Lilongwe, 27 March 07: The Don of Dar es Salaam
by Lianna
Turning off the main road between Arusha and Dar es Salaam, the road began
twisting and turning, climbing at an incredible rate up into the Usumbara
mountains. We'd heard a few vague reports of potentially climbable rock in
this area, but nobody had ever tried climbing it before. We wanted to find
it and be the first, and the rocky promontories that hung high above the road
seemed promising. We passed a few small villages, waving in response to the
gawks of villagers, and continued chugging up the road, which was becoming
ever more vertiginous. Turning increasingly sharp bends, trying to ignore
the gravity of the violently burbling river which flowed fast through the
valley many meters below us, the drive was nothing if not exciting. And all
the while, the scenery became more mountainous, the forests thicker and the
rock more appealing.
Jim.
We'd
been arguing on the truck, for quite some time now, about Jim. Did Jim exist
or not? Some people had spent some time sleeping on the bed in the cab, and
they're sure they could hear Jim running around. Some people said that their
bags of food had been vandalised, and Jim must be responsible. The cynics
said "don't be silly, Jim is a figment of your imagination. There's no
way Jim could survive in the engine of a constantly moving truck."
Stopped by the side of the road, binoculars in hand, sussing out the approach
to, lines on and descent from a huge crag we could see across the valley,
BiRT started to gush water in ways she really shouldn't have. Worried all
of a sudden, we raised the front venster and found evidence of Jim. The bloody
rat had chewed a giant hole through the radiator pipe!
So that settled that argument, a load of gaffa tape fixed the pipe and we
were back on the road, with not a little smugness from the pro-Jim contingent.
We were aiming for a particular viewpoint from which it looked like you could
ab down to some awesome looking crags, but with our rat-induced set backs,
it was going dark and we stood no chance of getting there soon enough. So
we had to find somewhere to sleep.
This
was no easy task on the steep narrow roads, so we headed to the nearest village,
and found a nice looking hostel, into which we drove and promptly met with
low-hanging overhead cables. We were given no option but to turn around on
a lovely lawn and flowerbed, and continue to the reception on foot to ask
if they'd have us there for the night... They would, but this was no hostel,
it was a convent. Oops.
It was one of the most bizarre nights, cooking our dinner with the nuns watching
and laughing (very warmly and kindly) about our ways of doing things, and
drinking the banana beer they brew on the premises, the profits from the sales
of which go to housing orphaned children in the region. I'm not a religious
person but I can honestly say it was the most peaceful sleep I've had on the
trip yet. Waking in the morning to the sound of crystal clear harmonised voices
singing hymns, complementing the morning cheer of birdsong. Surreal. We really
do end up in some odd places!
From here, we split again. I headed off to Dar es Salaam in order to get everything
booked and organised for our time on Zanzibar, taking with me Keeley, Claudia
and Mark, who all fancied a bit of a break. Meanwhile the remainder stayed
in Usumbara, bush camping at a viewpoint and exploring the crags there.
They spent several days trying to find their way to the base of crags, pulling
themselves small distances up crags on branches, back-and-footing between
tree trunks and rock, climbing on tufts of grass, which would occasionally
break and necessitate a little turf-surfing down steep rock to avoid painful
ankles... The local kids were fantastic guides, navigating folk through the
thick tropical bush, laughing at the idiocy of climbing, and loving the company
of mzungus with whom they could practice their english.
The climbing itself was the real adventure stuff, never been climbed before,
no information, no guidebooks, no nothing. Friable rock, vegetation, difficult
access. I don't think anyone actually managed to climb an entire route in
the two or three days they had there, but the fun and adventure involved in
trying to, oddly made this one of the favourite venues so far.
Meanwhile,
I was in Dar es Salaam trying to arrange stuff for Zanzibar. Easy, you'd have
thought, buy some ferry tickets, book the hotels (no camping scruffiness for
us on Zanzibar - we were going to live it up a little!) and you'd be right.
Chatting to people at the Mikadi beach camp in Dar (sandy beaches to pitch
tents on, palm trees, a quiet little bar and red skies over the Indian Ocean
at the end of each day) we were directed to speak to a man called Mr. Bashir.
He could be found in a small underground office at the ferry port.
So off to the ferry port we went, with touts touting us all the way - loud,
sometimes desperate, appeals for us to book ferry tickets through them, to
stay in their hotel, eat at their restaurant. Touts are a part of life in
East Africa, they are ubiquitous. Difficult to shake off, sometimes too loud,
often too desperate, occasionally too aggressive, and always a bit of a hassle.
And the ferry ports at Dar have the highest density of loud.JPG)
crowding touts I've seen yet. But one mention of Mr. Bashir’s name shut
them all up totally. Asking for directions to his office, faces went blank
with surprise, before breaking into large grins. A passageway seemed to open
up through the crowds, and one man was standing there, ready to take us to
Mr. Bashir’s office. He was clearly the big man.
And
big he was, too. Huge, stuck behind his desk, seemingly too big to ever move
out from behind it. He sorted everything for us, ferry tickets, great hotels
at brilliant rates. He gave us restaurant recommendations, coffee and soft
drinks. Within two hours, we had everything fixed up for the entire week on
Zanzibar. All I had to do was go back the following day to pick up the ferry
tickets. So back I went the following day, to find him in his office with
a few of his employees, one of whom sported a couple of huge bandages, one
around his head and one on his arm. The mafia had broken into his house in
the night, robbed him and cut him up - turned out our Mr Bashir was a bit
of a Don in the Dar mafia, with rivals and a bit of a turf war going on! I
got myself out of that office pretty damn quickly!!!
Zanzibar days
Wandering
round the ancient streets of exotic Stone Town, so narrow you can touch the
houses on both sides of the street at the same time. Eating the catch of the
day, skewered, bbq’d and sold by scores of competing street vendors
on the quay-side. Drinking cane juice, freshly squeezed from sugar canes put
through an old-fashioned clothes mangle. Playing with local kids in the maze
of alleyways, and generally getting lost. Visiting the spice markets, and
realising why the whole town
carries a dusty aroma of cumin.
Staying at the beaches in the north of the island, lying on a beach towel
in paradise, having the occasional cooling dip in the Indian Ocean, stoking
a bbq in the perfect white sand on which to grill freshly caught kingfish,
barracuda and shrimps. Supping a few cocktails from coconuts, then relaxing
for the evening in a hammock slung between palm trees, listening to the waves
lap the shores and watching the stars spin slowly through the night sky. Snorkelling
the off-shore reefs, the colourful fish hugely abundant in the pale blue waters,
dolphins swimming alongside the dive boat while we ate a lunch of fish, caught
and bbq’d before our eyes.
But this is a climbing trip after all, and the whole island of Zanzibar is
surrounded by beach bouldering on sharp, steep wave-washed rock, littered
with big holds and small crabs to keep you on your toes!
As with all good things, it came to an end. It was time to return to the mainland,
where we drove for a couple of days, then broke down. We spent a day mending
the diff at a campsite in the middle of nowhere, then took a 15 hour drive
day to Lilongwe, across the Malawian border (where Henry decided it was a
good idea to get angry at the lack of competent and efficient border guards,
open the customs gate and let himself through an international border, before
throwing a little strop when they told him off and nearly getting himself
thrown into jail. Luckily, I managed to sweet talk the guards for him and
they let him go once he’d apologised most sincerely!)
So we found ourselves in Lilongwe - once more, the end of the road for some
of our Hot Rockers, and the beginning for four new ones.
