in one case a large flat screen tv, spilling out across the road – fistfights, and general mayhem all around while weaving my way through the trucks edging there way slowly forward, in and out of others who are either driverless, or are being worked on so going nowhere. Chaos doesn’t even come close. At the turn away to put the border gates to my back (and so run away parallel to the 8 km queue coming in from the east) my truck is repeatedly struck hard against the side panel by the truncheon of a policeman who apparently finds action easier than words – seems he would like me to stop where I am to allow trucks down the ‘wrong side’ lane first. I can use my words though, and find some choice ones for him in return for his actions - I am no fool though, I know he is out of earshot, I just feel better for avenging such treatment of my trusty Rhino ...

Absolute madness, and I am glad to see it all slowly fade away behind me. Western (to central) Tanzania has been a hell of a grind from start to finish – I am quite looking forward now to decompressing in the ‘beach culture’ of Malawi for a few days ...