my My Wandering

I however believe man’s unhappiness emerged the moment he learnt how to freeze, to artificially preserve the here and now.

(Yasunari Kawabata)

‘What are these monkey faces doing here?’, a man behind me, sporting an exotic holiday and a select airline user aura, mumbled upon approaching the boarding gate and noticing some of the passengers already there. He probably resented the idea that Qatar Airlines – an airline upscale Romanian holiday-makers fancied and prided themselves on using – could cater to anyone else but the members of the said exclusive holiday club he undoubtedly and unquestionably belonged to since the most important achievement of his life, namely shitting in his ultra all inclusive pampers for the first time. And yet, half of the passengers on the Doha-bound aircraft consisted of rather short, quiet men heading back home to Hanoi, their tired faces talking of a lot of hard work for months if not years on end. The other half consisted of well-to-do, typically noisy Romanians going on exotic holidays. The latter were equally tired – or maybe ‘stressed’ would be more appropriate a term -, with their own welfare as the main – and arguably sole – reason behind that.

As we took off, the short, exhausted man sitting next to me – thankfully one of those ’monkey faces’ – gently lifted his head and looked through the window at the colourful city lights below, radiating a child-like joy while taking in the view many other passengers seemed to be unaware of while already pondering on whether to ask for red or white wine before dreaming of the posh hotel they were heading to. At the same time, a lady behind the short man expressed her utter disconfort and drama as, getting to the airport with a 37 kg. suitcase, she was denied checking in as the trolley belt could not support such weight, so that she had to hurry to the nearest mall, buy a second suitcase and split the holiday luggage in two. It was funny but it came as no surprise that the always revolted, tired, the ceaselessly complaining contemporary gilet jaune, ‘il est interdit d’interdire’, free-to-say-no-to-responsibility Western society was the noisy, extrovert one, while those doing the hard work Europeans for instance no longer cared do – or no longer mastered for that matter – were the quiet ones. And having them both in the same place, with only apparently the same destination would have been captivating, unless one had noticed the extent to which the West decayed day by day not because of terrorism, immigration or economic competition, but from within, because of its dear, tongue-in-the-cheek, pampered self always postponing de facto living for some other time.

The driving was rather slow, first due to the traffic around Nairobi, then due to the works meant to turn the road into a highway. Hills alternated with crowded communities, patches of eucalyptus plantations typically drying out the land while not allowing any other vegetation to coexist with them, and bustling crossroads where dozens of boda-bodas and the more recent (in Africa) acquisition of the bajaj patiently waited for a matatu or full size bus to halt and for customers to show up. But, it only took one a short walk down the backstreets of Nanyuki to revive, a freshly hand grounded coffee and a plain chapati, all that in the pulsating flow of African life complete with its colourful dresses and shop windows, honking traffic, omnipresent music, as well as the chance discussion complete with contagious laughter with the several brothers and sisters running a shoe store. A friend familiar with Central and West Africa once put it beautifully, even though it did take me years of travel there to get his point: one does not need sightseeing places in these parts of Africa, not because they did not exist, but rather because unlike other parts of the world, life was not lived in the past or future in Africa. Everything that does not belong to the here and now is simply not worth considering, not out of a superficial life approach, but rather quite to the contrary. Living on illusions, grand prospects, mortgages and credit cards denies the very meaning of a responsible life one grabs with both hands and gets along with every second. And then, when one calls it a day and turns off the light a mere kilometer from the bustling town centre, remaining in an almost absolute silence where only crickets provide a background – and even that one appears as a too noisy one – that day could not have been fuller.

More ups and downs across green countryside delivered one to Chogoria Village, with the tarmac ending shortly afterwards and the recent rains turning several steeper stretches of the dirt road to the Mount Kenya gate into a real sledge track despite our four wheel drive vehicle, which required car pushing or consolidating the muddy, slippery track with bamboo shoots and stones. The over 20 km. of track across the rainforest explained why some of the flora above the treeline did not have names in Swahili, with human access being next to impossible before man developed a taste for leisure hunting and tourism. At the trailhead, an information signpost mentioned, among other rules trekkers needed observe: ‘Keep a safe distance from any dangerous animals. They do have the right of way.’ Environment Minister Tánczos Barna that, contrary to the very job purpose and title of his job, called for laws exterminating wildlife and turned a blind eye on illegal logging and poaching in Romania, should have visited a national park like this. Past the treeline, the view opened grandly, with the smooth, tall grass and shrub-covered slopes going up until they got enshrouded by the clouds above. Tucked in what appeared to be a bucolic scenery, the powerful Nithi Falls sprayed with a very powerful stream the curious that walked to its bottom. At the same time, clouds were rolling in and out at will, while brief showers alternated with periods of strong sunshine.

The sound of the rain that did not cease all night merged in with that of the strong stream nearby, creating an extraordinarily relaxing background. It was still pouring when we started up the gentle slope covered in drenched shrub.

‘There is a different dimension to life’, Patrick, my guide, started upon my telling him that, even though my father came from the countryside, as he had left his village as a schoolboy, he never considered claiming his share of the family property there, as he believed that the land and house there should belong to those using them on a daily basis – his sister and brother-in-law in this case -, and not be turned in a holiday nest used once in a blue moon. ‘Possessions. With how many mouths does one eat, in how many beds can one sleep at a given time, how many houses can one dwell in?’, he then carried on. ‘We do not know much about God, but we do know this: we are meant to care for one another, to do what we can to help our brethren, and to share what we have got, especially in times of need like this pandemic; we instead keep on gathering things’. His words bore no militating tint at all, they were simply sad. He then stopped just as suddenly as he had started and silence prevailed for a long while.

Reaching Minto’s Hut and the few ponds there, we set camp, while the mist ahead slowly gave way, allowing the grand Macmillan, Delamere and Craydon peaks to look down at us like at a couple of ants. Great walls, jagged ridges, steep slopes, as well as cliffs that defied gravity put together an exquisite act with the support of the clouds that added a sense of ultimate mystery to it all. Behind them all, the Nelion and Batian topped the view with their vertical fork. As if to boost the drama of the scene above our heads, at our feet, several hyraxes sneaked between boulders and sniffed at the narrow grassy stripe around one of the ponds while looking for something to eat. One could have hardly imagined a place where drama and serenity shared the same spot. So much unlike any of man’s enterprises, it ought to be added.

The heavy rain started soon after it got dark, a matter of routine already. And then, some hours later, it ceased, to the extent that no sound whatsoever could be heard, not a bird, not a trace of wind, nothing. Stirred by the unusual situation, I touched the tent tarp just to find it hard: the rain had turned to snow and the tent was leaning under the weight of two inches’ worth of heavy, wet snow. We however started as planned, so that by 03:30 AM we were making our way through a labyrinth of pools, snow-covered shrub and grass, while what had once been a trail had now turned into a stream. As we were going up, the air got cooler and the soft, wet snow turned into a more compact and solid blanket partly shaped by the wind. Dawn found us on the last – and only rockier – stretch to Point Lenana, which greeted us with its cold winds stirring the snow and some -10C. The view was supposed to be grand, but now it only went for some dozens of meters, so that we carried on down the ridge to the Austrian Hut, then making our way towards Mackinder’s Camp. Shortly before going down to Teleki Creek, the snow disappeared, with a picturesque, grassy, flat bottom valley inviting one to camp. At the same time, the view we had been denied a couple of hours earlier was more generous now, as the imposing Batian and Nelion glittered in the sun between two tides of clouds, while the pointy Point John loomed above our heads like a sword. There was nothing more to be had, done or said, as, shortly after drying out all our wet stuff, I took the afternoon off and walked up Teleki Creek to the homonymous tarn with its green water only a couple of wild ducks dared disturb.

Carrying on with the circuit, we then trekked across crests and cwms hosting glacial lakes, with the impressive verticals of the Point John, Batian or Point Peter above our heads, with the weather being more generous with us this time. Down to Shipton Camp, a small, but vigorous army of hyraxes welcomed us, ready to grab the food from our hands or packs. After going down the enjoyable, wide Liki Mackinder Valley for a while, we crossed into Liki North and then Omulili valleys over boggy terrain that brought to mind both the Scottish islands and the foothills of the Rwenzoris closer by. Night found us in the small campsite off Old Moses’ Hut, as the soft-spoken Swahili with its omnipresent emphasized vowels merged in with the totally quiet night around a bonfire.

Going down the great mountains where only birds’ chirping, winds’ whistling and the trekker’s own steps’ constant treading the trail keep him company, and getting to a fast beat city choked with traffic, packed with people even in its most secluded spot, there are basically two, be it, three, options to consider: compromise-led conformism, a ticket to the (same or other) mountains or one to the islands. I had left the first option at home, as Romania translated as nothing but an endless, cheap but shiny and whorish compromise. The second option was on its way, so that for the time being the third one was handy. Until then however, Nairobi was filling, its glitz office high rises and shops with their 1980s design alternated with British era administrative buildings and some quite interesting Modernist properties, all these puffed with fumes from the many decrepit but colourful buses and newer matatus. These neat buildings were home or office for the rich or anyway well-to-do folks and pretty often provided a meagre and elusive shelter for the poor and homeless leaning against their backside. Within a quarter an hour of my walking in the downtown, I was twice approached by men with the same old stories starting with the country I was coming from, my opinion about black Africans or Kenya, and eventually leading to a business move: how about a safari or a Masai souvenir? One wondered whether such tricks ever worked. As there were people playing them from Paris to Pointe Noire, they probably did. Which left one wondering how grand an idiot could their victim be to fall for them.

However, for the time being, after a lengthy walk across town and back to the noisy and not-that-fancy, but lively and samosa fragrance-filled district my guesthouse was located in, respectively after a visit to the town-sized Aga Khan Foundation consisting an extensive hospital, clinics, a university and several other businesses in order to get the Covid 19 test certificate required for the upcoming journey to the South, I hopped to the small Wilson Airport at the same time with score of those expensive pick-up trucks police never dared stop at the many checkpoints, as they were  carrying heaps of big packs full of qat, the leaves that, among others, Yemenites and Somalis chewed day in, day out.

Just like Ethiopian Airways, local airlines in Kenya had learnt to be flexible and adjust their business to the market way better than, say, the Romanian flag carrier or other European airlines that seemed to prefer bankruptcy to making their fancy high heel pieces of furniture make use of their brains for a change. In Romania, of the about one dozen cities served by an airport, more than half did not provide enough traffic to make regular (i.e. more frequent than daily) flights cost efficient; hence flights getting thinned out, routes being altogether canceled or scheduled at the worst of times most people could or would not want to consider. Instead, in Ethiopia or Kenya, domestic flights were often the city hopping kind: Nairobi to Mombasa to Lamu to Malindi and back to Nairobi, all that with two daily rotations for instance; while never full for the entire loop, the airline sold tickets for loop legs, which at the end of the day brought in more cash. Instead, Tarom preferred to run routes like Bucharest to Baia Mare or Bucharest to Satu Mare with rather empty aircrafts, have a single flight a day either in the wee hours of the morning or late at night or cancel routes while at the same time begging for yet another wad of cash from the government. But then, life had taught Africans to be way more practical than the European cardboard society could ever even dream of.

Lamu was interesting with its maze of winding alleys, finely carved wood doors, small, serene gardens tucked away from public sight behind coral reef walls and the colourful community there. There were obvious Persian influences, given the fine, decorated plaster niches used to display or store glassware, cookware or pottery. There were many Arab influences, from the light game, to eye catching cusped arches and, of course, the Swahili language. There were myriads of Indian fragrances in the air, from the cuisine and all the way to the outfit colour scheme of the local woman attire.  And then, hot and humid as its air was, Lamu proved to be quite sticky an experience, with its dozens of young men starting all sorts of scam stories, with children that approached one with sex with young local men, marijuana, tours, dhow rides or accommodation among the options. Lamu was hot and humid, reminding me of Al Mukalla in Yemen, and man skirts were similar to the Yemeni izaar. And not least, Lamu was hands-on, real, what could not be said about the dozens of all inclusive resorts around the islands and their stiff, self-sufficient customers.

An sms from a friend back home read: ‘should you need a repatriation flight out of there, let me know and I shall talk to Grindeanu’. I did not know and cared not check whether he referred to Omicron, the new South African SARS-CoV2 virus mutation that had some countries reimpose travel bans (especially on people coming from certain African countries), or to the recent bombings in Kampala that had led to an Ugandan government army intervention against the Congo DR-based insurgents in a country that had unfortunately become less and less stable in recent years. It was simply not worth the effort as the sms was nothing but the typical, spiteful ‘mișto’ (mockery Romanians pride themselves with and live their lives in), one of the core values shared by Romanians, alongside egocentrism, hatred, swindling and conspiracy; I have not counted in nationalism or dogmatic, hollow Orthodoxy, as such values belong to the said egocentrism hotpot. As for the mentioned Sorin Grindeanu, my friend’s former boss and a PSD/SDP (the ex-Communist party de facto ruling Romania since the 1989 coup, either alone or with equally corrupt brothers in arms like the PNL/NLP or the UDMR/RMDU) big wig currently incumbent Minister of Transport, he would not have been even the last option to consider, should any situation whatsoever impose it. If the said mișto, egocentrism, hatred, swindling and conspiracy-prone Romania decided to shut itself down again (the country was very good at that with its Nicolae Ceaușescu and Ion Iliescu record), one had better stay in Africa. By all and any means.

The works on the highway made the traffic out of Nairobi even worse than it was elsewhere, with vehicles coming from all sides and joining a hiccup torrent where everyone sped up, just to hit the brakes an inch or two short of running into the vehicle ahead. The road to Namanga was actually a long, almost continuous line of bustling communities, where boda-bodas, grills and the typical loud music ruled. It would all change a short while before Namanga and the Tanzanian border, as the land got drier, trees got shorter and more spaced out, and the common folk along the road got a different appearance and attire, as the Maasai were tall, thin if not all the way skinny and had a rather bony face with sunken eyes. Past the border with its crowd of men, small businesses and trucks waiting to get customs clearance, communities got even sparser, often consisting of a few mud houses, sometimes traditionally round-shaped and topped by thick grass layers, and other times square, respectively with tin roofs. Skinny goats and less frequently equally skinny cattle fed upon the scarce grass while being tended or led by Maasai children. Distinctively from their neighbours of a different ethnicity, the Maasai were neither loud, nor inquisitive. Rarely did they laugh and, as I saw while going through the cross-border procedures, a conflict led neither to quarrel, nor to physical action, but rather to knife sharp eyes that said more than a thousand curses or threats. Men stood perfectly upright and most bore a tall walking stick in their hands; agitation of any kind seemed alien to their lives, as not even children did not rush or run in any way, while childhood games had been replaced by a quick dive in adult duties. Past Arusha we got back to the agitated, dense typical African life, while the sober Maasai culture dissipated at once and, some 9 hours after leaving Nairobi, the minibus called at Moshi with the local bus station, an amazingly active volcano, overshading by all means the dead quiet Kilimanjaro above. 

African Gospel was blaring out of the four wheel drive minibus: it was Sunday morning and people were heading back home from the church in the communities we were crossing along the way. Past the last village, the typical red dirt road climbed up among eucalyptus (as always a bad choice, as, despite the fact that it grows quickly, the species dries out the ground and does not allow any other vegetation grow around it) and pine plantations among which potatoes were cultivated in extenso. Above the treeline, the typical heather bushes became the norm and the wind stepped in. There were rather few people in Shira 1 Camp and generally up the mountain: the epidemics provided one of the decisive reasons for my coming this way, and even so along one of the least used routes up the mountain, as it first contoured the whole thing on the Northern side before approaching the summit. After a crystal clear sky, hence chilly night, bush and shrub were gradually replaced by scarce grass, lichen, evergreen flowers and rare lobelias. Beyond Moir Camp, things got even more desolate, with the volcanic red, brown and grey cliffs, boulders and scree becoming omnipresent. Only the mist, with its flowing up and down the mountain, as well as a couple of white collar ravens making loops above the head granted the whole scene some sense of life. Yet it once again turned dead quiet, while the canopy of stars looked with its million eyes down them mortals in their elusive quest for the world above.

Suiten tsaai. Back in Mongolia, people brewed tea in melted yak butter and added salt to it, hence resulting a highly energizing drink resembling more some thick soup than a cuppa of FTGFOP rated tea. In East Africa, people brewed tea in milk and cow, let alone yak butter was not available, which called for an improvisation meant to help one cope with the cold and going. I had never been a fan of peanut butter, but it now clicked. A cup of hot water, at least 3 teaspoons of milk powder, one or why not two teabags and a couple of teaspoons of the said peanut butter plus a tad of salt, all that mixed thoroughly until homogenous, provided a filling, warming and energizing drink that would have had me going for hours.

I had chosen one of the longest routes up the mountain for two reasons: to see different parts of the mountain and not only the fastest or easiest way up, respectively to steer away from other trekkers. The trail carried on skirting the mountain on its Northern side, crossing old lava flows, nowadays dry torrent gullies, rocky or scree sections and the odd patch of more dense vegetation, in a sharp contrast with the Western side at the same or even higher elevation. As for the other trekkers, except for only one other party that was soon left behind, there were indeed none. None for the time being, as, after a marvelously quiet night between the main peak and the eye-catching Mawenzi, things were to expectedly and dramatically change.

After going up the rather constant gradient slope towards the saddle between Mawenzi and Kibo, the way steepened to the quiet, deserted School Camp with its toilet providing a magnificent 4800 m.a.s.l. view over the Mawenzi and, after crossing a couple of ravines, the cluster of buildings at Kibo Hut appeared in all their modernity and congestion. The trail coming from down the saddle and farther from Horombo Hut resembled a highway compared to the one I had used so far, and clusters of people plied it from time to time: it was pretty obvious this was one of the busiest two routes up towards the summit. There was a constant buzz around the camp, with porters streaming in with their big backpacks and even bigger loads on their heads, as well as with customers dragging their feet up the slope well behind. There was no exploitation here: climbers had long provided with a living many people in the communities around the mountain, as a whole infrastructure had developed to cater for them. And still, it was moving to witness the scene where some carried up and down the mountain others’ welfare for meagre salaries and hoping for a good, somewhat compensatory tip at the end.

December 9, Tanzania’s independence day. Thunders started shortly after nightfall. They were distant, but yet, as the high altitude frail clouds the morning before had announced, they were bringing in precipitations, luckily in the form of a snowfall that commenced soon. Ahead of me on the trail at almost 1 AM there was a line of headlamps that faded into the snow and mist above: a group of over 100 Tanzanians was attempting the Uhuru (that actually meant ‘freedom’) to mark the country’s independence. Some wore makeshift gear, others were struggling up the slope given an obvious lack of trekking exercise or experience. Every now and then, one or a couple of them came down, giving it up while hardly breathing, with the eyes in the ground. Yet most carried on in silence, in a constant, slow, but determined pace, with only low singing breaking the silence every now and then. Nobody had urged these people up the mountain, there was no church, guru, political party or businessman behind their attempt to go up the mountain; they had paid for this and were doing it because they decided they should do so. Then yes, Tanzania relied a lot on the tribal pattern and people had an inborn respect and veneration for community values, but that alone did not suffice to explain such a gesture.

There was something radiating from this line of otherwise solemn people, a pure, genuine belief compared to which Christianity with its statues and icons to ceremoniously knee in front of or lick or pharaonic cathedrals to feel humble in betrayed nothing short of idolatry. Meanwhile, taking these people over, I continued looking down the rather steep slope at their winding line of headlamps until almost reaching the ridge at Gillman’s Point.

The snowing ceased and a canopy of stars soon appeared overhead. Breaking trail through the fresh snow, I soon reached Stella Point: a few headlamps flickered below it, sign that there were people coming up, but they were still distant. Some half an hour later, the iconic sign came into sight ahead of me: Uhuru Peak, Kilimanjaro’s highest point. It was still dark, but dawn was not too far away. Slowly, the volcano crater revealed itself to the North, and then Hans Meyer Point, the one I had crossed to get here. There was a thick layer of low clouds and the sun played with them before peeking over them at me and the few other trekkers that eventually appeared along the crater rim. It was very cold and the wind, while not that strong, made it feel colder, yet the view over the Mawenzi, or the Reusch Crater was captivating, as the mountain with its fresh snow cover changed colour as the sun pleased.

‘Congratulations for the summit! You know, it is the 60th anniversary of my country’s independence, hence my coming up here’, simply and honestly put it a man as I was retracing over Hans Meyer Point. It was that simple, and yet that impossible to understand for the self-destroying Western civilization where things matter only if there is something to get at the end of the road.

It is always refreshing and rejuvenating in a way to wake up to a different reality than that imagined upon going to sleep. Just opening my wallet where I had arranged the tips for the crew the day before, I found it empty: no dollars, no shillings, not even the few Romanian lei. Checking the other place I had money in, I found the same situation. In short, I had been wiped clean and that could have only happened during the time I had left the tent to go to the toilet, therefore those doing so had been very vigilent, carefully planned and nonetheless quick; a thorough logical approach indicated to one of the crew. After going down the mountain, with the rangers passing the issue to the police, a visit there was the de rigueur thing to do. No world famous wildlife park in Tanzania would have provided for the same – or way higher – price a greater experience. The police station was crowded with people coming and going or waiting for hours, yet staff made sure people did not wait in front of the building in an attempt to save face. Invited together with the ranger that had brought the handwritten report down the mountain, one entered the police station building, went along a meandering hallway, exited the imposing building through a backdoor, crossed a makeshift parking crammed with staff motorcycles, then entered a low profile, dilapidated building hosting officers’ offices. As we entered and a theft report started to be put together, a fancy wig and baroque, rainbow colour dress lady tuned the TV set above to a music channel and turned the volume high.

The officer in front of me had two objectives with his report: 1. to actually have it so that, if I complained to my embassy (he did not know Romania had no embassy in Tanzania, but that was irrelevant) or some of his superiors, he was covered, and 2. to file things his institutional way so that nobody could blame him of anything, but also so that the whole thing did not bother him too much with unnecessary work. Referring to the Romanian police twice in 10 years due to accidents initiated by typically irresponsible drivers, the whole thing appeared very familiar. Just like in Romania, finding those guilty was not the point here. The point was that everything – disregarding of what ‘everything’ actually meant – was done by the book, the amount of work (e.g. investigation, interviews, research) was reduced to a minimum or why not to nil, while the officer in charge always saved face. I would have left the minute I arrived at the station, but did not do so as the rangers were equally eager to get released of any responsibility while passing it to the police and as the whole experience was well worth the money, the time and the prospect of postponing a shower after a week’s trekking to Africa’s roof. Meanwhile, it is worth noting – and was of great comfort, as well as a world apart from the Romanian counterpart, where police officers always play a cheap, dum and tacky 007 or John Wayne character – the way every discussion began with courtesy, smiles, questions about one’s well-being, his or her travel or week-end prospects and so on. And, also to the Tanzanian police officer’s credit, he never attempted to tell me what to actually write in the statement. Back in 2012 in Transylvania, a handful of locals attacked our group of cyclists with stones trying to steal our bicycles, which ended with a cyclist’s broken arm; and police officers, after unsuccessfully trying to cover everything up (the media had stepped in), were desperate to have victims write statements the way that would suit them and got very nervous when victims refused, making their statements according to what had actually happened.

‘I am so sorry about this’, sincerely said Elias who had guided me up and down the mountain.

‘Well, this is in a way like going to the mountains: one sometimes goes up, but it is impossible to only go up, so that one needs go down every now and then. It is important though that one does not get stuck down there, as there are always prospects of going back up. Life is not about getting stuck, death is.’

Checking with a couple of ATMs (Western-based banks, just like in Brazil, charged a hefty fee on top of the amount withdrawn), I got the money needed to tip the crew that had joined me up the mountain, winked while giving him his share to the man that had probably stolen my money and then hoped on a boda-boda to the busy bus stand, where I found both the vibrant African beat and a place to enjoy chips, samosas and ginger ale. In the evening, without any resolution from either police or national park rangers (nobody expected them to have one anyway), but rather making use of good old psychology while playing the face saving game with the right person in the dark garden of the hotel I was staying at, I had most of the stolen money back, even though not the same bills. There then followed a lengthy talk about national parks, regulations and other sightseeing opportunities in the area, as well as about the existence of a single, omniscient God above us all.

Leaving Moshi on a luxury bus (i.e. with screens showing African rap and two hundred fifty three butts and over twice as many tits shaking around the typical fancy haircut chap boldly displaying his dangling, heavy necklace and bigger than life cross), I got off in Korogwe and hopped on a boda boda heading for Magunga. Ngorongoro and Serengeti might have had their fame, but they pathetically faded away compared to Magunga, which was definitely harder to get to and immensely more appreciated when one eventually, drenched and muddy, got there. The boda boda driver, a young man living in a shack and making a hard living with a new motorcycle he was way more concerned about than of his own self, took me to a village he thought was Magunga but actually wasn’t. An ad hoc council of ladies at the end of the road there debated over the directions I had and decreed the broad area where the said Magunga should have been, but could not define the location in any precise terms. I had a phone number, but the driver had no credit, so we resolved to refer to an Airtel dealer and charge his account with TZS 500, but on the way it started heavily raining, which had us halt under a big tree, then carry on to his house, so that he could get rubber boots and a poor jacket, then halt there again and have a snack as the rain started again in full force, eventually get the credit, call my contact, get the directions and start towards Magunga, just to slide on a muddy section of the road and fall, both of us sandwiched between my backpack and the motorcycle in a sic transit gloria mundi, chocolate-like mire. Back on two wheels and sporting a different, camouflage colour now, it was then on to elusive Magunga in full speed, riders and new motorcycle shaking from all joints on the bumpy road. But then, there it was… serenely quiet, with children playing timeless games under a canopy of trees full of red flowers, respectively with the steep, 700 m. high Usambara incline above it, the latter waiting for me to climb, but not before wolfing down nearly a dozen potato samosas.

The forested slope was beautiful and cool in the beginning, it then turned hot and steeper, so that the hike along the trail going straight up turned sweaty and, well, sweaty again. An hour later, I reached some houses, walked down a narrow lane and emerged in the middle of the most beautiful of rustic settings one can ever conceive after looking for Magunga, eventually finding it and going up the slope overlooking it. A long, red dirt lane was lined up with poor red clay houses on the green background created by the tall forest all around, while women in colourful dresses and joyful children granted the picture all colour and vibrance in the world. There was a mixture of genuine, natural curiosity and inborn shyness in their behaviour, as children simply waved to the stranger, not expecting anything else but a similar response. Past the village and across small clove, cinnamon, banana and pineapple plantations, the trail went slightly down to the crystal clear water spring women filled buckets with the water of and then carried them on their head back up. And then it all opened up, with the forest giving way to extensive tea plantations run by an Indian company. Right on the crest, on the verge of the precipice running down towards Magunga and back in the forest, there were two cabins, some 50 meters in between: my destination for the day. 

Usambara Mountains were divided in two by a wide valley. The Northern section was more dramatic and way more popular, with an established tourist trail, many guesthouses, a great population density on the high plateau and a tourist centre in Lushoto which was served by buses from Dar es Salaam or Arusha. The Southern section was 1000 m. lower, featured scarce accommodation, small and rather few communities once one left the neighbouring plains, a difficult access unless one fancied trekking up some 700 m. or driving an offroad vehicle that needed go around the whole mountain while approaching it from the East, and no promotion at all, so that my decision had been quite easy to make.

The wind picked up, it then turned into a storm and rumbled all night long, with heavy showers occurring from time to time. The wooden cabin I stayed in was lit by gas lanterns as the power anyway failed during the storm and it constantly shook under the tumult outside, while broken branches or various seeds and fruit from the canopy above rapped on its roof as they were thrown by the unleashed elements. Like in Calistrat Hogaș’s beautiful novel, peace returned towards morning and the dawn was joined only by crickets, the breeze going through the forest around and some distant roosters’ unhurriedly announcing a new day, while only the still drenched red soil, as well as the pools along the trail reminded one of the stormy night. There were no giraffes, lions or kudu here but there were instead a million birds, there were no palm trees but there were dozens of flowers across the forest and there were no impressive rock formations, sapphire lakes or high mountains but there were red dirt trails leading towards an elusive waterfall through acre upon acre of a tranquil, apparently no highlight, parallel reality world to the one in the plains and renowned national parks below.

It was Sunday and, as Ngua hosted 3 churches, there was a real competition between them: loud music came from huge loudspeakers at the Lutheran church, choir singing came from the Anglican church, while people at the Roman Catholic one were probably saving their energy for a powerful kick once the others got tired, which was not guaranteed to work however, as some 6 hours later, the loud music at the Lutheran church was still on.

Joined by John, an avid, autodidact fauna and flora enthusiast from Ngua (yet, in the absence of any relevant literature, relying solely on what the forest and the villagers around taught him), I crossed tea plantation upon tea plantation, rainforest stretch upon rainforest stretch and the odd village in between. People got slightly over TZS 100 per kilo of tea leaves harvested for the East Usambara Company, which led to an average of TZS 5000 per day (USD 2.15), but were happy with that, as it was at least a steady job. In most villages one could not ignore the standardized houses, otherwise just as poor as the rest (usually the duplex type) and the long buildings made of either timber or concrete, meant as barns or stables, sometimes still functional remnants of the Socialist experiment with dramatic consequences in rural Tanzania. In every community we paid a visit to the local village head which was most times drunk on pombe, the fermented sugar cane juice, as it was Sunday.  Such discussions and the de rigueur pleasantries exchanged were greatly enjoyable, while also granting us the permission to carry on. Other than that, the people we met between villages, usually going back home from church or on the way to a wedding, were very open, cheering and friendly, rarely parting without a joke or two or more than two. There was a stark contrast between the very poor conditions these people lived in (quite similar to those in the Central African Republic brousse), from their small clay or brick houses all the way to the difficult access, and their joyful appearance, friendly attitude or colourful outfits. Back in Ngua after a lengthy walk and a decent, typically strong shower, after getting credit and turning his phone in a hotspot, we spent hours downloading pictures of Usambara birds and saving them for John, which had meanwhile finished diligently copying every piece of relevant information he found in my guidebook and was now looking for more in his quest to improve his knowledge; I was to send him a North Tanzania bird manual upon getting home.

Going from the cool Usambaras to hot Magunga and Korogwe, then on to steamy Dar es Salaam was not the most appealing of experiences, at least at first sight, but going in stages made it smoother. The bus station in Korogwe was large, properly appointed and apparently well organized, featuring different platforms for specific destinations, but it all went to hell when bus drivers or their ad hoc decisions dictated otherwise: buses would go through the station without stopping, they would stop in a different place than the one assigned to that specific route or they would slow down as if to stop, then speed up rapidly and leave. It was more a hide-and-seek game with the dozens of poor young men trying to make a living by selling fruit, snacks and drinks, which kept on desperately running under its windows as a bus approached and yelling at potential customers what they had on offer. After a rather fast drive to Dar es Salaam that epitomized the driver’s death wish and his unleashed hatred for the joints and bolts of the vehicle he was driving, almost two hours passed from the moment we passed the city limit signpost to the one we reached the bus station in Ubungo. Until one got close to the city centre, the road infrastructure of the city was well underdeveloped for the traffic – and we were lucky, as we were going towards the city centre in a weekday evening, things hardly moved in the opposite direction. While Kenya was definitely more tourist-friendly (in terms of government taxes, general travel costs and even tourism infrastructure options), Nairobi was definitely better developed in terms of infrastructure, despite the new fast bus line and inner city ring in Dar es Salaam. Ubungo was not precisely a bus station, but rather a small district of garages, parking lots and places (usually at busy crossings) where drivers or bus companies decided they would call it a journey. With the couple of bajaj drivers there both aggressive and either drunk or high, it took a bit of walking around at nearly 10 PM to find a sober man with a boda boda that drove me the 8 kilometers to the hotel.

Dar es Salaam was no longer the typical African city except for the continent extreme North or South, its population was highly heterogeneous, the atmosphere was not quieting at night, quite to the contrary, and there was a strong Arab vibe in the air, from the busy restaurants to the way people greeted each other or talked. Therefore, I was happy I could not call it a day before having an excellent cheese na’an and a fresh stafidi juice. And ever more so could be said about Zanzibar the following day, with its well solidified cultural conglomerate, where Indian, Arab, African and European pieces had blended in for centuries. Architecturally and not only, Zanzibar resembled Lamu quite a lot, with which it shared the Swahili culture, only that Zanzibar was way bigger, it had been definitely richer (as seat for a powerful line of sultans) and it lacked Lamu’s surviving charm and rustic atmosphere preserved in the absence of a crushing tourist industry and its hordes, even though, of course, it boasted an excellent heritage, from the carved wood doors and balconies to the picturesque narrow lanes and small squares where men congregated over coffee and sweets or a fluffy take on na’an. If tourists in Zanzibar stayed both in town and in the resorts around, in Lamu they stayed mostly in the resorts that were anyway fewer. Here, the Stone Town was actually a Grand Bazaar, where even grocery stores sold souvenirs of sorts and shop owners came with an infinity of schemes meant to approach the tourist – most times the baby bottom pink colour kind (there seemed to prevail British and American, as well as Russian and Scandinavian tourists) and get him in. On the other hand, the great number of people approaching one with a wide range of offers (from taxi rides to souvenirs, from drugs to guiding, from dhow rides to meals) made one skeptical and it was easier to refuse them with a polite, yet firm gesture alone. I however found a personal way that worked very well: while walking I kept on humming songs, which made it harder for someone to come approach me for whatever reason. To their credit, touts in Lamu, while definitely fewer, had definitely been more persistent (but then, it needs be said that the prey there was not as frequent as in Zanzibar). And there was one more notable difference between the two: in Zanzibar locals seemed keen to drive their cars to the point where a lane got narrower than the car, and then a mix of honking and complicated manoeuvres occurred, a familiar matter that had me thinking that Romanians and Zanzibaris definitely had something in common, a sense of blind, stubborn lack of common sense from that particular point of view.

Back to the mainland, my onward journey plans took me to the Central Station, which looked picturesquely derelict, with broken windows, nobody around and its tracks overgrown with weeds, as a construction site nearby announced the development of a railway flyover and a new station. Meanwhile, a short, but relevant ‘Refer to Kamata Station’ cleared the matter. Kamata was a secondary commuter station with a shed, a small building housing the logistics and a small 3 window structure for the ticket offices. In the evening it looked quiet and picturesque, yet the following morning not much so, at least as far as the former was concerned. Hundreds of people were waiting, just to crowd at the three double windows there (one for men, another one for women for each of the three destinations available) when the 8 AM opening time arrived. With the market-regulated bus rates being the same for locals and foreigners, the heavily subsidized, double tier rate train – especially in third class – was for many people the only way of getting from A to B, despite the notorious, lengthy delays. A few guards showed up and, by shouting and pushing people got six sort of orderly lines. People queued in a very tight manner, virtually squeezed back-to-belly, so that when one of the guards pushed those in front of the line so as to avoid overcrowding at the ticket window, the whole line went backwards domino-like, suddenly turning in a convulsive snake, with people stumbling, falling, stepping on the toes of those behind, with moans and cries. The overused call for social distancing was nothing but hypocrite irony as it met the life battle here (apart from the grand imbecility of a call for ‘social distance’ instead of ‘physical distance’ in the first place). An overall image of despair prevailed, as many, if not most of those people had no choice, no alternative, and a sold out train (that only ran once or twice a week according to the route) actually meant they could not travel period. After 3 hours of queuing and two phone calls to the station, on my returning to the Kamata for the third time I got the receipt that meant I had a place on the train the following morning. I wasn’t probably taking anyone’s place, as a sleeper was an out of reach affair for most of those I had queued with (even though sleepers would be just as fully booked), but the image of that sometimes quiet, some other times outbursting despair stayed for a long time; it was the cry of a whole continent against the odds that nature, as well as other men, among others Saudi, French, German, British or Belgian-backed, had thrown or still threw at them. I was to recall that particular image when seeing some of the Makonde spirit depictions at the National Museum I visited on a hot afternoon, in stark contrast with the noisy background provided by a touring school group.

‘Oh my… I had some other expectations from this train… Thank Goodness we brought our own linen’, said the fancy dress, elegant hairstyle and carefully chosen bracelet-wearing lady in the next berth. She was traveling back home to Burundi joined by her four daughters with which she talked only in English. They all had beautiful round faces with little, quite narrow eyes and came from a priest’s family, standing out from the rest of the passengers quite a lot, but definitely not more than the only mzungu on board. The colourful train (as some cars bore the original paint scheme, others had been covered in ads and most were full of stains resulted after the ad stickers had been removed) consisted of a few years old Chinese stock. Soon upon starting, it was clear that not only the railway station or the tracks across Dar es Salaam were upgraded, but the whole line from there to Morogoro and farther to Dodoma: the Turks at Yapı Merkezi Holding (the same having built the Bosphorus tunnel, as well as metro and high speed railway lines) were basically building a new line parallel to the one our train still used, and that would come complete with tunnels, viaducts and brand new railway stations, but also with electricity, so that the diesel engines were to be also replaced. And works advanced at a fast pace, a world apart from the next to never finalizing railway projects in backward Romania, a country where, as always, decision makers were nothing but the perfect image of the people they came from.

As hours passed by, the verdant scenery in humid Dar es Salaam and later at the foot of Uluguru Mountains in Morogoro was replaced by an arid vastness, with the typical red soil on which dry shrub, acacias and baobabs, as well as scarce, dry grass grew. This was home to small communities of cattle herders and a very slow pace life under an intense sun. While the train became home for wave upon wave of red dust stirred by the wind, the engine or, sometimes, the trucks working at the new railway line. Not only the administrative capital of Tanzania, but the epicentre of this dry land was Dodoma we reached some 12 hours after leaving Dar es Salaam, with a central location, but a quite awkward, inappropriate situation, given its water supply and even accessibility problems.

‘Alex, we are in Tabora’, said Ibrahim, a young man traveling to Kigoma from Tanga with his extended family. It was still dark outside and Ibrahim’s words brutally tore me from the company of the heavy metal playing angels: the train car suspension was very weak and every time the train went over an uneven railway track section, the suspension hit the bottom with the effect of having passengers jump up and down, banging their heads or limbs against berth walls or ceiling, according to the location of their respective beds. The train stopped for about one hour in larger stations, and that meant time for the tasty ginger spiced tea, donuts, chapatis, rice, fries with eggs or other welcome treats apart from the local products – fish, coconuts, peanut butter, mangos – brought under train windows by a stream of women and children. The one such coconut I bought in one of those communities and took home was to have airport staff raise their eyebrows while asking the impossible question prompting my indolent answer I would stick to by all and any means:

‘This is not allowed. Where have you got it?’.

‘Somewhere along a railway line. I can leave the backpack here with all that’s in it, but this coconut goes with me’.

When the Tabora halt was about to end, a short announcement through the station loudspeakers was met by a sighing wave: the train would not start again until 3 hours later due to a problem with the tracks farther afield. On a line notorious for delays (and, it needs be said, for someone coming from a country where train delays and railway staff incompetence are routine), 3 hours was nothing, and was actually a welcome break for a walk around, more tea and more chapatis.

Communities got ever smaller and more spaced out, with people cultivating narrow plots of land separated by coconut trees and extensive expanses of shrub and acacias. Dwellings, actually huts, were made of reed and palm leaves, or of clay, with palm leave or thatch roofs. People working in the fields stopped and solemnly looked as the twice weekly train (but not always passing at daytime, depending on schedule and delays) passed. Children kept on running towards this colourful snake and its constant pace noise, happily and curiously jumping, singing, dancing and waving as it passed by; those on board simply waved back and smiled at them. It was hard to imagine that this world could host both Tanzania with its children finding such joy in a momentum communication with total strangers, and Romania, where children often wave to train passengers with a ‘fuck you’ sign, unless they find it appropriate to also throw stones at the train.

Maybe the engine driver got tired or it was just my impression, but stops seemed to be ever longer, so that by the time we approached Uvinza, it was already dark. What appeared to take no more than 2 or 3 hours on a map took almost 8, so that we reached Kigoma before dawn, with a 12 hour delay taking as reference the official schedule. A great flow of people flooded the platforms leading to the station, where a sea of people awaited: relatives, friends, boda boda or bajaj drivers, hotel or guesthouse staff, porters and railway employees. Outside, a rally-like paced traffic went round and round, with drivers trying to make as many rides they could before passengers vanished.

Hours later, Kigoma was back in what probably was its regular pace of life: quiet and slow, a life lacking the inquisitive or commercial approach in other parts of the country. On the red sand beach off the town centre, there were a dozen of local people sitting around a few plastic tables and looking at Lake Tanganyika which in this section was over 100 km. wide to the Congo DR side. Rarely, one of them said something, to which someone else in the group answered unhurriedly with a barely noticeable ‘Eee’ or ‘Mmm’; a long silence followed before it went all over again. Two 5-6 year old boys, of which one was a boat assistant and the other one sold boiled eggs on the beach, started playing and running around joyfully. The boat driver, having dropped the anchor, swam to shore, then jumped and grabbed a fruit from the big mango tree above and left the stone clean with just a few bites.

The air was nearly still, and there was a very light breeze. A pile of dark clouds slowly made its way coming from the North, yet nobody around seemed either aware or concerned about that. There was no breaking news, no warning, no forecast assigning precise figures to the when, how many or how long of what could undoubtedly be described as an incoming disaster urging people to postpone their life for some other time. Once the disaster is gone, once they finish paying off their mortgage, once they buy their third car and latest iZing, once they get the right, memory foam insole running shoes and fully adjustable, perfectly breathable rain jacket. Once they have the time. Once they die.