Two to Tanga

Karibu!

I am close to finishing my third cycle expedition in Africa so, although I can’t pretend through any public demand, a first and concluding blog may not go amiss!

‘Two to Tanga’ is a bit of a contortion of what’s been going on here but there were two of us, the indefatigable Mr Merc, my bicycle, and me, and Tanga was where we finally met the Indian Ocean – before I moved on to Pangani, Bagamoyo and finally Zanzibar.

890 miles cycled, one sea crossing in a small boat, two months, Rwanda, Uganda for a few days, then west to east across Tanzania for a lot longer.

I started with lovely friends Harriet (my daughter Celia’s friend from school) and Rob and will finish with other great friends and vicarious African travellers, Ian and Paula. Thanks each, and to Colin and Sandra in Arusha, for making this trip such fun and so much easier, especially to Ian who from his laptop in Bristol and elsewhere found me accommodation in the most remote places which none of the locals knew existed. Ok, most of it was crap Ian but thanks anyway!

I have had a great deal of good fortune. A Spanish couple I met in the rain in Uganda have contracted malaria, he has been transferred to hospital in Dar es Salaam (but is ok) yet I, apart from a tummy bug I brought with me from England, basically still await my first indisposition of any sort. Although, I think because of the heat, I eat very little – one meal day and that’s sometimes a struggle – I have been in perfect health. Given the calories I must be burning I should be eating much more. I seem to exist on warm Coca Cola and warmer water of which I have grown thoroughly weary.

Two other cyclists have had their bicycles stolen. One, a Belgian guy, from the same spot in the same hotel as Mr Merc overnighted a few days before, and this despite a 24 hour security chap – aka chief suspect – who is probably having his finger nails removed as I write.

When I leave my prescription sunglasses in a shop and return 2 hours later more in hope than expectation, the smiling lady reaches below the counter to hand them back to me.

And minding my own business on a wet road in Uganda along comes a motor cycle just to my right. But it’s on its side sliding on the slick asphalt as are the driver, incongruously smart suited passenger and a host of plastic buckets. Everything, everywhere, all at once. And yet I am not hit. (And they turn out to be ok.). Thanks Julie, and for seeing me safely across that sea crossing later on.

When I get a puncture outside Tarangire National Park, or rather series of punctures due to the same problem, I am rescued by Masai Chief Lobulo and his friends who not only mend the puncture but my three split inner tubes as well. I am told to sit under an acacia tree, relax and have a Konyagi (local gin). ‘You are our guest. We will do it.’

Next morning, after spending the night in the Chief’s Boma, also with his 2 wives, 9 children, 6 dogs, 3 cats and numerous cows and goats (not much sleep to be had I can tell you!) he insists that I, my panniers and my bicycle will be manhandled on 2 motor bikes the 7 kms back to the main road. In case I should get another puncture.

Cows are the source of wealth and standing here and the Chief does not think I can be rich if I do not have any cows. I start to explain about Clifton…..

When we go to bed the Chief gives me a spear. I think it’s some joke and explain I’ve not used one in a while. He smiles and asks if I cannot hear the lions, and wait, oh yes, I jolly well can! And when I go to the toilet in the night, he tells me about hyenas and absolutely insists I wake him so he can come with me. He stands outside with his (much bigger) spear while I struggle to go! Such wonderful people.

The cycling has been the usual mix of joy and torment. Cool dawn starts in lovely though often harsh scenery, I feel I could cycle forever. Then it gets hot, 35 – 39 degrees most days, little shade and soon I can wring the sweat from the sponge padding inside my helmet, and no doubt fry an egg or two on the outside if I’d had them. A big low was cycling 2 hours for just 10 miles, up hill into a fierce headwind and knowing there was nothing on the road for another 40 miles. Utterly spent and demoralised I turned round and returned to town to find a bus.

Yes, I have taken the occasional bus or dalla dalla when the fun stopped. But they didn’t turn out to be the relaxing breaks I’d hoped for. Hot, dusty and uncomfortable would sum things up. And mostly stationary. Inside, the cacophony of sounds is truly hideous. If Tanzanian dalla dalla users aren’t deaf already they soon will be. Endless music with a bass to vibrate to extinction whatever panels of the bus remain, men and boys shouting at the windows trying to sell me everything from bananas to toilet brushes and the fearsome BO of the conductor like a wall of mustard gas as he passes. On one journey I am perched on the tin engine housing roasting my butt off, on another and quite inexplicably there’s a shrill fire alarm going off somewhere inside the bus making a brave attempt to drown out all the other noise. Yes, for the entire journey.

And my fellow passengers? Well, you guessed it, they don’t bat an eyelid. All perfectly usual. TIA.

Anyway, I’d best stop. It has been great fun, sometimes hard work, enormously exciting, above all just different from a February and March in the UK. However, as always on these trips, I have missed home, family and friends and I will be ready to come back next week.

Love and best wishes to all!

I attach a few pictures no doubt worth more than a thousand words.