Somewhere Between Countries - Part IV

A short story of a long journey between Tanzania and Malawi.

We hauled our bags out of the boot, thanked and paid the taxi driver and went in to settle the accommodation bill with the hotel manager, Gerald. While there we asked if there was anywhere to get some food, or if indeed, they had any food we could buy? He advised us they didn’t sell food, and that because it was late, it was no longer safe for us to head out looking for food, and even if we did, it wouldn’t be good food. The decision was made to stay in the room and eat nothing that night because we had no food left. Hahaha. Brilliant.

We also asked about the bus services to the Malawi border. He told us to head to the Busport at 4am the next morning – it was just down the road and was within walking distance. I had told him we needed to reach Songwe, because from there we would change buses and catch another to a town near the Tanzania/Malawi border and then walk across. Apparently, we would find a bus at the Mbeya Busport that would take us to Songwe. Simples. Right?

As Gerald walked us to our room for the night, we looked in awe at the building complex which from the front had appeared very modest. We all know nothing is ever quite what it seems though – it was majestic. He walked us down a cobble stoned pathway lit by vintage style tungsten streetlights, which gave everything a warm, comforting glow. Either side of us were two towering terrace style buildings which resembled something you could expect to see in Northern Africa. They were clad with mosaic tiles in an intricately detailed pattern all the way up the exterior of the walls. Along the base of each building were an array of gorgeous lush palms in massive glazed pots, with the occasional leafy tree sprouting from the ground. It was breath-takingly surreal and seemed completely out of context from the gritty street just on the other side of the boundary wall.

We walked and chatted about his family and life in Mbeya, our journey so far, the train trip and how grateful we were to have found a hotel with a room for the night. Gerald then came out with a sentence that made me want to kiss him right on the lips:

“We have hot showers if you like. You can have cold now, or if you wait, I can light the fire and heat the water for you”

Gerald was my new hero.

“Oh, we would love a hot shower each” I said gushing with gratitude.

“Ok”, he said – “you wait 40 minutes and the water will be hot.”

When we arrived at our room and he proudly showed us around the room – pointed out the bed, the cupboards with the functioning doors, the nice clean tiles on the floor (they were exceptionally clean), the TV on the lace doily in the corner. It was all very nice, tidy and safe. And it had a bed, and we were about to get a hot shower.

This day could not get any better.

“Where do we go for our showers?” I asked.

“Oh, right here in your room – you have an ensuite” he smiled.

I smiled.

The day just got better.

“Yes, yes, yes! In here, look!”

He opened the door to the bathroom and all I could see was a keyhole shaped hole in the beautifully tiled floor and I knew immediately from a previous trip that this was our toilet. What I couldn’t figure out was the large blue plastic tub in the corner. I thought maybe it was somehow linked to the toilet to create a really sophisticated drop toilet, one with plumbing perhaps?

“And here is your shower!” he exclaimed, pointing to the blue tub.

“Oh my gosh” I said enthusiastically, not wanting to offend our lovely host. “That’s…. brilliant, thank you!”

“I will be back with your hot water soon” he said – and I really was grateful because god I stunk.

We took stock of our room, and the food situation at hand; there were some mini boxed breakfast cereals left from the supermarket in Dar, so they would have to be saved for the next day – because who knows what that would bring. In addition, we had three bananas and a couple of bottles of water left. I convinced Dom to have a banana as I was slightly concerned about him slipping into a diabetic coma during the night. I settled for a few sips of water.

We unpacked our clothes for the night and sat on the bed waiting. It was comfortable and was decorated in true African hostel majesty. It’s why I bloody love the place – you never quite know what you’re going to get.

The bedspread was a really dowdy floral print – the kind you expect to find at your Grandma’s house – lots of pink and dark forest greens. The pillowcases were a mix of a matching floral one, and for some reason unknown to me, or anyone else… a faded pink Minnie Mouse pillowcase that was vaguely reminiscent of my childhood. I knew which one I was sleeping on! To compliment the linen, there was an excessive amount of lace dotted around the room, some very ‘loud’ curtains and a photograph of the President of the time, Jakaya Mrisho Kikwete, looking down at us rather jovially.

As we waited under the gaze of Mr Kikwete, we discussed the logistics of the impending shower. It might not seem like something two grown adults would need to discuss, but there are two points I haven’t mentioned yet. The first is that Mbeya is at a higher altitude than what we were used to; 1,700 metres to be exact. Which means it gets pretty chilly at night, and given that we would be standing in our birthday suits, tipping water over us, soaping up, then rinsing, it did need some planning.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m no princess – I spent the first five years of my life living in a caravan in Darwin - literally. My parents were there too, don’t worry… If the family albums are anything to go by, my favourite pass-time as a toddler was rubbing dirt all over my mostly unclothed body and doing my best to look like a monkey (totally nailed it by the way)… and being as annoying as possible to my brother and sister.

Family holidays in Darwin were spent camping on crocodile infested river banks in remote places with no toilets or running water to shower in. As we got older and moved to Western Australia, the holidays were still in remote, desolate places, but minus the crocodiles. The remote location usually meant we wouldn’t see any non-related human beings for two weeks (which again enabled me to be as annoying as possible to my brother and sister).

I guess what I’m saying is, although I love the creature comforts of home, I was no stranger to basic accommodation, (and I’m really annoying). Plus, the preceding camping showers in the National Parks across Tanzania had been a string of broken shower heads with cold water dribbling from them. Still a luxury in our book, so I wasn’t too phased about a bucket shower.

That’s where the second important point came in… the open drop toilet in the floor.

It wasn’t the revolting smell wafting about the room, it wasn’t even the thought of hundreds of people’s giant shits living down there, it was the alarming number of mosquitoes that continued to rise from, and land in the gaping, stinky hole.

Tanzania is a Malaria zone, and we were taking our anti-malaria tablets like clockwork, but I still didn’t like the idea of one of those disease ridden bastards biting my pasty white flesh, especially after she’s been riding on a turd boat in the sewer. Fun fact – apparently only the girls of this species bite and transfer the parasites which cause the disease, the boys prefer nectar. Rudyard Kipling said it best… “the female of the species is more deadly than the male” Too true Rudyard, too true. But I digress.

The action plan was thus: Dom goes first – I stayed clothed. I tip (hot) water over Dom, then pick up the towel and frantically wave it around his vulnerable body to keep mosquitoes at bay, being careful not to inadvertently flick anything sensitive with said towel, while he furiously applies soap to body. Rinse with deliciously hot water, dry as fast as possible – get clothes on. Then repeat process with me. Perfeck.

When it was my turn, I watched as the warm soapy water, laden with three days of sweat, dirt and grime started to run down the drain & toilet hole, and I began to relax and smile.

It was then that I noticed two little feelers peeking out from the toilet hole.

Roaches.

Those that know me well, know I have a certain weakness when it comes to roaches. And no, not a weakness where I find them cute and want to save them from drowning and bring them home to rehabilitate them and then release them back into the wild. No, no. I fucking panic. I have a full-blown fear of roaches. Sometimes I freeze. Sometimes I scream and run, those times I usually cause an injury to myself. It’s ridiculous, especially considering that as a 13 year old I had no fear and would catch the big flying ones by the feelers and chase my friend around karate practice while her and her sister screamed (sorry Zoe & Nikki).

However, in the interest of enjoying the first water my body had seen in days, I pushed the visions of them crawling up my soapy legs, to the back of my mind and kept my panic at bay for a good five minutes. I have never experienced such joy having scalding hot water tipped over me while an audience of cockroaches looked on, quite so much as I did that night. And I hope to never have that joy again.

Now that we were all clean and fed and had taken our nightly medication, it was time for bed, which meant spraying the shit out of the room with flyspray and lathering up our skin with toxic DEET, then climbing fully clothed into our sleeping bags with the holey mosquito net tucked around us. As I began to drift off, visions of creepy crawlies making their way into my open drooling mouth started swirling around my mind and I suddenly remembered I had to set the morning alarm so we wouldn’t miss the bus. It also dawned on me that I needed to pee. I jumped out of the tangled mosquito netting and flicked on the light -what I saw was the stuff of nightmares. The whole floor was covered in roaches of varying size, who all scattered back to their hiding places a split second after the light came on.

I have to admit, a squeal escaped. I made Dom, who was already asleep (the man can literally sleep anywhere) get out of bed to spray every surface and crevice in that room. Then I remembered the toilet… Did I really need to go? I squeezed. Yep, totally needed to go. I opened the bathroom door and seriously considered just wetting my pants instead. A cloud of mosquitoes rose from the toilet and started buzzing around me, and the roaches scattered back down the hole. All but one, who stood there alert and unwavering as we entered a tense staring contest. Too scared to move in case he decided to run up my leg, I made Dom bring me the flyspray. I would like to say I won that battle, but really I didn’t, because I’m a grown adult scared of a cockroach. Ridiculous.

As I left the room I fly-sprayed the door in a big ‘X’ for good measure, and put a rolled up towel along the bottom of the closed doorway. I knew it would have zero impact on their nocturnal adventures, but it felt like I had done something at least. What ensued was a sleepless, shitty, uncomfortable night’s sleep, which ended both all-too-soon, and not soon enough, when the alarm sounded at 3:30am. Jeyzus Christ. We crawled out of the bed, changed clothes, had a sip of water, said our farewells to our six legged companions and started our walk to the Busport, ready for the journey ahead.

When I use words like ‘Busport’, ‘Taxi’ and ‘Hotel’, I don’t want you to view it from a Western point of view. That’s proper boring. What you need to do is take what you have in your head and apply the following recipe:

- a dash of organised chaos - a kaleidoscope of bright colours - some cracked windscreens - more bums than seats available - more people in a confined space than I am comfortable with - big smiles and loud voices - corn cobs cooking on a braai - random livestock - a whole lot of confusion.

Mix all of these ingredients together and voila! For a developing country the facilities were amazing, but don’t go thinking of some elaborate state-of-the-art bus exchange. It was more of a gigantic carpark which resembled a patchwork quilt of bitumen, loose gravel and sand. And it was bustling. To be honest – I prefer the Mbeya version to any Western one – it had much, much more character, AND you had to be a bit of a super-sleuth to figure out which bus to catch. I kept waiting for Tom Hanks character Robert Langdon, to pop out, The Davinci Code style, and help me to decipher the fucking insane riddle that was the Tanzanian bus system. There was no proper signage, just people gathered in groups that were clearly waiting for a particular bus that was heading to a particular region.

There were a few hand-written signs on ripped up cardboard boxes. Some were being held by people, others were shoved in the front of the bus windows. This is where it got a tad tricky, and where a detailed map would have come into its own. I knew the name of where I thought we needed to go, but none of the signs had that name written on them. Which really confused me. It didn’t mean they wouldn’t stop there – it also didn’t mean they would. I decided now was not the time to be a wallflower, and that I would need to just ask people. I walked up to a group of nice looking ladies sitting on their baggage in front of a mini bus.

“Good morning” I said cheerfully “does this bus go to Songwe?”

They looked at me blankly.

“I need to get to Songwe, can you please tell me which bus I need to catch?”

“No English” one lady replied.

Fair enough I thought, I don’t speak Swahili, so it’s not fair to expect someone to speak English. In hindsight I could have replied with ‘Hakuna Matata’, because as we all know from the famous song – it means no worries… but it was too early for those shenanigans.

I tried this same method with at least five other ladies with no luck. Defeated, I decided to ask the drivers themselves about their destination. I found out very quickly if you ask “Are you going to Songwe” every single driver is going to where you want to go. Even if they aren’t heading that direction. They might be heading towards Zambia and plan on dropping you at your desired location once they have completed the route they already have planned, which could take two days, and a lot of money. It’s quite clever, and I admire the inventive spirit in which it was approached, but we didn’t have two days to sit on a bus, so we needed a direct-ish journey.

After asking “Where are you going” about 50 times and being given the response “Where do you want to go?”, while attempting to hide the sign in the window that said ‘Mars and/or Venus’, I was about ready to give up and head back to the cockroach hotel. And then it happened; the Robert Langdon of Tanzania appeared. He was over six foot tall and wore a black leather jacket and dark denim jeans without a crease to be seen. His big booming voice reached out across the open air Busport and he flashed a massive smile as he made eye contact. I think he had been watching Dom and I struggle to find the correct bus for the whole morning, because he walked up asked “You are trying to cross the border?”

Now remember earlier when I said we needed to reach Songwe? Well, it turns out I had gotten a little confused when looking into crossing the border. The border crossing from Tanzania to Malawi is called Songwe River Bridge. The name ‘Songwe’ refers to an entire region which covers approximately 27,000 square kilometres. Which makes sense why no-one could answer my question “are you going to Songwe” or why so many drivers answered with ‘Yes”. Because technically – they were! Yeah. Whoops.

Our new friend (whose name I didn’t catch and who I will call Robert Langdon from now on) told us that we needed to catch a bus to Kasumulu and from there we would be able to walk to Songwe River Bridge and cross into Malawi. He walked us to a smallish bus and told us this was the correct one, and to tell the driver that we needed to get off at Kasumulu. I walked up to the driver and asked for two tickets to Kasumulu; he told me the price (around the equivalent of US$10) and I reached for my money.

Robert Langdon suddenly started yelling at the driver in Swahili and told me to put my money away in English. The driver started yelling back in Swahili and waved his arms in our direction, looking severely pissed off. I was more than happy to pay the price and tried to give the driver the money, but Robert Langdon wouldn’t have a bar of it. He told me that the driver was trying to rip us off and that we should only be paying US$2. He made sure we were only charged what he considered the right amount and supervised the transaction.

We thanked him for his very noble and kind gesture, and for taking time out of his day to look after us, but told him that it really wasn’t necessary. He simply replied with “I want your lasting memory of Tanzania to be a good one” and off he walked into the crowd.

He succeeded. Thanks Robert Langdon, I salute you Kind Sir, and I wish I had gotten your real name!

The sun had just started to peek its head over the horizon by this time and we all boarded the bus. I smiled awkwardly at the driver as he looked entirely unimpressed with us. We hadn’t improved his mood by the fact that our 20kg backpacks wouldn’t fit in the baggage compartment of the bus, and we had to stow these at our feet. Not sure why he was so pissed off – it was my legs that were about to lose circulation.

The bus rumbled into life and the smell of diesel filled the cabin. I looked at Dom with my sleep deprived, bloodshot, glassy eyes and smiled. He smiled back.

Finally. We were on our way!