And Home Was Kariakoo (26 page)

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We cross the road—the small Lindi–Mtwara highway—and walk up a short distance to come to an old ruin. It’s extensive, with the remains of several rooms, the broken walls revealing their coral stone, and was a prison once upon a time. There is no information here, but we guess the ruin goes back to German times and must be a little more than a hundred years old.

After passing a modern clinic and a ruling-party office, we come upon a rather large, defunct Khoja Ismaili khano. Across is the Ithnasheri Muslim mosque, which is only occasionally used now, but well kept, and dated the first decade of the twentieth century. Next comes a building under renovation, painted yellow, where—a plaque tells us—David Livingstone stayed in 1860. Johann Krapf had already made a brief stop here in 1850. The Germans came in the 1890s. Opposite the Livingstone house, to one side is the former slave-holding place, according to the guide, and on the other, on a rise, looking out to the bay is the former boma—the German administrative headquarters—now completely renovated and turned into the posh Boma Hotel. We climb up to it from the back, enter a lovely, well-kept garden, go inside from the front door. There is a reception desk here and we are pointed to the poolside, where we order coffee, which is very expensive but excellent, arriving in a French press. There’s no one else around the hotel except for the two waiters and the girl at reception. A lot of money has been spent on the hotel, but who comes here?

Our guide tells us that a number of properties have been bought by foreigners. Part of the beach has become private; and from a notice on the road we have already surmised that a boating club is in its infancy. But there’s no foreign-looking person in sight today. Perhaps they come on weekends. Our guide’s name is Salemani Esmail, and he says he has a farm, and he can always be found at the mosque. He came with his mother from Mozambique.

Mozambique is very much a presence here, as Congo is in Kigoma, Kenya is in Arusha, and the Indian Ocean is in Dar. In Lindi our bajaji driver and the hotel manager were Mozambicans and hardly understandable. All were fluent in Swahili yet there was a hesitancy in their speech that made it hard to comprehend.

A crowded minibus, stopping frequently and with a sick child aboard, brings us to Mtwara at the busy town market. Here we walk around, drink sodas to quench our thirst, and catch a taxi to River Ruvuma, at the Mozambique border.

The drive is over a dirt road and an hour long; the sun is hot, the vegetation mango, coconut, grass. We reach a customs office, where the driver explains his business and then proceeds. We come to the immigration office, where he goes to speak to the officer, a young chubby-faced man in a uniform, reposing on a chair under a tree, who stands up, comes to have a look at us, and says, Proceed; but if you want to see the hippos, see the parks fellow. We proceed.

At the border there’s not much to see. The river is wide, and broken up into segments as it slowly makes its way to the sea. At the docked ferry, a truck has been stuck since yesterday, when it tried to come out. A young European couple in a white Land Rover, looking rather worried, bring out a jump cable. Meanwhile those without a vehicle take a boat and it chugs away. It’s all slow and easygoing.

We return, wave to the immigration officer, still reclined under the tree, and to a security officer, relaxed inside a kiosk. He was not there before. The driver is a Makonde. If the coast up to Lindi appears ethnically Swahili, in Mtwara it is Makonde. The Makonde are Muslims, at least on the Tanzanian side. They are famous for their characteristic and famous wood carvings, depicting caricatured human figures piled atop each other in various postures that supposedly represent
relationships. The Makonde were considered backward because of their prominent face markings and the lip buttons on the women. We used to see many Makonde in Dar when I lived on Uhuru Street; they typically worked as night watchmen, and ours was a short, stocky, and gentle man called Sabini. The driver, a thin, somewhat taciturn young man, tells us the face marks were there to frighten people, but we are not convinced. His name is Livowa. It seems to us that he understands English, though he pretends not to, and he opens up only when we start discussing local development.

There’s been considerable resentment directed recently at the offshore drilling in the area that will supposedly bring prosperity to the nation, but of which the locals have yet to see benefits. Harbours run entire nations, Livowa says; we too have a harbour. We have gas, and it’s taken to run factories elsewhere. Where are our factories? Joseph and I are aware that there was a riot in Mtwara some months back, when a court building was set on fire. We ask Livowa about it. Our man indicates that he was very much there in the protests.

Joseph asks Livowa about slavery. He snaps, If the market was at Mikindani, who else but Makonde would be taken away? Then he becomes silent. He is angry.

The stendi (bus stand), where we return, is at the bustling Soko Kuu, the great market—which sells grains, spices, fruits and vegetables, clothes, auto spares, bicycles, cooked food and refreshment. This is a cassava area, besides cashew, and we sit down on boxes and treat ourselves to roasted cassava from a street vendor. A stall nearby sells cans of diet Pepsi, Red Bull, and other sodas, which reflects in some way the recent changes in lifestyle due to the offshore drilling that Livowa railed against. Mtwara is also a college town, and rents are high; there are foreigners about, and female students take to prostitution.

We take an evening bus back to Lindi, and arrive just in time for pilau at the Somalis’.

Our plan is to go west to Songea, turn north towards Iringa and Morogoro, and finally arrive in Dar, having made a full circle. It’s ambitious, but we’re going to try.

We leave Lindi for Masasi, Abbas having informed us that it’s a thriving sort of place, a junction. We depart after a breakfast at the station. One section of the road west has been flooded by rains, we are informed upon departure, but the bus driver says not to worry, he can easily drive over the water. The bus—called Buti la Mzungu—“the white man’s boot”—is painted all over with a Liverpool Football Club theme, including the picture of a prominent player, and is almost empty when we start. But the driver, sitting back, eating his breakfast, casually picks up whoever steps up to the road and waves him down, and soon we are full beyond capacity. Several times, policemen in immaculate white get in, have a look, greet the passengers and let us go. It would appear that the only real work they do is to keep those uniforms clean and pressed. That the bus carries double or more of the number of passengers allowed doesn’t distract them. But there’s no cynical comment or complaint about them from the passengers, they are part of the scene.

We arrive at the place where the road has been washed over. The bus stops, instead of driving over the water as promised, and we are told to get out. We are returned a portion of our fare and told to make our way by foot across the water and find a bus to Masasi. There’s no choice. And so a walk across the shallow lake, barefoot, pants rolled, through muddy water over a rough and uneven surface. I realize as I totter, trying to avoid potholes, that I need help and acquiesce to a young man’s offer to guide me; he even offers to carry
me—I firmly decline—and like Gandhi with his hand on a young person’s shoulder I cross some three hundred yards of water. Joseph is in slippers and walks unaided, but allows someone to carry his bag. The young men are in peak mood, and tell us jovially that the water sometimes reaches chest height, and once when the level had completely subsided, a crocodile was found at the side of the road. Tall tale or true, a frightening thought in the middle of the crossing. Our helpers are paid, and we find a bus to Masasi and depart.

Masasi is, as promised, a busy, thriving market. It’s a cashew centre, where villagers come from the countryside to sell their produce. The highway is lined with guest houses and restaurants, there are a shopping centre and two banks; bajajis, motorbikes, and buses ply the road. The town is a junction for the Tunduru–Songea (west and north), Lindi–Dar (east and north), and Newala–Mtwara (east) routes. Tunduru–Songea beckons, but it’s long, and part of the way, we are informed, is under a rainfall. The road is rough, and only four-by-four transports get through, which means sitting at the back in the rain; there are breakdowns and we could spend a night in the forest. And so, bidding farewell to the Tunduru road, eastwards to Newala we go.

Newala. Uncanny: it seems to be nowhere, really. A village between two small towns, a square about a mile from the little bus stop on the highway where we were dropped off, with a single street leading away from it. It has many trees. The bajaji driver who brought us to the hotel, which is out of town, was a distracted teenager. On the way he met a girl, arranged to meet her at the shops later, and his day was made, it seemed, because then on he drove erratically, speeding over bumps and potholes, once almost hitting a tree, and it seemed we’d not arrive in one piece. But we did. The hotel (“gesti” for guest house;
“hoteli” means restaurant here and other places) is a new houselike structure. For our dinner, the folks made us chicken, which was slaughtered and fried, but it was as tough as though tightly wrapped in polythene. After dinner we sit outside on the veranda with beers, chatting; it’s cool, dark, clear, and absolutely silent. And I wonder, Is there another world really out there? Or could it all be here, and the other one, with all its buzz and bustle, a mere dream? Could one simply abandon that other one and disappear here, in Newala?

We were supposed to leave Newala at 7 a.m.; we depart at 8:30. The journey is excruciating, over a persistently rough road, with frequent stops, and we are packed with up to sixty or more in a space of thirty, our bodies cramped and sweating. On the way, mango and coconut trees, small cashew plantations, unfenced, indicating joint ownership. Kids playing around, not in school. Young men idling about. There’s not much industry or hard work to be seen, but apparently enough to eat. Women move around in bicycles, their heads covered, some in the tight “shuttlecock” style hijab, a few in complete niqab. Muslim women prefer this mode of transport, for privacy, and men use the same “ladies’ style” bikes.

Joseph talks about the obsession with education in Kenya, where final examination results are published in the newspapers. He speaks of his pride and sense of accomplishment in having his young son admitted to a private school. Uhuru Kenyatta has been sworn in as president—his smart phone keeps him informed—and he talks about the acrimony the recent Kenya elections have created, the renewed tribal animosity, the discrimination and bullying by the dominant Kikuyu in Nairobi. There is even discussion now, in the periphery of the country, about national disintegration, and about emigration as an option for escape. Strangely, this reminds me of how the Asians once felt. I am also reminded of his optimism of just a year
ago, when we travelled to Tabora and Mwanza. Perhaps the dour mood in Kenya is temporary.

Regardless of our frustration, these minibuses are the only modes of transportation, village to village, village to town, they are part of local life and culture. The bus stops for people to buy pumpkins, sitafals, watermelons to take with them to Mtwara. No one except we are in a hurry to get to town and do something. A few times the driver stops the bus and comes out to give quizzical looks at the rear tyres, and we worry. Will we ever make it? One of the passengers has turned into a comic and tells long funny stories. There is hardly any traffic on the road. In the eight hours it takes us to get to Mtwara, we pass eight other motor vehicles. So rare is the traffic on the road that a little boy calls out “Gari! Gari!” as we pass.

During our journey we’ve seen a bus with “Osama bin Laden” written on the back; another with “Shabab” on it; another with “Air Force One.” And a shop sign in Masasi that said, “George Washington DC.” This is another reality altogether. There are no newspapers to be seen.

Finally, the bus in its final throes, scrunching and squealing along, we arrive in Mtwara in the evening. After looking around for a suitable hotel, we decide to splurge and stay at a posh one overlooking the ocean, where the watchmen, for decorative purposes partially, are two Masai men. We have dinner on the outdoor patio, by candle lights; in the distance over the dark bay, a circle of lights, indicating the offshore wells and the new prosperity to come.

Early the next day we take a bus back to Dar, asking ourselves, could the Tunduru-Songea route have been any more uncomfortable and tedious? Should we have shown more resilience and kept going and completed the full circle via Songea?

U
BUNGO BUS TERMINAL ONCE AGAIN
, teeming at dawn with those who are about to journey and those who will see them go. As I join the bustle, the thought occurs that if India runs on rails, Tanzania runs on highways—and of course on cell phones. The entire country, from Lindi in the southeast at the Mozambique border to Bukoba in the northwest at the Rwanda border, from the Indian Ocean to the three great lakes, is connected, and you can reach almost any place easily from Dar. It’s as if suddenly one day the once dormant heart of the socialist nation revived and throbbed, and the country woke up and started humming. In the surreal shadowy darkness lit by occasional vendors’ lamps, I meander through the crowds and between the growling behemoths, searching; there’s no way to find out which is your carrier amongst the arrayed buses, save by making anxious inquiries. Kiosks and stands sell breakfasts, newspapers, last-minute odds and ends for the traveller, women walk by with breads and cakes to sell, boys with packets of cashews. At a magazine stand two slim books for sale, in Swahili—
I Slept with Satan in Order to Marry
and
He Wants It Here, He Wants It There
. I wonder if Walter Bgoya is aware of this emerging market in smut literature.