Bus Ride to Mwanza

I would have called it "The Road to Mwanza", but what the bus travelled on could hardly be called a road. I left my comfy hotel bed in Arusha at 5am and after the taxi broke down on the way to the bus station I boarded a very very old coach bound for Mwanza in western Tanzania on the south shore of Lake Victoria. Arusha is in northern Tanzania, the jumping off point for most tourists going on game viewing safaris to the famous Serengeti and Ngorongoro parks.

The first major difference worth pointing out about this bus, besides its age, is the seating configuration. Imagine a greyhound bus in North America, standard 2 by 2 seating with maybe 10 to 12 rows of seats, giving a maximum capacity of around 45 passengers. This bus, the same size as a greyhound coach, had 65 seats. That does not however imply that the max capacity was 65. Oh no, that would have meant an empty aisle! We had about 20 to 30 people standing in the aisle, and some seats had two people on them, like the woman beside me with her 10 yr old daughter on her lap. Now, this wouldn't be so bad on a short journey, but the drive from Arusha to Mwanza 'normally' takes about 15hrs. That's assuming 'normal' road conditions and the 'normal' number of breakdowns and delays...

Our first stop of the journey was after about 5hrs of death defying driving! The driver who I am sure is completely insane, was racing other 40 year old buses down the narrow, poorly paved road. When the asphalt soon ended, the bumpy, dusty dirt road sent the bus' contents hurtling into the air with every bone jarring pot hole. Some of the seats had bits of old foam loosely attached to their small metal frames with torn dirty fabric, and when I landed back into my seat after each bump I would usually find myself banging into some part of the seat in front of me as well as somebody else's elbow or shoulder. The seats were so close together that my knees were actually inside the frame of the seat in front, with no room to move. At one point I was bounced so high that my head hit the luggage rack above me and sent a painful shock down my spine, leaving me with a very sore neck for quite a while.

When we finally did pull of the road, for what I thought was a rest and toilet break, the bus driver started taking the rear wheels off the bus! This was not a rest stop, this was our 'first' breakdown. Apparently the reason he'd been racing so fast was to get to this particular village where an employee of the bus company lived, one who had supposedly stolen a spare part from the bus which they needed to replace. They discovered that it was missing in Arusha when they went to replace the wheel hub, since it was in very bad shape, but instead of fixing it properly in Arusha, they raced to this guy's home town with all 95 passengers on board, knowing that the back wheel hub was not properly fastened. When they found the culprit a bit of a fight broke out which ended when a police officer arrived. Not knowing how to handle the situation, the officer decided to deliver his idea of justice by telling the man who had punched the thief that he had to carry his victim to the hospital. Meanwhile some other mean went about taking apart the wheel hub, which by now had only 2 of the original 8 bolts holding it onto the axle. The other 6 had sheared off somewhere between here and our early morning departure from Arusha. The repair job involved a couple hours of welding on the side of the road by a guy wearing a very cheap looking pair of sunglasses instead of a proper welding mask. Finally they had the assembly 'fixed' and put back together and we were on our way once more.

The next stop wasn't until many more hours of holding our bladders and bouncing along dusty roads, and once again we pulled off the road to have more welding done. This time a guy crawled under the bus to apparently fix the suspension. I took this opportunity to finally eat some food, a plate of chips and egg from a road side vendor, one of the most typical street food dishes in Tanzania. Just before boarding the bus again I heard someone say that a man on the bus who hadn't gotten off all day, had deficated in his seat! I think the poor guy was mentally handicapped, but the scary part is that the bus already smelled so bad by this point that I didn't even notice the stink when I went back to my seat.

About 7hrs later, already 5hrs passed our scheduled arrival in Mwanza, we were stopped at a remote military road block in the middle of the wilderness, at 1a.m. with no town or village nearby. The soldier carrying his AK-47 ordered that the driver stop and park the bus, in accordance with the Tanzanian law that no public bus is allowed to drive at night, for 'safety' reasons. The driver knew this but because of our delays thought that he'd take his chances and try driving through the night to Mwanza, hoping to not get caught. But we were caught. I had to pee so badly that I didn't even care why or where we were stopped, and I hurried off the crowded stinky bus to relieve myself. When I got back on I learned that this was where we would be spending the night, on the bus, all of us, until sun rise when we'd be allowed to carry on. So for 5 cold restless hours I tried to sleep, clutching my small bag of valuables, camera, passport and wallet. It was also raining, and since the window next to my seat was completely missing, I had donned my rain jacket to shield me from the rain spitting wind.

At about 6a.m. the bus loudly roared to life and we pulled back onto the road for the last few hours of driving into Mwanza. As we approached Lake Victoria my appreciation for the spectacular scenery was somewhat diminished by my complete exhaustion and frustration with the long and arduous journey. My face and hair thickly caked with dust and all of my clothes and backpack dirty and smelly, I limped off the old wreck of a bus in Mwanza, all of my bones aching from the poor sleep and punishing treatment by the pot holed road, and I walked straight to the harbour to buy a ticket for the M.V. Victoria ferry which would take me across the lake that evening. In dire need of a shower and desparate for rest I sought out a nearby hotel where I would have stayed for the night to recover, but if I missed the ferry that night I would have to wait several days for the next one. So after my ice cold shower on a chilly rainy day, I slept for about an hour, and then went to explore the beautiful lakeside city of Mwanza.

Dancing with Maasai Warriors

You've probably seen pictures of them in National Geographic, or on the Discovery Channel, African warriors decorated in elaborate beads with giant plugs in their ear lobes. They are quite tall and are very proud. They are a nomadic people, with a way of life completely different from the Tanzanians and Kenyans that surround them. On TV you may have seen them cooking goat meat over a fire, molding clay pots with their hands, herding cattle in their homeland, the great Rift Valley, and even perhaps performing strange rituals including drinking warm blood from the neck of a bull, and painful coming of age trials. But surely, your thinking, this is how life was in Africa 'back then', long before colonization, right? Wrong. The Maasai have kept their culture intact ever since the beginning. They are still a nomadic people, travelling in tribes throughout the Rift Valley, following the rains and leading their sacred cattle to always greener pasture. Life in a Maasai Boma (village) literally revolves around the cattle, they are the life blood of the village. Very recently, I was incredibly fortunate to visit a Maasai village in rural Tanzania and experience a glimpse of their way of life, first hand.

I arrived by train from Dar es Salaam into the small town of Kisaki, right on the edge of the Selous Game Reserve, the largest one in Africa! Even from the train I saw herds of impala, zebra, giraffe and wildebeast roaming through the tall brown grass, outside of the park, a park that is home to lions and elephants, a park that has no fence...

I found my friend Carl waiting for me at the station. I had met Carl in Malawi at a hostel and we travelled some together. He is originally from England, but has been travelling most of his life, 32 years in fact, and all added up he has spent about 10 years of his life exploring Africa! So, needless to say he has been an invaluable resource. Carl goes to Kisaki for its incredible scenery and location, right on the edge of the reserve with great river beds and paths to explore on foot, without paying the hefty fees of entering the park but still within the same ecosystem. He also comes to Kisaki for the full moon. On one of his early visits he became friends with a young Maasai warrior by the name of Saitoti. Unlike most Maasai children, Saitoti went to school, against the will of his traditional minded father, because Saitoti had been kicked by a bull as a boy and was not able to perform his regular duties of feeding the goats and cattle. Now 25 yrs old, he speaks fluent English, and has aspirations of writing a book about Maasai culture, but has returned to his Boma and the work of caring for his precious cattle, which one day he hopes will pay for a fine wife. He has also returned to the ritual of dancing at night under the full moon, which is what draws Carl to come to visit.

When we first saw Saitoti walking along the road he looked like he'd stepped right out of a National Geographic article, dressed in the traditional robe and sandals, carrying his staff and sword. Assuming that he didn't speak english and not knowing who he was I would have nodded respectfully and walked right on by, but upon seeing us Saitoti smiled broadly and with a laugh called out "Carl Burton, you are back! How was Namibia?". Carl reached and shook the tall warriors hand, "Namibia was great Saitoti, how are you?" and then said something in Swahili, something about Simba, the word for lions...

We made plans with Saitoti to meet the next day so he could show us - show me really, Carl had been before and seen the village - the different parts of daily Maasai life. The men bringing the cattle back into the Boma from their grazing, back to where they are safe from lions, protected by the knife and spear of the Maasai warriors. Although governments have been putting a stop to the practice, it was tradition that a warrior prove his manhood to his potential bride by killing a lion!

The next day Carl and I walked about 25km, toward the Selous game reserve, but just before entering the park we left the vacant dirt road and followed a dried up river bed. The soft wet sand showed clear evidence of recent visits by elephants, hoof prints probably left by antelope or impala, and very large, uncomfortably large prints that without a doubt belonged to a very large cat. More likely a leapord than a lion since the lush, densely forested and vine covered hills are more typically home to leapords than lions which prefer more open territory, with tall grass in which to hide and to hunt. Nevertheless, Carl and I kept our eyes out for any wildlife, hoping to see something exciting. We sat on the river banks in complete silence after our lunch of fresh oranges, waiting, waiting, eventually we herd and saw baboons, various types of monkeys swinging and jumping through the trees. (there are no tourists here, no 'overland' adventure package tour groups, not even any park rangers, this land is no man's land, we didn't belong there, and that's what made it so exciting!)

That evening it rained, there would be no dance, though the moon was almost full. The train back to Dar would be coming soon and I knew I should be on it, but to be so close and not get to see the dance would be tragic. The next day rained also, my hopes were sinking, but by early evening it looked to be clearing up. "Yes, it's quite possible" said Saitoti, "tonight I think we will dance". So our tall nomadic friend led us out of Kisaki along narrow foot paths, a short walk to a neighboring Maasai Boma, where we ducked through small doorways into huts built of mud, sticks and cow dung, temporary structures since the Maasai are always on the move. He showed us where they cooked their meals over wood fires inside the multi purpose living area, the small adjacent room where three young bachelor warriors shared one bed, consisting of sticks covered by cow hides. Next to the bed were three young cows, evidence of how incredibly important the cattle are to the Maasai. If a calf or young goat needed extra protection or help to recover from an injury or ailment, it would be brought right into the bedroom to be tended to and restored to full health. From the living area we were led to the sheep and goat pens and then as we contined further from the mud huts, the faint glow of their cooking fires faded as we neared the herd of cattle. In pitch darkness we walked among the cattle as Saitoti explained the importance of their markings, the way they would breed the cattle, and how many cows were typically paid to the parents of the bride when a warrior married. And how do the men choose their mates? Much like in the animal kingdom, it involves a show of male dominance, a sort of chase, in the form of a dance.

It began with a deep growling chant by one of the older warriors. The rest of the men forming a semi circle, all facing the women, all began to join in with chants, strange noises from the back of their throats that I, no matter how hard I tried, could not emulate with much success. It almost sounded like a rhythmic barking sound. And then the women, all dressed in colorful robes and decorated with large rings of beads around their necks, began to join in with high pitched yelps and melodic Maasai lyrics, songs about romance perhaps? More likely songs praising the cattle and praying for green grass, rain, and healthy calves.

I stood in absolute amazement watching the ceremony unfold, until I was startled by a warrior who approached me with ivory white teeth smiling from an otherwise invisibly black face. Without a word he placed a robe over my head and following his directions I joined the line of dancing warriors, dressed just like them. I was even handed a staff which we all held with the pointed end on the muddy ground, all of us hunched over, bobbing up and down to the hypnotic beat of the music. No drums, no fire, no instruments, so simple, yet so powerful.

One by one the warriors would enter the centre of the circle and with their staff raised into the air begin to jump up and down, showing off to the girls who watched and sang. Sometimes the entire group would jump in unison and I tried to keep up until my calves were burning.

Saitoti was both amused and I think a little bit impressed by the efforts Carl and I made to integrate ourselves into the dance, instead of just watching it happen like a couple of tourists. We were the first mzungus (white men) to ever join in the dance at this Boma. We both left the very next morning on the train back to Dar es Salaam, with memories that I will never forget. I wonder if those warriors will ever be joined by another mzungu under the light of a full moon, in the vast wilderness of the Selous ecosystem. Saitoti and I exchanged addresses and promises to keep in touch. "Let me know when you finish your book" I told him, and he asked me to mail him some photos that I'd taken at the Boma. "I will Saitoti, and thanks for everything, asanti sana!"

Now I am just about to leave Dar es Salaam for Moshi, where I will with any luck catch a glimpse of Africa's tallest mountain, Mt Kilimanjaro. And then it's off to Arusha and famous parks including the Serengetti plains and the Ngorogoro crater. And then after that it's off to Uganda for a couple weeks before heading back east into Kenya, more Maasai territory. Who knows, maybe by the next full moon I'll find myself in the middle of nowhere again, dancing with warriors!