In no time Zeblon located Joshua in the dusty Karonga taxi rank. It turned out that what Joshua had was not a taxi but a cab. We agreed on the price, Zeblon accompanying us to the border town of Songwe. I did not have enough Malawian kwachas on me to pay the fare, but I knew that, as at any other African border post, there would be incutras waiting for people like me. Indeed, after a few enquiries on the Malawian side, we were referred to a hut about a 100 metres from the border gate. The guys in the hut took the term ‘black market’ literally: it was pitch dark inside the thatch-roofed mud hut. Zeblon did all the talking in Chechewa. Our money dealer then left us, literally in the dark, for more than ten minutes. I couldn’t work out where he had gone and why it was taking him so long to come back.
‘You see, my friend, sometimes in this black market a few individuals have to be approached, especially if loads of money is involved,’Zeblon explained. In my case we wanted to change US$10 and US$100 for Malawian kwachas and Tanzanian shillings, respectively.
When he finally returned, the incutra was accompanied by a youngster who must have been in his late teens. I enquired about the going exchange rate and received a very long answer. ‘The rate is not fixed. The more money you change the better the rate. Seeing that you are changing quite a bit of cash, you will get a reasonable rate’ was what that youngster, who spoke fluent English, told me.
This rate thing was really confusing me: first, as per their calculations, they converted US dollars to Malawian kwachas and only then kwachas to shillings. When I questioned this, the youngster explained, ‘This is the standard procedure and it is the only way that they, as the merchants, know that they are not short-changing themselves.’
I left the hut convinced that in one way or another I had been compromised. Almost all shilling notes are multiples of thousands, which made it even more confusing. After paying Joshua and giving Zeblon my postal address and taking a photo (they insisted) of them, it was time to leave Malawi. It was a sad farewell; Zeblon had really helped me on my way. I shook his hand and he promised to write.
There was nobody at the counter in the brick-walled, tin-roofed Malawian immigration office. After a couple of minutes an officer pitched up and gave me an exit form to fill in. Everything went smoothly. I stepped out of the office and found that the black-market youngster was waiting for me. As we walked towards the Songwe bridge, which separates Malawi from Tanzania, he asked me a few basic questions and suddenly turned around and said, ‘I really like you. Will you be my friend?’
I was stunned. The last time a person asked me whether we could be friends was during my lower-primary schooldays. (I am discounting those dumb women, later in my life, who would turn me down when I proposed love to them, saying, ‘Let’s just be friends.’)
I responded convincingly, ‘Of course. For sure. Hey! Why not?’
‘My name is Tandai Gondwe,’ he said. ‘Will you please give me your postal and website address?’I gave him my email address as we walked together towards the Tanzanian border post.
The only regret I have about Malawi is that I did not comfort the American girl Elizabeth in a more personal and humane way.
Nyerere’s Tanzania
Father of the Nation
For more than 2 000 years Arab traders visited the east coast of Africa before they started to settle there in the 8th century. The Portuguese arrived in 1505 to secure ports of call on the trade route to the East. Until 1698, when the Arabs finally broke their hold, the two groups were in constant conflict.
Almost 300 years later, Julius Kambarage Nyerere became president of Tanganyika, a country on the east coast of Africa administrated by Germany as a protectorate from 1885 to 1922, and then by Great Britain under a mandate from the League of Nations. Britain changed the name from Deutsch-Ostafrika to Tanganyika Territory in 1922.
Nyerere was born in Tanganyika in the same year, the son of a local chief. He studied at Makerere University in Uganda and at the University of Edinburgh – the first Tanganyikan to study at a British university. On his return he was employed as a teacher, but was forced to resign after he became president of the Tanganyika African National Union. As such, he helped to ensure that Tanganyika achieved independence without war or bloodshed, on 9 December 1961.
Nicknamed Mwalimu (‘teacher’ in Swahili), Nyerere was president of the Republic of Tanganyika for three years and, after Zanzibar was incorporated in 1964, of a unified Tanzania for a further 21 years. He eventually stepped down in 1985, amidst the dismal failure of his ujama policy, a combination of socialism and African communal living. In his farewell speech he said quite openly, ‘I failed. Let’s admit it.’ Nyerere died of leukemia in London at the age of 70.
Nyerere was succeeded by Ali Hassam Mwinji, who was president for ten years, and then by Benjamin Mkapa, who was also in office for a decade. Mkapa was succeeded by President Jakaya Mrisho Kikwete in 2005.
Like KK in Zambia, Nyerere was instrumental in the liberation of South Africa. For that I am grateful.
As we crossed the Songwe River, incutras from Tanzania began to harass me to change some currency, but my new Malawian friend Tandai told them, in Swahili, that I was already sorted. A short distance from the Tanzanian customs office he asked if I could take a snap of him, which I did, and he promised to write within a few days. And off he went.
There were three officials sitting outside the Tanzanian customs office, which somewhat resembled a shack. ‘Do you have anything to declare, my friend?’ the youngest asked.
‘No, I don’t,’ I replied.
‘Do you have a camera?’ asked another officer.
‘Yes, I do,’ I said hesitantly.
‘How much?’
For a second I was confused and then I replied, politely, ‘But, Sir, that one is mine.’
‘Come on, my friend, I will give you a good price,’ he insisted.
‘I only have one, Sir,’ I said firmly.
The third officer, who had not said a word until then, intervened and pointed me towards the immigration offices where I had to go next.
For the first time on the trip I was asked for a visa, which I did not have. I did not know that South Africans needed a visa to enter Tanzania. Fortunately, I could get one on the spot at the border post for US$50.
After stamping my passport, the official said, ‘Karibu.’
I just stood there and he repeated, louder this time, ‘Karibu.’
I was even more confused.
He smiled and said, ‘Welcome.’
Only then did it click that ‘karibu’ is ‘welcome’ in Swahili. Although I had learned a few key phrases in Swahili before leaving South Africa, it is one thing to learn phrases while sitting on a comfortable sofa with a beer in one hand and something totally different to remember those phrases when interacting with locals.
From the moment I walked out of that immigration office I was subjected to the worst harassment ever from young boys, mainly incutras. They were grabbing and tugging at my backpack, trying to get my attention. I realised that I could not allow my temper to rise, but if I were back home in Mzansi I would have slapped at least one of them.
The fact that I could not speak Swahili made things worse. Even after I told them, in English of course, that I had already changed money, they continued to walk next to me, just staring at me and not saying a word. That made me very uncomfortable. And I felt really stupid that I could not construct even a single simple sentence in Swahili, the most-spoken language in East Africa.
Tandai had advised me to take a minibus to Kiyela and another from there to Mbeya, where I was heading. From Kiyela, he told me, more people were going to Mbeya than from the border.
People on the Kiyela-bound minibus were really shocked that there was a black African person on board who could not speak Swahili. Growing up in apartheid South Africa, I was made to believe that as long as I could speak my home language (Zulu) and the ‘universal’ language (English) the world would be my oyster. My first few minutes in
Tanzania disproved this myth completely. I discovered that quite the opposite was true when the guy sitting next to me asked, ‘My friend, besides English, what other language can you speak?’
‘Zulu,’ I said, confidently.
‘What?’ he asked in amazement.
I was beginning to feel that my Tanzanian brothers were somehow rougher in their responses than their Malawian neighbours.
I got to Kiyela just in time to take a 35-seater to Mbeya. As I entered the minibus it suddenly hit me: I had to piss. Without thinking twice I turned around, took two steps and – right on Kiyela’s main road – I let fly. It felt so good, with so many people looking on. When nature calls every living species shall answer, I thought to myself. Not that I cared, and nobody else raised an eyebrow either.
It was refreshing not to be in an overcrowded minibus. There were only about 25 of us, plus five chickens, heading towards Mbeya. I wondered why so many people in this part of the world carried chickens with them. But, unlike in Malawi, where luggage consisted mainly of big bags, in Tanzania it was mostly empty 20-litre plastic drums, the purpose of which was never revealed to me.
From the outset I was struck by differences between the two countries. The grass and shrubs were far greener in Tanzania than in Malawi. I was impressed, too, by the bright and colourful garments worn by women in Tanzania, where the Muslim way of dressing, head covered, was much more noticeable than in Malawi.
I soon realised that it was an illusion that minibuses in Tanzania did not overload. Kiyela was only the first stop; thereafter the minibus stopped frequently, at different villages along the way, to pick up passengers. It was Sunday and everyone seemed to be heading back to Mbeya; at one stage we were, as far as I could count, 45 passengers in the minibus. The other passengers would talk to me in Swahili and I would reply very softly, ‘What? Me do not understand’, while using a bit of sign language. I felt really bad. In Malawi I had promised myself that when I returned to South Africa I would go for swimming lessons – Resolution No. 4 of my trip. My first few hours in Tanzania made me come up with another goal for when I got back to South Africa: Learn Swahili – Resolution No. 5.
I might not have understood Swahili, but to my surprise I suddenly heard a lady on the bus saying ‘Soweto’. My excitement was wasted: it turned out to be the name of a bus stop. Ironically, there was a Mandela grocery store at that stop. I had always suspected that Madiba invested far and wide. After deliberating on the matter for a while, however, I came to the conclusion that maybe it was Ebrahim Patel’s shop – just using Mandela’s name (again).
Although the roads were far better than in Malawi, we came upon two minibus-taxi accidents. Both vehicles had overturned, but there seemed to be no casualties.
A few kilometres beyond the Soweto bus stop we entered a small town where everyone seemed to be disembarking. I asked the lady next to me if the town was Mbeya. She looked at me for a few seconds and then nodded her head.
Just to make sure I was jumping off at the right place, I asked the assistant driver, who was busy offloading bags at the back of the minibus, whether we had indeed reached Mbeya. He answered me in Swahili and, because I could not understand what he said, I just stood there, my backpack next to me, looking at the antiquated cars driving by. The assistant driver suddenly grabbed me by my hand and shoved me back into the minibus while uttering more Swahili. He sounded peeved. I sat back in my seat and sighed – Tanzania was really proving to be a bit too rough for my liking.
Almost ten hours after leaving Mzuzu in Malawi, I finally arrived at the spread-out town of Mbeya. At the right spot, the driver’s assistant told me, by hand signal, to get off.
Mbeya, to my surprise, was a big town with some modern buildings. Most of them, however, looked old and in need of attention. As all budget accommodation was fully booked, I had no alternative but to try a mid-luxury hotel. The bearded receptionist there told me that they too were fully booked and explained that it would be impossible to get accommodation in Mbeya because ‘there is a big festival to celebrate the farmers’ day tomorrow’.
Without thinking I said at the top of my voice, ‘Again? Another Farmers’ Day?’
The man looked confused and told me that they only have one Farmers’ Day – on 8 August – every year. By then I had realised that the other Farmers’ Day celebrations (on the first Monday of August) had been held in Zambia the previous week.
With no place to sleep, I enquired whether there were any overnight buses to Dar es Salaam. I was told the buses for Dar, as it is popularly referred to by the locals, left only in the mornings. The receptionist, sensing that I was really stuck, gave me directions to a budget hotel that he promised was never fully booked. This turned out to be a two-storey building with a roof bar, just down the road from the mid-luxury hotel, in the reception area of which about 20 local guys were watching an English Premiership game on a big-screen television. To my relief there were indeed rooms available.
To get to my room I had to step through the local guys, who immediately lost interest in the game and stared at me as if I were a creature from another planet – among other reasons probably because of my hairdo. As in Lilongwe, the hotel had a long corridor. The difference was that this corridor smelled strongly of stale urine. My room was not as bad as the corridor, I was pleased to discover. It was pretty basic but clean and contained twin beds with mosquito nets.
Finding accommodation was not the end; I still had to get the bus ticket to Dar, and to do that I had to take a cab to the bus station outside the town. The cab driver did not speak a word of English and, only after quite a few hand signals, succeeded finally in understanding where I wanted to go. On our way to the bus station the huge speed humps gave me a business idea: Business Idea One. I would simply have to come back to Mbeya and open an exhaust-and-shockabsorber outlet. With speed humps of these dimensions there would always be a queue of customers.
At the bus station all the bus touts wanted me to buy a ticket from the bus company they represented. A white shirt and black tie made one of the young guys look much more respectable than the rest and I decided that he probably represented a better bus company. As there were no buses to speak of at that moment in that huge station, it was difficult to know whether or not I was buying a bus ticket from a reputable company.
When the ticket was issued I noticed that the time of departure from the station was 11:00, even though the ticket officer had told me it was 05:00. The explanation was quite simple: ‘The time on your ticket is Swahili time.’
I had no clue how Swahili time worked and it took a lot of explaining from a man at the bus rank for me to grasp it. Tanzanians, it appeared, start counting their day at 6 a.m. English time. So when it’s 7 a.m. English time, it is 01:00 Swahili time; 8 a.m. English time is 02:00 Swahili time, and so on. Hence 5 a.m. English time and 11:00 Swahili time are one and the same.
I took the same cab back to my hotel. Still using hand signals, I tried to explain to the cab driver that he must pick me up the following morning. I was so desperate to ensure that he got the message that I even showed him my bus ticket. After he dropped me off I was hopeful, but not convinced, that he would turn up the next morning.
Later that evening, as I was having a warm beer and reflecting on the harassment I had experienced at the border post at Songwe, there was a knock at the door. The receptionist had a message for me: ‘You have a visitor. His name is Paul.’
I had not met any Paul in Mbeya and was curious to see this person who wanted to speak to me so late at night. At reception I recognised Paul, but I was not sure where from. He was quick to remind me that he was the one who had explained the difference between English and Swahili time to me at the bus rank.
Paul was eager to continue the explanation: ‘English and Swahili time was very confusing to me as well when I first got here seven years ago. You see, my friend, I was born in Malawi, but I came to Tanzania because of better job opportunities here than in my native land.’ He further
explained that he had been to four hotels looking for me.
‘So the bus for tomorrow has been cancelled?’ I said, jumping the gun to encourage him to get to the point.
‘No. You see, since the bus gets to Dar at about sunset, it is important that your accommodation should be booked before you get there.’ Without allowing me to say anything, he continued, ‘You see, my younger brother works for a good but very reasonable hotel in Dar. I can organise a room at a discount for you.’
The name of the hotel he mentioned was one of the three hotels in Dar I had considered while preparing myself for the Cape to Cairo. I had no problem with Paul helping me, as long as there was no exchange of money involved, at least not with him. In addition to getting me a room, he promised he would organise a pick-up car from the bus station to the hotel. He was helping his brother, he explained, to get a commission from the hotel. It sounded like a good deal.
Just when I thought he was about to leave, Paul had another deal for me: ‘You see, I can organise the boat for you if you want to cross to Zanzibar, as well as a bus ticket from Dar to Lilongwe.’
‘I’ve been to Zanzibar before,’ I responded quickly. ‘I do not intend going there this time, and from Dar I’m flying back to Johannesburg.’
From the look in his eyes I figured he knew that I was lying, but there was nothing he could do about it.
As Paul was leaving, I was told my dinner – chicken and rice – was ready. Considering the state of the hotel, the food was not bad at all and, when I finished my meal, a peeled orange was put on the table. Dessert, Tanzanian style.
Since Tanzania was the first country on the trip that was on GMT+3, the next morning was my earliest morning yet. I was dressed and ready to go before 4 a.m. SA time. After standing around in the dark courtyard for five minutes, anxiously awaiting my cab driver of the previous evening, I saw a car with one working headlight stopping outside the hotel. It turned out to be my man.
Dark Continent my Black Arse Page 9