Dar Es Salaam & Zanzibar

Just think of the sauce you can make with this lot...  So, we did.

Riding east from Mikumi National Park, still on the arterial A7, the scenic beauty spots fade away.  The complexion of the landscape is as plain as the flattening tract of bush that takes us to the coast. 

Dar commuter ferry... filled to bursting?

We make good miles, but start to slow as the urban mass of Dar Es Salaam exerts a gravitational pull on everything around:  cars, trucks, lunatic buses; cows, goats, and gawping herdsmen.  It seems everything is being pulled into the narrowing space.  Congestion packs onto the dusty freeway; hemmed in by road works, horns blaring with each change of the traffic lights.

I'm concentrating hard.  The GS and I ease our way between the debris, trying to split the lanes to allow the two Africa Twins to stay close - with soft panniers I have a slightly narrower profile, and with a rack of bright headlights I can usually bore into the conciousness of the drones ahead, who make way for us politely.  There are cities in China and Turkey where the riding is far less civilised.

We're enjoying the different challenge of city survival.  At every pause in progress, windows are wound down and locals strike up conversation.  It's usually a one-way conversation, though; wearing ear-plugs and helmets it's hard to communicate clearly over the rumble of engines.  Still, the atmosphere of this new world is friendly and inhabited by very human beings.

There is a recommended campsite to aim for, with the GPS' Tracks For Africa picking out the co-ordinates efficiently.  We squeeze onto a car ferry packed with commuters heading for home - no bowler hats, umbrellas or laptops in this crowd: but Islamic head coverings, napsacks and bags of potatoes.  Through the milling throng, we nudge the bikes up the slope and cover the last few kilometers to Kipepeo Beach Lodge and Campsite.

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My love-hate relationship with the beach continues - when I go for some exercise my reward is a fiery whiplash from a stray jellyfish tentacle.  It feels like a burning half-yard of string has been drapped around the top of my ribcage and arms .  The searing pain fades after a minute or two, but the red marks last for days.  I cancel the swimming schedule in protest, unwilling to chance blundering into a whole jellyfish in pursuit of health.

Brace for impact...

On dry land, Monday, I join Daan & Mirjam and together we visit a few embassies.  There are plenty of visa issues to try and advance in person, but we come back with information rather than the sought-after stickers in our passports.  As we get closer to Nairobi our outstanding enquiries will fall away.  Getting the Ethiopian visa is hard, and a pre-condition to getting a Sudan visa.  Egypt is straight forward, but Libya very difficult.  We're always talking with travellers and following web forums(a) to monitor our options and our chances. 

At this time, I'm still hoping I can ride all the way north to Cairo, Egypt.  An alternative is to air-freight the bike across towards Morocco, but the cost of doing so makes Egypt the lesser of two weivels.  I need to adjust the paperwork for the bike, too, and that means dealing again with the RAC in the UK.  There are many aspects to align and balance.

 

I mull it all over on the way to Zanzibar - the dhow-endowed spice island a 90-minute fast ferry ride away.  I want to visit to see if I can remember anything from my last trip here, some fifteen years ago.

The tropical island is famous also for it's pristine white coral beaches and clear blue waters.  However, the pocket village of Nungwi (where I learnt to scuba dive) is now the backpacker party centre of Zanzibar - bars and discos, high prices and low (moral) standards.  Fun, no doubt, if you are on a fortnight's break, but unappealing if you've experienced it in more tranquil times.

Rather than ruin those memories, today I'm sticking only to Stone Town.  I wander around the portside jumble of mosques and old colonial buildings, getting lost in the narrow alleys that criss-cross and maze.  The locals welcome me when I shelter from a rain cloud, amongst the hustle and bustle of the covered market.  Most conceivable goods are on sale here, including specimen packets of spices - pallets of pastel colour to go with the fruit and veg, pungent fish mongery and meat hung beams.

On my first trip, I was wide-eyed and wow'ed by the foreign features of the remote stronghold.  Today, with wider experience to draw from, Zanzibar strikes me as similar to Categena, Colombia and Istanbul, Turkey; not so relaxed as the former, but less imposing than the latter.  There is more of Marakesh,  Morocco about the place, perhaps, and the low key style is enjoyable.  I can see how the lure of the tour guide and boutique hotel is increasing, but for now it retains enough of the traditional boat-building, spice weilding, koran-chanting mix to make it a miniature metropolis.

In the interests of saving budget and keeping my travelling days aligned with Daan and Mirjam (who are resting up at the beach), I spend only a day-trip on Zanzibar.  It made a welcome change to be touring by foot, but I return to the beach camp worn out.

We make a bold effort to depart early the next morning, but by 7.30am the traffic passing through the city is already thick and congealed.  It takes two hours to travel 30 miles.  We struggle out onto a backroad and bypass any further trunk route traffic.  The scenery is flying past again, bringing welcome airflow, and we are cheery as we head north once more.

A few hours' ride brings us to a side route, from where a steep road and muddy track takes us up to Lushoto.  The 1,000m location, on a cliff top over looking the plains below, has us purring with satisfaction even as we switch off the bikes.  Twilight turns into a deep, rich night sky whilst on the plains below we can pick out the flickering bush fires and headlights of the highway.  The cooler climate ensures a deep sleep.