Greetings from the UNHCR headquarters in western Tanzania,

The second I stepped out of the van a half dozen moneychangers clustered around me offering their services. After asking several for their best exchange rates, I traded a little less than a hundred dollars worth of Rwandan Francs for 70,000 Tanzanian Shillings and proceeded on to the formalities. Rwanda passport control took minutes, but the guard decided he must inspect every layer in my tightly packed bag... and with no place clean to spread out the array. Eventually satisfied with my juggled exhibits, he let me pass through and I walked out on the 50 meter long bridge across the Kagera river stopping to admire the Rusumo Falls not a hundred meters from the bridge which marks the border.

Up the opposite riverbank the road climbed the Tanzanian side to the passport office where the most accommodating officer eventually took my often-rejected badly worn hundred-dollar bill so that I could pay the fifty-dollar visa fee. Back outside the tiny government office I see the road here is paved and wide, giving the impression of first world infrastructure. That is a cruel illusion as not a half-kilometer onward the asphalt ends giving way to the usual bumpy dirt surface of most African roads.

I noted a few shacks along the road clustered together like a primitive "shopping center." Coca-Cola signs suggested drinks for sale and I could see a few people in the shadows of some of the structures. Two recent model Toyota sedans sat by the side of the road near the buildings and a driver approached me to offer the services of his taxi to the next town. "How much?" I asked. "Seven thousand Shillings." he responded with a sly grin. My first reaction after a quick currency conversion calculation told me I was being had and I declined.

Up the hill the road seemed to be going nowhere, but I started to walk away from the area as if I knew where I needed to go. I hadn't been walking more than five minutes before the other car came slowly up behind me and stopped near enough for the driver to offer me a ride. "I want to go to the first town that has a guest house. How much?" "One thousand five hundred..." he offered. So, I jumped in the back seat with one other guy. Two other passengers already occupied the front seat next to the driver. We drove on for a few hundred meters and stopped to pick up two more passengers who squeezed into the back seat making it four abreast and very cozy. Fortunately, the "next town" only took about ten minutes to reach. As we spilled out I asked the driver where I could find the guesthouse he had mentioned. All I could see included only ramshackle huts and other makeshift structures that were sprinkled along the road for perhaps 200 meters and back away from the road perhaps for 30 meters. "Right there." he pointed, indicating a long low structure with a Coca-Cola sign in front of it.

"A-san-tay." I thanked him in Swahili and walked in the direction indicated. The closer I got, the more worried I became. I finally saw a door in between some broken boards and a hand painted sign reading "Welcome - Guesthouse." Inside the dusty little room that served as an office, a lady in a plain housedress studied me incredulously from behind a wooden box she used as a desk as I asked whether she had a vacancy. "May I see it?" I asked. She fumbled with a huge ring of keys and led me down a short dark corridor with four badly fitted doors with peeling green paint each locked with a padlock. "One thousand five hundred" she replied to my question about room rates. (That's about $1.77; the same as the shared cab fare.)

On the way to the room I spotted a courtyard and two doors marked as toilets (WC). As the door to the tiny three-meter by three-meter room swung open I saw a bare concrete interior save for a narrow cot covered with grubby bedding and a small lamp table holding a candle. There were no electric lights, no water, no inside door lock and only one miniature window. I stared in disbelief as I considered how I might be able to manage for a night, which necessarily would include multiple trips in the dark to the outside toilets. "Thank you. I'd like to look around the town a bit before I check in." I told the patient receptionist.

Looking around the town only took a few minutes and gave me a chance to check out transportation possibilities. The only bus agent also operated one of the half dozen open-air refreshment stands. Many people here speak what they think is English, but a version I find almost totally unintelligible. I finally learned from the agent there would be no more busses today and that the bus for Mwanza tomorrow would leave at 07:00.

My options grew narrower and narrower. Very few vehicles of any kind passed in any of the possible four directions through the intersection, but I saw a few trucks and wondered if one of them might be going anywhere near anything which resembled civilization. One large parked six wheeler had several men finishing up with the unloading of cases of Pepsi. Everyone in the village had taken notice of my presence and watched me surreptitiously as I staggered around. A man tending a nearby vegetable stand spoke reasonable English and appeared anxious to get involved with my problem. He checked around with various people and returned to say the Pepsi truck only went to other small villages this day and that no one knew of any other transport going to any large town soon. I bought him a Coke with thanks and sat down to drink mine and ponder the meaning of life here at the fringe of sensibleness. While sipping my cola I studied each rare vehicle as it passed by, looking for any clue to a way out of my dilemma.

A few trucks passed by, an occasional passenger car, and quite a few carryalls, some painted white with humanitarian aid agencies markings on them. Somebody must be going far away from here I assured myself! The prospects of spending a night here and peeing into a distant hole by candlelight boggled my mind.

The mid-day sun threatened to exacerbate my already tender burned nose, but I walked out of the shade to better study the realities. One of the white carryalls slowed as it passed me, continued on for fifty meters and made a U-turn. My heart rate quickened, but it drove on by me as I gazed expectantly and it continued, turning at the intersection. Ten minutes later the same vehicle returned to the intersection and again turned in my direction. I watched it like a starving hawk following the movements of a mouse. This time it drove straight toward me and stopped five meters from where I stood. In a moment the passenger door opened and a well-dressed man, about fifty stepped out.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked tentatively.

"Right now, I'm asking myself that same question." I replied. Cautiously we approached one another and I began to relate a shortened version of the most recent events in my adventure, making it clear that at this particular moment I felt quite stranded. I almost never allow myself to get involved with anyone who approaches me on the street, but I could see nothing predatory about this guy and he seemed as wary of me as I of him. In response to my questions he told me he worked for the district (state) government and had come down to the area to inspect some recently completed roadwork. It turned out that Mr. Fidelis (I kid you not) Jallady is second in command to the District Administrator (Governor); like the Lieutenant Governor of an American state.

"Is there some way I might be of assistance?" he asked. I indicated my immediate problem seemed to be finding somewhere civilized to sleep for the night and then onward transportation. The district headquarters is located about 27km up the mountain in Ngara town and has many guesthouses, some with self-contained rooms (meaning connected toilets) he told me. Busses leave several times a day for various places he assured me, adding knowingly that he would be happy to give me a ride to Ngara and help me find a guest house meeting my standards. My quick response must have been amusing, because he smiled and added that he couldn't leave for a half-hour or so and that we should step in out of the sun and have a drink.

Up went the red flags again. Would I get one of those notorious drugged drinks followed by a mugging? Inside one of the nondescript structures we sat down in what turned out to be a refreshment cafe and he asked me what I would like. I said I had just finished a Coke and wanted nothing, but would consider it a pleasure to buy him whatever he wanted as a token of my gratitude for his kindness. He ordered a beer and we chatted about his work with the many refugee agencies operating in his district.

Shortly, another well-dressed younger man entered the cafe and Mr. Jallady stood, smiled and reached out to shake hands with the new comer. They spoke in Swahili, carrying on what seemed to be a rather formal conversation. Eventually, the new man took notice of my presence and Jallady introduced me to Mr. Obeid Kwale, the elected Chairman of Kwale Village where we sat (the equivalent of a town mayor). Consultation complete, small talk ended and Mr. Jallady announced that we could now get underway for Ngara town and he motioned for his driver to bring the car around.

The thirty-minute ride up the hill gave us a chance to learn more about one another. At one point an awkward silence ended when Fidelis asked me why I had trusted him, a good question. I told him of my extensive experience with hustlers around the world and what I consider my heightened sense of predatory human behavior. Nothing in his behavior on the road matched any of the dangerous patterns I had come to recognize, besides anyone with a name like Fidelis had to be a saint. He laughed and seemed satisfied with my answer.

When we reached the outskirts of Ngara he pointed at what he considered the "best guest house in town" and had his driver continue on to the town proper where we would find the second best house located close to the bus terminal. The "town" turned out to be a mixture of well-constructed buildings and a larger number of run down shacks lining either sides of three short parallel dirt streets running up a gentle hill with a wide open market area in the middle. The guesthouse room we checked out featured a single bare electric light bulb and a bathroom, which had a toilet, shower stall and sink, but no running water! As diplomatically as I could I suggested that it might be a good idea to check out the other better place before making a decision. With some embarrassment, he explained this to the proprietor and we returned to the white carryall and waiting driver. Fidelis had a quick conversation with his driver and then said he thought it might be a good idea to check on the bus connections before we left town. Well! It turned out that there would be no bus until day after tomorrow or possibly the day after that.

The "best place in town" just barely met my basic minimum standards. It did have running (cold) water and multiple electric lights. The electricity would be available between 19:00 and 24:00 in the evening and 07:00 and 09:00 in the morning. The place is simple, but clean and the room rate a mere six thousand Shillings (about $7)... including breakfast. I thanked Fidelis and tried to say "good-bye," but he expressed concern that I might be lonely without even a radio to keep me company and settled down to make sure I would be all right. All this time his driver sat patiently waiting in the car and his wife and three kids waited for him to get home from work. I finally convinced him I could take care of myself from this point on and he left with an insistence that I drop by his office the next day. I said I would.

Fortunately I'd had a good breakfast before I left my luxurious Kigali hotel early in the morning of this epic day and a single chocolate candy bar about mid-day. Now I polished off the other candy bar and a small box of biscuits, washing it all down with a half liter of mineral water. A great dinner followed by an hour of reading my current book: Livingstone's Tribe by Stephen Taylor, a travelogue set in some of the same exotic places I am visiting.

The next day I awoke to an adequate, but skimpy breakfast of toast, jam, boiled egg and coffee. Now I set out to explore the town on my own, to see what resources we might have overlooked in our haste last night. It is a lovely walk; a cool morning with many ordinary people on their way to work and not paying an inordinate amount of attention to me and my white skin. Eventually I learned the reason: a massive United Nations workforce of mostly mzungus are constantly coming and going from and around the hilltop.

White UN carryalls/Range Rovers passed me on the road more often than all the other vehicles combined. As it is a little before 08:00 stores have just begun to open, open-air sellers are setting up their displays and children are rushing off to school. The town offers only the most basic of necessities. The streets are graded dirt, but are now badly rutted from recent rains… full of bathtub size potholes. The few vehicles trying to traverse them follow paths that look like they were established by drunken snakes. Storekeepers are dusting and arranging their merchandise, invariably smiling as I walk by. Only one teenage youth yells "mzungu!" as I startle him on one of the back streets.

As I walk up the gentle hill of "Main Street" I note several stores with signs indicating they also sell bus tickets, so I begin trying to learn what alternatives might exist. English is a second language, but most people have only a rudimentary command of it, so information comes garbled when at all. "Only one bus a week to Mwanza. It will be here on Saturday." I learn from the first agent. The next ticket seller says his bus leaves for Mwanza on Sunday. The third says THE bus arrives FROM Mwanza on Saturday and returns on Sunday, leaving at 06:00! So! All these buses are the same one bus and it will not depart for Mwanza until day after tomorrow… two more nights in Ngara town.

So, I decide to reconsider the overnight accommodation possibilities here in town closer to the 6AM departure bus "depot." The depot in actuality is only a parking space in front of the main ticket seller's store. It turns out Fidelis had it right about there being only two guesthouses in town with inside plumbing. The others looked a lot like the cell I found down near the in Kwale Village. At this point I am reminding myself that not every minute of an adventure is going to be filled with comfort and start the process of getting used to the idea of "roughing it."

As my current accommodation lacked any sort of towels, I checked around town for someplace to buy one. Only one open-air seller of cast off American clothing had towels and he had a pile of them a half meter high. He announced an asking price of 2 thousand Shillings each… outrageous! As he seemed to have cornered the market in towels I decided to forgo cold showers/trickles for the duration. Water is another matter. Pure bottled water is essential for life, as I know it, so I bought a couple large bottles and started walking back to the motel. I remembered seeing a fenced in parking lot full of UN carryall vehicles on my way out and wondered if there might be someone driving anywhere of interest to me. This time I walked over to the gate and asked the uniformed guard about transport possibilities, gesturing toward the score of parked vehicles. "I don't think so." He replied to my question. "There is an airplane tomorrow, though," he added as an afterthought.

"An airplane!" I thought as my somewhat depressed spirits again soared momentarily. "How can I find out about it?"

"Well. The airstrip is just down there on that hill. You can see it from here. You can get there walking along that road." Pointing, "A Mr. Swei handles all the scheduling. You could talk to him. He has an office on the air strip."

I searched the direction he had pointed and saw nothing. I did see a road, which I assumed, led to the invisible airstrip. So, I and my now heavy bag of water bottles started off toward the road. In a few minutes the road seemed to turn the wrong direction so I asked some guys walking the other direction and they confirmed I would find no airport down this road. Back I went to the place where all the UN vehicles were parked and found a different guard now on duty. "Oh. The airplane. You would need to talk to the Administrator. I'll call her for you." In a few minutes a pleasant female voice came on the line and invited me to come down to her office to discuss my situation.

Behind the parking lot, out of sight were about ten office bungalows. My security guard escort led me to one of them. The woman behind the desk, compassionate and businesslike informs me that only the Head of the Sub-Office United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees has the authority to authorize non-UN use of the shuttle flight service and that if authorized, would cost $60 (in US currency!). I am elated: sixty bucks to extricate myself from this present predicament is a bargain. She calls Mr. Farooqi's office and arranges to have me walk down a couple tiers to his office. He is "very busy" and I gladly wait about ten minutes until he can see me. Inside his office he indicates a couch, sits down near me, offers some tea and asks me to tell him why I am in Ngara.

My story seems to interest him as I pour out the details of my quest to understand why political, ethnic and religious differences so often seem at the core of human conflict. When he understands how I have foolishly stranded myself in this part of the world, he immediately agrees to authorize a seat on the UN plane for Mwanza tomorrow. A quick phone call confirms there still is an unassigned seat available.

With my urgent business out of the way, Mr. M. Abdulrauf Farooqi launches into a description of the very difficult problems he faces in dealing with 150 thousand refugees in the camps he administers. My questions keep him talking for nearly an hour. I am flattered and gratified, learning more than I had a right to expect. Before I left he inquired where I had spent the night, adding that the UN maintained a compound of guest quarters for the staff on temporary UN assignment in the area. It might be more convenient if I were to spend the night there to make it easier to be transferred to the airstrip with the several other passengers going out on the plane in the morning, he suggested. Although I had not mentioned starving myself, he volunteered that I would be able to buy at reasonable cost food I could be sure had been prepared under sanitary conditions. I must be in heaven, or at least have lived such a saintly life to deserve heaven. He makes another call and tells me someone is going over to the UN compound shortly and will give me a ride.

Back outside in the parking area I make arrangements to get my stuff at the motel and am taken over to the UN compound and the guest quarters. The 200X200 meters square fenced-in compound sits on a shady knoll overlooking the valley. The 36 prefab living units offer First World amenities: hot and cold running water, electricity all the time, and everything sanitary! All units appeared to be the same configuration: two bedrooms, a sitting-room/living-room, a kitchenette, and a bathroom complete with stall shower that actually worked.

On arrival the grounds manager assigned me to unit 15 and said I could pay 12,000 Shillings rent in the morning (about $13.50). Before I trudged off to dump my stuff he asked in the presence of the cook who seemed to be waiting for me, if I might like to have some lunch. I would and agreed that chicken and rice would be a gourmet repast under the conditions. A few minutes later I returned to scarf down the two pieces of chicken, one of which came from the toughest bird in the barnyard. But hey, the whole thing including an Ndovu beer cost a mere 2,700 Shillings ($3.10).

The minute I finished my lunch I hurried back to a now long overdue hot shower and a nap in one of the most comfortable beds in Africa. Around 16:00, fed, showered, and rested, I reemerged to explore the locale around the UN compound. Quite a few people on extended assignments live in the residential units here. Razor wire surrounds the compound and uniformed guards walk the perimeter in addition to watching the entrance gate 24 hours a day.

Back at the central "club house" two guys sit on the veranda collecting empty Safari beer bottles. As casual as I can manage, I stop near them to admire the view and am asked to join their party. I order a Coke and learn both are working for the World Food Program. Bret, an unsuccessful candidate for the New Zealand parliament last year now works for WFP as a logistics consultant traveling from one crisis area to another. Abdalla A. Elmigdad is the WFP Field Coordinator for the Ngara region. Both are well traveled and offer endless stories about the problems of dealing with refugees.

By the time dinner is served at 19:30 our table is littered with dead Safari soldiers and my single empty Coke bottle. Dinner is a large Tilapia fish steak. My two dinner companions are in another world, speech slurred, laughing a lot. Both are determined to pay for everything. Eventually, Abdalla wins and succeeds in paying for my dinner as well. I'm not a contestant in this competition. No one seems to care. Bret appears crestfallen as he realizes Abdalla has won the match. I got a free 8,000-Shilling dinner ($9.50) so I'm not complaining and doubt that Abdalla even took note of my expressions of appreciation.

The next morning I order an elegant ham and eggs breakfast at 07:30 long before either of my two companions can get themselves out of bed and take off for a long walk down the dirt road connecting the UN compound with a small village about a kilometer away. The road is lined by banana tree groves and many people walk in both directions along the road. In the village I buy a shoe shine, paying 500 shillings which I later learn is about three hours pay for a typical laborer. 

About 10:00 one of the white UN carryalls shows up with space for me, and Bret who is also booked on the flight. The landing strip is simple, but flat and long enough for the small De Havilland DHC-2 Mk3 Turbo-Beaver. The plane holds six passengers plus a pilot and co-pilot. The cargo hold accommodates all of our baggage as well as various official pouches. As I am the only other person with any experience as a pilot, I am offered the co-pilot seat. I did warn the pilot not to have a heart attack as I last handled the controls of a plane in about 1955. 

Our two-hour flight took us over Burundi for about twenty minutes as we made a detour to the town of Kibondo. The airport in Mwanza seemed to be there primarily for the UN agencies and we were met by another white UN carryall that took us to the hotel, which had been arranged for Bret. I tagged along, assured by Bret that the Hotel Tilapia would be about as good as could be had in Mwanza. And it was…

I do get carried away sometimes, but this story just wrote itself. Sorry for the length. If you got to the end, congratulations. Must be a slow day for you, huh?

Peace,
Fred L Bellomy

 

End

 

Greetings from Mwanza  

In Mwanza everyone told me my plan to detour through the Serengeti Park on the way to Dar Es Salaam would not be possible without buying an expensive packaged "safari tour" or renting a 4-wheel drive vehicle and returning it to the leasing company back in Mwanza. In my early days as an engineer we joked, "The difficult we do immediately. The impossible takes a little longer." On the verge of giving up and booking the first sleeper  train to Dar (see the 26 June 2002 report of a fatal crash of that train!), I stumbled on information about a "not recommended" bus to Bunda near the western entrance of the park. Conflicting reports convinced me there would be a chance of finding some sort of transport through the parks once I got near the entrance. 

The "not recommended" part referred to the poor condition of the road the bus had to traverse part of the way. To make matters worse, I got seats near the back of the bus and every pothole caused that part of the bus to jump twice as high as the front. I lost count of the times a bump propelled me completely out of my seat, one time so violently my head hit the roof of the bus! I could have been badly injured. Fortunately, the experience left me with nothing worse than a skinned knee. That part of the three-hour ride lasted only about an hour. Boy! I could have hugged the comparatively smooth road when we finally reached it alive. Eventually we arrived at my exit point in Bunda, with several other passengers anxiously making sure I got off the bus where I had announced I wanted to land. 

Peace,
Fred L Bellomy
 

 

Downtown Mwanza: typical scenes. Someone had something for sale at a bargain price. Sales are as popular here as anywhere.

Downtown Mwanza: Downtown news stand.

Downtown Mwanza: typical scenes. At one of the several long distance mini-bus loading areas. There is no single bus terminal.

Downtown Mwanza: typical scenes. This is the cyber cafe I used exclusively here.

Downtown Mwanza: typical scenes. One of the many humanitarian aid groups operating here.

Downtown Mwanza: typical scenes. The streets are full of holes like this and open sewers/water drains run along the sidewalks.

Downtown Mwanza: typical scenes. These hand trucks carry cargo all over town. The size of a pickup truck, it sometimes takes several guys to maneuver them. Here, cargo is being transferred into a large truck.

A close up shot of some of the pictures of shoplifters caught in the best "super market" in Mwanza Tanzania. Sorry the picture is so blurred. This early version of pocket digital cameras has snap shot resolution, but it is tiny and very convenient for backpackers traveling light... and it is an amazing conversation starter!

A close up shot of some of the pictures of shoplifters caught in the best "super market" in Mwanza Tanzania.

A close up shot of some of the pictures of shoplifters caught in the best "super market" in Mwanza Tanzania.

Inside the "super market" in town. It really is the best Mwanza has to offer, but is not as large or well stocked as a little Stop-and-Go or 7-Eleven in America.

Inside the "super market" in town. If it is staples you want, they have it, but a wide choice of other things is a dream.

Near the New Mwanza Hotel in Mwanza Tanzania.

This seems to be the only bank in Tanzania that will give me cash on my Citibank VISA credit card. Even the Citibank here in Mwanza wouldn't do it!

Near the New Mwanza Hotel in Mwanza Tanzania. These hand trucks are used a lot for moving cargo around the city.

 

End

 

Greetings from The Serengeti 

In most zoos of the world we lock up the animals: in Tanzanian wild life parks they lock up the visitors. Good thing too, for it would be really easy for some foolhardy adventurer like me to become lion lunch in no time at all. Between dusk and dawn all gates into and out of the wild animal areas are locked to vehicular traffic and no one on foot is permitted outside the lodge compounds. I learned all this the hard way after blundering my way to the Western entrance of the Serengeti National Park where I learned I could not enter (so they said). A cab ride from Bunda to the small park ranger's office at the gate and they informed me that no one is permitted inside the park without their own means of transportation. The cab driver offered to drive me to the first lodge for a mere $150! I declined and told him to take me back to Bunda (not really a town... more of a transportation - provisioning hub) 

As we headed back out the road he confided that I could probably hitch a ride with almost anyone going into the park. So he slowed as a big Range Rover approached us on the road and suggested I inquire of the driver about the possibility of a ride. As it turned out, Dr. Jan Borg from Denmark, showing his aged parents his adopted country, immediately agreed to take on a hitchhiker! This sort of thing, I have since learned is truly the rule in this isolated part of the world. At the park office the rangers now were delighted to take my $25/day park entrance fee and even volunteered that I must be planning to fly back out of the park to make my entrance legal. 

Actually, I planned to hitch another ride to a second lodge further south and then a third to get out of the parks. The 150km drive took us through dozens of herds of wildebeest, zebra, giraffe, Thompson gazelle, wart hog, secretary bird, ostrich, and many other species of African animals. None of the herds showed any fear of our car; sometimes blocking the road and only moving when we got to within a few feet of them. At one point an eagle swooped down parallel with our moving car and snatched a tiny rodent from the side of the road giving us a close-up view of the whole drama. 

Only rarely were we out of sight of one animal or another during the entire three-hour drive to the lodge. My efforts to get pictures of the animals failed miserably. Either the lighting or the distance prevented me from getting anything usable. I stayed in the same Soronera Wildlife Lodge my benefactors used. Outside my window a small herd of gazelles grazed and a hyena laughed. Mongoose scampered around the grounds like pets. In the morning while I ate breakfast a hot air balloon drifted by the lodge windows. 

The night before I had alerted the lodge staff of my need for a ride on south to the Ngorongora lodges and they all replied "no problem." So after breakfast I started the waiting game and talked with each group the staff indicated might be going my way. After about an hour nearly all the guests with their own vehicles had left and I started to get worried. "No problem" they again assured me. Finally, one of the hotel guys said he would drive me out to the nearby dirt airstrip where many safari vehicles from Arusha brought guests to be flown out at the conclusion of their safari, returning to Arusha themselves mostly empty. 

Sure enough, the first driver we asked gave me a ride on down to the next lodge. No problem! Again, three hours passed with animals coming into view almost constantly. The Ngorongora Wildlife Lodge sits on the southwest rim of the crater. The view is spectacular. Larger animals like elephants can clearly be seen to dot the valley below. "Walk anywhere you like as long as you don't stray outside the clearing that surrounds the lodge." I learned in response to my question about hiking in the area. "There are WILD animals out there!" So, I stuck close to the lodge drinking coffee and beer and talking with some of the other guests. That is how I met my next ride out of the park. 

Three guys from Holland had their own Land Rover and driver. In the course of our conversations, they got interested in my plight and offered to give me a ride as far as Arusha outside the Ngorongora Wildlife Preserve. Only Wolfgang spoke fluent English, but he seemed to enjoy translating for his two companions who spoke mostly Dutch. It all felt very international. 

Both lodges I used in the parks charged me $140/night with breakfast and dinner included, not cheap by my standards, but a lot better than spending the night in the open with strange furry friends prowling around... besides that would be against the law! I did see signs indicating the existence of camping areas and know there are several tent safari camps in the area. Foreigners pay about twice what residents pay and my Dutch friends with a safari package were paying only $105/night for the three of them in a suite. So, occasionally there are premiums to pay for traveling by the seat of your pants.

Peace,
Fred L Bellomy
 

Serengeti to DarEsSalaam Tanzania: A large herd of Giraffe in the Serengeti. We saw hundreds of herds, but the lighting prevented me from getting decent shots for most of those which came close to our vehicle.

Serengeti to DarEsSalaam Tanzania: Inside the dining hall at the Ngorongora Wildlife Lodge, Tanzania.

One of the Dutch guys builds houses for a living and here discusses the process of making bricks with the workmen.

We stopped outside the Ngorongora park to inspect one of the many Baobob trees which grow to an age of 2000, it is said.

 

End

 

Greetings from Moshi 

The next morning we all piled into my Dutch friends cavernous vehicle and off we went. Outside the park we passed a mud brick manufacturing operation and Anton had us stop. Anton owns a construction company in Holland and wanted to compare African building techniques with those in his country. The guys had bags of small gifts for the "natives." I found it just a bit embarrassing as they handed handfuls of ballpoint pens to the adults and cheap plastic toys to the kids all of whom seemed delighted. 

While Anton, with the translation help of our driver and Wolfgang, studied every step used in making the bricks, the others wildly snapped pictures. I also got caught up in the fervor and took a few myself. As we left, Wolfgang handed the brickyard owner a crisp new five-dollar bill. The guy smiled so broadly his ears disappeared. A short way down the road from the brick yard we came upon a small grove of Baobab trees and the driver told us some specimens were as much as 2000 years old. 

Arusha is the gateway for most safaris into the Serengeti and Ngorongora areas and the resulting affluence is immediately apparent. Many newer buildings and elaborate hotels with exaggerated safari themes are sprinkled along the road. The road itself is free of potholes for a change. Actually, the entire region from the park to Arusha looked First World. The bus station hosted modern, newer vehicles and the operation while still frantic, proceeded in an orderly fashion. I got two front seats to the next town, Moshi almost immediately and the hour ride took us through farming land where pride of ownership is apparent. 

The bus station in Moshi offered a stark contrast. Lots of old buses and pushy hustlers made the process of buying a ticket the next morning a real challenge. The guy who sold me my original tickets lied about everything. There were better "deluxe" buses leaving at convenient times despite his denial and the fare he charged had been inflated 20 percent. But, eventually everything got straightened out and my seven-hour ride to Dar es Salaam turned out to be relatively pleasant, if tiring. 

Peace,
Fred L Bellomy

 

End

 

 

Karibu bwana, 

Arrival in Dar es Salaam presented the usual challenges even with the information provided by helpful passengers on the bus. The several hotels I checked initially offered poor value and the one I selected for my always difficult first night clearly wouldn't do for a the longer stay I anticipated. The fully booked Peacock Hotel turned out to be an excellent value at $80/night and I arranged to move to it the next morning. A good thing, too as I learned that I must book my sleeper reservation to Zambia at least five days in advance! Dar is alive with commerce. Every other person walking on the street carries something for sale: a pair of shoes, a collection of shirts on hangers, trousers draped over one shoulder, or one or another of the fragrant local food offerings. Most of the stores seem to be owned by foreign businessmen, mostly Indians and Arabs. There is a sizable Muslim population as well as a large minority of Hindus. The majority of Africans seem to be Christians, mostly Catholic around here. 

Since my last missive I have moved on from Mwanza Tanzania at the southern shores of Lake Victoria through the nearby Serengeti National Park and Ngorongora Wildlife Preserve to Moshi and finally settled in Dar Es Salaam to wait seven days for the next express train to Zambia. I had planned to take the ferry over to Zanzibar island for a couple of the days, but the aggressive touts and the (4X) inflated $35 foreigner fare for an hour and a half ride are disgusting. I hate to encourage such scams. So, I've been exploring Dar, the largest city in Tanzania. 

Yesterday I walked out to the site of the old bombed out American Embassy and then over to the new one located only a few blocks away. On the way I saw a beggar with his bunched up spindly legs exposed so I could clearly see why so many beggars look like guys standing in holes. I swear, they look like they are sprouting right out of the ground or have no body parts below the waist. Jan Borg, the doctor I met in the Serengeti says this commonly seen deformity is the result of Leprosy. Now mostly curable, there are very few new cases these days. All the poor "legless" guys I see were just born too soon. 

Here they call the sardine packed mini-van buses Dala Dalas (they are matatus in Kenya and Uganda) and I have been using them a lot. On occasion I pay double to get both of the two front seats, much to the pleasure of the driver. Such extravagance only costs around forty cents. The rest of the time when I can't get one or both seats next to the driver in the front, I am squeezed into the back like a prom flower between the pages of an old diary along with everyone else. No one complains and there is a joke that "there is always room for one more rider in a dala dala!" I always say a little prayer to the gods that we don't have an accident resulting in the mingling of bloods. According to an article in the paper today, AIDS patients occupy half of all hospital beds in Tanzania! Despite the reputation as a dangerous mode of transportation, I have found all my dala dalas driven by exceptionally safety conscientious drivers. 

Karibu mzungu father, (translation: Welcome wise old one with shining skin). That's what I have been hearing a lot here in Tanzania. My white skin makes me a mzungu and my white hair makes me "father," a term of reverence as best I can determine, though it is sometimes said with a slight sneer by some of the boisterous teens. Karibu is the "welcome" part. 

The following professional website presents a wealth of interesting information about the national park and conservation areas I visited in Tanzania:

Well. It is Sunday and no one offers a Sunday Champaign Brunch here in Dar es Salaam, so it's off to a hamburger joint for a little nourishment. More later, next time I can find a cyber cafe. (This one is fast and only about sixty cents an hour.) (cont.)

Peace,
Fred L Bellomy

PS: A few months later I again passed through Tanzania and postcards sent at that time are here.

 

Typical scene in Kariakoo, one of the large open air market areas of Dar Es Salaam Tanzania.

A view of the copra market where hundreds of merchants offer their harvests for sale.

Discarded coconut shells after they have had their insides ripped out.

Dar Es Salaam Tanzania: typical street produce sellers.

Dar Es Salaam Tanzania: Where ever you go, CocaCola is never far from your thirst.

 

End