THE RIDE TO TANGA

KWA BASI

The morning was typical of most that I had experienced in Arusha during my first month of Peace Corps training–cool, calm, and misty. A parka was comfortable, more for warmth than to stay dry, and the bus station does have quite a number of covered seating areas paralleling the parking lanes used by departing buses. I was puzzled to find my fellow trainee, Rachel, sitting in an area clearly marked Dar es Salaam, but I understood why when I saw our Kiswahili language trainers near by, for they were heading home to forget us for ten days.

It would certainly be a period of mutual benefit, for every one of the other twenty-two trainees whose comments I had heard, and these definitely mirrored my own opinions, was very dissatisfied with the training program. The Tanzanian trainers are marvelously friendly and entertaining, and they certainly have enough knowledge and skill to teach Kiswahili to us Wazungu, but somehow the overall result was a dreary boredom–and most unhappily the best part of the day was usually the language study.

At twenty-two, Rachel is the youngest in our group, and nearly forty years her senior, I am decidedly the oldest. Our relative Kiswahili abilities are also extreme, she being among the quickest, and I, well.... Training had reached its midpoint, and we were each given four days to travel to our assignment sites, where we were to spend three to five days observing our school in action. Since mine is no more than an hour’s walk from my family home in Arusha, I had proclaimed openly for some time that I planned to get out of town for a few days before going up the hill, where I would still have as much time to spend as anyone else. Rachel's school is “only” a day's ride away–some trainees faced three days of bus riding–so we decided to take a short break together.

And that is how I happened to be strolling around the Arusha bus station on a drizzly Thursday morning looking for the AMTCO bus to Tanga, a sleepy, as it turned out, little Tanzanian port, and yet the country's second largest, on the Indian Ocean. I found the bus alright, out in an uncovered part of the station, and we boarded and set out, not at 10:00, however, but at 10:30; the latter is the intended departure time, but the schedule shows the earlier hour, which is the time passengers are asked to report.

I was paying only a little attention, but still our initial route seemed a very curious one, and then it was clear that we were in one of Arusha's industrial areas, where we spent an hour picking up first a load of paper, packed in cardboard boxes, and then some baked goods; I was particularly fascinated to watch the porters we had brought along climb the ladder on the side of the bus with two boxes of paper perched atop their heads. And then, sure enough, just before 12:00, we were back in the terminal where we had started. Most of the porters got off, some more passengers got in, and lots more “luggage” was piled on top of the bus.

Indeed to accumulate topside cargo seemed to be the main function of the bus. First we acquired some sacks of what appeared to be grain; then these were all relocated to accommodate about a dozen very large containers of semi-ripe tomatoes; and finally, at least in my recollection, a very large rubber, or perhaps plastic object–it appeared to have one axis of rotational symmetry–was somehow hoisted on top and tied down. Loose ends of rope were flapping all about the bus for some time, but by then I was much too fatigued to get out and watch.

Someplace along the way the bus stopped in the middle of nowhere, which it often did, to pick up an old man. He had four piles of burlap bags, each neatly tied, which he started to drag up the steps into the aisle of the bus, which quite typically was already filled with standees and luggage. Almost immediately porters jumped off, hoisted the sacks on top, and away we went. And of course when the old man disembarked, the process was reversed. It was in the town where our “lunch” break was taken, and I noticed that he later retained a man with a very large wheelbarrow to transport his possessions, which could well have been all he owned.

When we first left Arusha on our second departure from the station, I noted with interest a few of the lesser roads the bus passed by: the road to Ilboru Secondary School, which I would use for the first time on Sunday afternoon; the road toward Mt. Meru, which I had so enjoyed walking on that glorious Sunday afternoon early in my Arusha visit; and finally the turnoff to the national park of which Meru is the prime attraction, at least to me. A visit to that peak, and the park containing it, is still in the future. A little farther on, near the town of Moshi, I noticed a sign that recalled to memory another mountain, this one in my past: “Kibo Hotel, climbs of Mt. Kilimanjaro.” That sign evoked bittersweet memories of which I have written previously. Fortunately, there were now enough new conflicting emotions and a sufficient variety of sights to keep my mind concentrated on the present...and the near future.

While joining about two-thirds of the trainees at our favorite bar, known affectionately as Baba George's because one of our host families owns it, Stanley, the extremely capable Tanzanian who keeps PC House operating smoothly and who judiciously agrees with our criticisms of its problems, had suggested a good hotel for Rachel and me to use in Tanga. Of course we didn't even think of phoning ahead for reservations. On reaching the Tanga terminal around 11:00–three hours late–we, actually Rachel did it, negotiated a taxi fare to the hotel. It looked good, even took credit cards, and was booked solid. Rachel's Kiswahili was more than adequate for this difficulty, and the desk clerk recommended a hotel just down the street. We walked there, and although it looked a bit shabby, we thought we had arranged for two rooms, when the clerk abruptly announced that he actually had only one.

So we returned to the first hotel, where the clerk still insisted that he had no rooms, but he did recommend a third place some distance away. And I think it was in response to my firm English, on which I always rely in emergencies, that he agreed not only to phone that place but also to arrange taxi transportation there. He did this while I grabbed a quick bite and a beer or two. Rachel drank a soda but ate nothing; she can live all day on a loaf of bread, evidently.

Before we, or I, finished eating, our cabbie arrived, joined us, and promptly suggested an alternative hotel–“just as good but at less than half the price.” We eventually agreed to his suggestion, and although we wondered a bit at the wisdom of entering a totally dark, completely unknown inn at about 1:00 a.m., by next morning's light we were glad we did. The Bandarini has outlived its prime, quite clearly, but my room with bath and air conditioning–not yet needed–was about $5, and this included a breakfast of mango, toast and jam, and tea. Rachel's room lacked a private bath but did have a verandah overlooking the water, and for an outlay of $3.75, she was delighted.

We spent our day walking with occasional stops for eating and drinking. The commercial harbor is modern with several cranes; of course we could neither get near it nor photograph it from a distance. Several buildings, for hotels and offices I suspect, are under construction, and the methods and materials in use seem quite up to date. Although downtown is quiet, almost deserted, the local economy must be quite strong.

We were received hospitably at the local (private) swimming club but decided against a dip in this part of the Indian Ocean. Later, during lunch at the hotel where we were supposed to stay but didn't, we were joined by an uninvited Arusha travel agent who was certain we needed his safari to the Serengeti–we didn't, his prices were very high. Following lunch we headed for the bus station to reserve seats for our return trips. After we went much too far north and not nearly far enough west, Rachel sought help from an old man who knew where it was but believed (1) it was too far for Wazungu to walk, and (2) we couldn't find it anyway. So he took us there, on foot of course; he gave us thirty minutes of his life, but then how often does he get to talk with someone like Rachel?

It was during that walk that I decided Tanga was really a town of several villages, each with its own market, one with the bus station, perhaps another with the railroad depot, and of course the main business and tourist area downtown. We concluded our tour with a visit to the beach where fishermen were busy unloading their fresh, glistening catches onto the sand where they could quickly get stale and dirty. After an adequate Chinese meal downtown–no fish, thank you–we retired early.

Cold showers are a normal part of boarding school life, particularly in the British tradition, so Saturday morning I took one, actually my second on this trip, since on the next day I would be heading for Ilboru on the slopes of Mt. Meru, where the water and the climate would be much colder–I rather doubt that practice improves this kind of activity, but it seemed worth a try. I was a bit early for breakfast, but after my account was settled, our genial owner-host saw to it that I was served. To the waiter's questioning glance at Rachel's empty chair, I replied analala (she sleeps), which produced a grin on his face and the rest of my breakfast.

She appeared soon after, gulped a little breakfast, and we walked to the terminal, a route we now knew well. I found my bus–Bembea is the company's name–while she made inquiries about her much shorter trip; we chatted until the driver started the bus, and then I boarded. The previous afternoon the ticket seller had advised, “Take seat 35; it's the best on the bus.” When I saw that seat, I was surprised, for it had no obvious positive attributes. In fact the window just in front of it, which I would open if I wanted fresh air, was broken off at the top and was held in place at the bottom by two strips of paper towel; I slid it open anyway.

The floor of the bus had just been hosed off, and water was still standing in the depressions of the corrugated floor, so instead of putting my bag by my feet as I had intended, I unthinkingly put it on the rack directly over my head, where of course I couldn't see it. The trip to Tanga had been a good one for me, very relaxing despite the rigors of Tanzanian bus travel, and I had made some important decisions regarding my stay in Africa. Still in a contemplative mood, I sat idly glancing at the few passengers in front of me while thinking how nice it would be if the bus remained only one-quarter filled for the entire trip.

Suddenly my daydreaming was shattered by the screams of people outside, and I looked up to see a mob running away from the bus, with a few even lobbing stones at something in front of it. It seemed strange to me that a crowd could erupt so quickly, but I didn't perceive what was happening. A few minutes later, however, when a familiar blue-cloth briefcase was help up outside my window, I did finally wake up. It was returned intact, so I suffered only a brief, but very stern lecture. I suspect the would-be thief was not so fortunate, which makes me doubly sorry for my carelessness.

The bus left on time, at 9:00, and we made good progress until 9:30 when we reached an inoperative bus beside the road. We picked up its passengers, and for most of the trip after that the bus was filled with standees; this run was a short-distance people shuttle in contrast to the long-distance cargo haul on Thursday. The large number of women making short runs, either alone or with small children, impressed me. It is quite common to see a woman who is standing deposit her baby on the lap of a seated stranger, often a man, and leave the child there even if she finds a seat. We stopped briefly at the station in Humez at 10:00 and at the one in Korogwe around 11:30; the latter had dried out a little since Thursday night, but it was still quite wet and muddy. It was here that we acquired a large and very loud portable radio whose music, fortunately, could only occasionally be heard above the considerable background clatter of the bus itself.

My window fell out once, against the shoulder of the woman in front of me, and the man next to her opened it completely to secure it. I didn't mind the added breeze, although the dust from the road soon left me filthy, because from 9:30 onward I had been in a state of near fatal compression caused by the much larger than average Mama who overflowed the seat next to me and gave me an extra squeeze whenever someone passed in the aisle. Tanzanians leave you adequate space when conversing, but when standing or sitting near you, they think nothing of draping themselves around your neck. On this trip I soon learned to extend an elbow or shoulder in any exposed direction and immediately to fill any vacated space near me.

At around 12:30 we took an hour lunch break in Mombo, and for the first and only time in two days of bus travel, the engine was turned off; I actually suspect the driver got off for sambucas and chai, and it simply died. Rest stops are not announced; riders just know what's happening. I keep my eye on the conductor or driver when I leave the bus, although the former is risky because he moves very quickly and also jumps on and off while it's in quite rapid motion. Just before we stopped the window had fallen out again, and this time the conductor “fixed” it in a fully closed orientation, so I was quite warm in my assigned seat.

On the drive east we had both been intrigued with the varied climatic zones through which we passed and with the resulting multifaceted plant life. I was especially intrigued by a cactus-like plant that we collectively suspected, and I have since confirmed, is the source of sisal. On this return trip I was interested to see several loads being hauled somewhere, some cut “leaves” hanging in distant sheds, and the appearance of the plant itself after cutting. In some areas there were very tall stalks, and in others red flowers growing in the center of these or similar plants. Somewhere along the road after lunch the window fell out a third time and was replaced in a partially open configuration with such firmness that it will likely never move again until it shatters; this was great until evening when it got very cold.

Among other plants of interest were coconut palms growing near the coast, lots of maize in all areas, cactus in hotter regions, coffee and banana plants near Arusha, and here and there sunflowers so big that if they grew like that in Kansas, I would believe in Dorothy and the Wizard of Oz. Oranges were, and still are, for sale everywhere: roadside vendors adroitly peel off the outer skin in very narrow strips with quick strokes of a knife blade held close to a finger, and then cut the orange in half; the buyer sucks out the juice. I also very much enjoyed some unidentified birds, particularly a black species whose head and upper body are bright red.

We made a rather brief station stop a little before 3:30 at Same. The country between our lunch stop and here was rather bleak and sparsely populated; the bus was not full on this stretch. The one- and two-story buildings with their longer walls facing the road reminded me of western Australia and the “long straight” section of its Indian Pacific railroad route; the bleakness helped the comparison.

About 4:15 we stopped at a roadside service station for a very well attended even if unannounced rest stop, and then we were quickly off for Moshi in whose bus station we arrived shortly before 5:30. After leaving there we paused once for nearly thirty minutes to allow free passage of a caravan of some unknown–to me; others took off their hats, and some even bowed–government officials. It was too cloudy to see much of either mountain, but the sunset was nice. We pulled into Arusha before 8:00, less than an hour behind schedule.

Travel here is indeed difficult, always slow, and often dangerous, no matter what the mode, but then, I've always enjoyed walking.

W. Vance Johnson

07 Aug 92