As soon as I crossed the border from Malawi, the immigration official pointed out that my Tanzanian visa would expire the next day. He then made it clear that I must not be found in the country without a valid visa. In English difficult to understand he explained the overly complicated procedure for obtaining an extension when I got into Mbeya. After answering my many detailed questions about immigration office locations and logistics, exasperated he extended it himself... to get me out of his hair, I imagine. (Months later looking back, I would wonder if that might not have been an example of a time when a bribe-gratuity could have been expected to simplified things for a "sophisticated" traveler.)

Outside the small one room shack that served as the border post, the swarm of touts all wanted to sell me a ride in their packed mini-vans to Mbeya, a couple hundred kilometers distant. Tired of being hustled I walked several blocks away from the border until I could see no more transport possibilities, finally returning to the bus stop furthest away from the border and waited. Eventually a bus with one seat left stopped and I climbed aboard.

The four hour ride to town seemed to take forever, cramped in my narrow seat against another passenger jostling several bundles, one of which periodically emitted cackling sounds. No one has even heard of credit cards in Mbeya so I fished out one of my few remaining fifty-dollar bills and found a friendly moneychanger willing to make me rich in local currency. 

This small town has only one halfway decent hotel, the Mt. Livingstone with a room rate of $24 per night which seemed reasonable. I would have stayed longer in Mbeya had there been any way to pay for things with plastic; my small stash of cash started to seem woefully inadequate for all of the unknown demands that lay ahead during the next few days. So, the next morning at the ungodly hour of 06:00 I grabbed two $8 seats on a bus for Dar es Salaam, spending most of my remaining Shillings to do so. So short a stay in this problematic village produced no opportunity for photographic adventures, so no photos.

Peace,
Fred L Bellomy

When we finally arrived in dusty Bagamoyo, what I saw didn't look much like a town. Around the dirt clearing that served as the bus station were perhaps ten makeshift sellers' stalls offering both fresh produce and manufactured goods. A couple vintage taxis sat waiting expectantly. Stretching off in every direction were huts with thatched roofs and in the distance some old multistory colonial buildings, all in poor repair. Many of the huts in the village served as people's homes, but just as many were being used for some kind of commerce.

Asking directions to the "good" hotels I learned from a sweaty young fellow pounding the dents out of a pot that there were a couple decent places several kilometers away on the other side of the old mission down by the beach. So, pack on my back, off I trudged in search of someplace to call home for a few days. To my delight and surprise I found the inexpensive ($50) Paradise Holiday Resort, a first class beach hotel with modern facilities... even running hot water... and they accepted my VISA credit card! The lodge, located along a rutted dirt road paralleling the shoreline, sat isolated among groves of coconut palms. The pictures I've included this time show the lush tropical setting. Very picturesque.

Near by, the old 1860 French mission and hospital still serve the people of the area and provide an exotic venue for occasional conferences. Recent restoration efforts have recreated the ambiance of earlier colonial times. French speaking Father John greets visitors personally, inviting them to see the museum and rest a while. The museum tells a Tanzanian history of the slave trade, its abolition and the role the Catholic Church played in offering sanctuary to some of the escaped slaves.

Just outside the mission compound sits many native huts where I am assured people continue to live as they have for centuries: no electricity, no running water, growing their own food in the adjacent fields. I and the few other white tourists I saw sightseeing through the village seem to provide the principle entertainment for the community's permanent residents. Most people tried to be friendly, using what limited English they knew in their greetings.

I took a lot of pictures, but could never get the hotel's Internet service to keep me online long enough to do any serious work, though unlike most hotels the $3.50/hr access rates were only slightly outrageous. This remote retreat would make a great hide out for anyone tired of crowded civilization. Good food, comfortable beds and hot showers. What more could anyone want? I only stayed three nights before once again finding myself overcome by wanderlust.

The next town north,  Tanga, is shown on my map to be on the same coastal road as Bagamoyo.  Planning to catch a bus or dela-dela on up the coast turned out to be wishful thinking. I soon learned of the complete lack of any vehicle of any kind ever going in that direction from Bagamoyo! So, back down the dusty, bumpy road to Dar es Salaam I went to find transport north by way of the better traveled inland highways. After the usual hustling with touts who insisted their dirty crowded bus was the only one going my way, I managed on my own to locate one of the better conveyances ready to depart on the four and a half hour run up to the border town of Tanga. Still, my $20 for two seats got passed around from tout to middleman to conductor before eventually disappearing and actually producing two tickets for the four and a half hour ride up to Tanga near the Kenyan border.
Peace,
Fred L Bellomy
 

Bagamoyo: some of the old colonial buildings still being used by present day inhabitants.

Bagamoyo: processed rice displayed for sale at a rice thrashing plant.

Bagamoyo Tanzania: Busses ready to leave for Dar Es Salaam waiting at the "station" in Bagamoyo Tanzania... really just a clearing in the middle of what passes for the most active commercial area of the town... not much.

These guys, passengers on our bus all pitched in to help change a flat tire on the run from Mbeya Tanzania to Dar Es Salaam.

Bagamoyo fishing fleet; on the beach near the fish market.

Not unexpectedly, arrival at the bus station in Tanga presented every new passenger with mobs of anxious touts and hustlers all determined to help them spend their money. Fighting my way through a solid wall of grabbing hands blocking my way out of the bus and then almost running away from the terminal I eventually found quiet breathing space and started my search for someplace to spend a night or two. 

There were no truly modern hotels, lodges, or motels anywhere in town and only one place that would accept credit card payment. One of the three recently remodeled rooms in the Mkonge Hotel offered air conditioning, a television set sans remote, inoperative telephone, a comfortable bed and all the cold water I cared to use during my showers. Having exhausted all other possibilities and now tired from my two hours of scouting, I took the best room they had at a rate of $40. The tepid showers turned out to perfectly compliment the hot weather each afternoon and I actually enjoyed them. The one cyber cafe I found in town did not have air conditioning, so I spent very little time working at the $1.80/hr facility. I did spend a lot of time walking the town and exploring the area where the fishermen landed their catches and their wives sold the harvest.

Everywhere I go in Africa I see people, mostly younger girls carrying water home for the family. I do the same thing for myself in this part of the world and I drink a lot of water lately. After a few blocks six pounds of water begins to feel like twelve. Those poor kids carry a lot more than a single liter and a half bottle... and on their heads for the most part. All that weight compressing their spines must stunt their growth. No wonder girls are always shorter than boys around here!

Two nights in the converted government lodge and I headed for the border with Kenya and my next stop in Mombasa. (cont.)

Peace,
Fred L Bellomy

Tanga Tanzania: lady in the market. This is typical attire for women in this part of Tanzania. Market areas like this seem to be set up like a Sunday swap meet everyday and disassembled each night.

Tanga Tanzania: The dining room at the Mwenge Hotel where I stayed looks out on the Indian Ocean.

Tanga Tanzania: the fishing harbor; out of view along the bank is the market where the day's catch is sold.

Tanga Tanzania: what people on the street see when I take out my "chocolate" and proceed to take some pictures.