The long, painful road from DR Congo to Bukoba
Trip Start
Jun 19, 2007
1
7
14
Trip End
Aug 18, 2007
Bukoba,
Tanzania
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
a kilometer from the border crossing. Once I crossed back into Rwanda, in the
early morning, I was surprised to see that there were no boda bodas begging
to take me into town. Oh well, it was time to get some exercise lugging the
big pack up hill into town. So I started what I expected would be an
uneventful march.
As I trudged through the streets in the morning heat I would stop from time
to time and ask the odd person (there weren't many) on the street if I was
headed towards the center; they were always quite helpful with directions
1
. Itturned out to be quite a long hike and while I was walking down a seemingly
desolate stretch of road a couple of teenage boys fell into stride behind me.
I could here them mumbling 'mzungu' which means white person. Nothing new
there. Virtually every small child in Africa shouts, 'Mzungu!' at me when
they see me.
I had been walking for quite a while and I was in a sort of marching daze,
just thinking about putting one foot in front of the other. I hadn't slept
well the night before, my hotel didn't have water and I hadn't showered.
Frankly, I was dirty and tired and it showed.
Thieves are like predators. They can sense when their prey is weak.
As I trudged along like a zombie, I felt something brush against my pack and
I turned around, coming out of my daze, to see one of the boys (the other was
nowhere to be seen) rifling through the outer pouch of my pack
2
.I can't tell you how many people told me to watch my back before coming to
Africa. I'm usually very vigilant, but I blew it here. This kid had unzipped
my pack and was pulling a small silver flashlight out when I turned around.
The outer pouch of my pack is a place where I store things that I want to be
easily accessible. I keep things like the flashlight, energy bars and
sunblock in there. Stuff I don't want to go rummaging around for.
When I spun around on this kid -- he was pretty brazen and probably around 15
or 16 -- I made a weak effort to grab him but he danced away from me and
started a sort of backwards jog watching me closely. He was holding my
flashlight and there was no way in hell I was going to catch him on foot
3
.Knowing that distraction is the best friend of any good thief, I yanked my
pack off and held it tight while gripping my camera bag tight in the other
hand -- waiting for something to happen. When it didn't, I raised my hand and
pointed at the kid jogging down the road with my flashlight and shouted,
'Thief!' as loud as I could.
Mob justice is an incredible thing to behold. What I thought was a fairly
desolate stretch of road on that Saturday morning turned out to be a lot more
populated. Within seconds of me yelling thief, people started popping out of
nowhere. The first person I saw was a middle aged man running from a yard, or
someplace, with a huge rock in his hand. He got very close to the thief and
chucked that rock at him hard, narrowly missing
4
. A call had gone up among thepeople living on that road and they just appeared everywhere.
The thief was dodging around all over the place like a cornered animal.
There was no doubt of his guilt, he was holding that shiny flashlight and a
'mzungu' was pointing at him and repeatedly shouting thief.
As the mob began to form in a ragged circle, he placed the flashlight on the
ground in an attempt to placate them. It didn't matter. He darted one way
only to be cut off by more newcomers joining the mob. He threw his hands up
in the shape of someone praying and started pleading with the ones approaching
him directly. There was no sympathy.
From the side, several young men slammed into the thief and sent him shoulder
first into a ditch
5
. The mob was on him in a second. Mostly men, some women,and even children were whaling on him: Kicking, punching, some people were
throwing small rocks at short range, stoning him I guess you could say.
I stood there, in the middle of the street watching all of this unfold, in a
semi-state of shock. An elderly man walked up to me and handed me my
flashlight. This snapped me from my shocked state and I thanked him profusely.
I felt I needed to intervene in this. Mother of God, I had caused it to
happen! I have no problem with a thief getting a whipping, but nobody
deserves to be beaten to death in the street for stealing a five dollar
flashlight.
As I was moving to intervene, fortunately, the thief squirted free from his
attackers
6
. His clothes were torn to shreds and he was bleeding, but he waswell enough to take off down the street running for his life. No one pursued.
With the thief dealt with, the mob turned to look at me. I felt a tremendous
amount of gratitude towards these people (and no small amount of fear) and
said repeatedly with head bowed 'Merci Beaucoup' Merci Beaucoup'. (French is widely
spoken in Rwanda) Several of them smiled at me and waved away my thanks, but
most just turned around and went back to doing whatever they were doing
before they became a mob.
One young child had gathered an energy bar and some sunblock that was on the
road and brought them to me. Both had fallen on the ground without me
knowing, and I gave the child the energy bar as a way to say thanks
7
. Isecured and gathered my belongings and continued my march somewhat reeling
from what I had seen.
At the Taxi area I boarded a matatu heading towards a town that would take me
closer to the Ugandan border. I would have to backtrack through Uganda in
order to enter Tanzania. The other routes were just too unknown for me to
attempt.
In the next town I boarded a second matatu and it broke down about 30 minutes
out from the border. We were stopped just a hair past a tiny roadside
village. Everyone piled out of the vehicle and waited for the drivers to try
to fix it. Meanwhile, the folks in the village wandered over to see what was
going on. Some of them were interested in the van's problem, but most of them
formed a half circle around me, and just stared.
An elderly man from the village decided he would show everyone how talented
he was by speaking French to me. The only problem was, I don't speak French,
and I repeatedly tried to tell him that. This didn't seem to bother him at
all. He just gabbled on playing up to the crowd. Eventually they fixed the
van and we all climbed back in. I was sitting in front of the sliding door
where the old man and our audience had followed me to enjoy the show until
the door was slammed shut.
When I got to the border I crossed with no problems. On the other side there
were four or five boda boda drivers showcasing their motorcycles to try to
get my business. I picked the best looking one and we were off to the town of
Kisoro.
The ride into Kisoro was longer than I thought it would be. It took about
fifteen minutes -- that's a long time when you have a heavy pack on your back
on a motorcycle.
During the ride we passed so many children. Without fail, as we passed, they
shouted one or more of the following: 'Mzungu!', 'How are you?!' or 'Give me
money!' It happened so automatically it was kind of sad. I imagined a bunch
of kids in a school some place doing listen and repeat exercises with those
last two phrases.
Kisoro turned out to be a lovely little town. Its big draw card is that you
can start gorilla tracking tours nearby. I considered doing this, but it
costs $500, so I decided to pass.Ben,the Belgium guy, had told me it's a great
experience. 'You can sit right next to them for an hour.' he said. As far as
I'm concerned, for $500, those big monkeys better be doing my laundry while
giving me a back rub.
Another interesting fact about Kisoro -- this is where Dian Fossey stayed
while researching the gorillas. Her story was made quite famous by the film,
'Gorillas in the Mist', which starred Sigourney Weaver.
In town, I asked about further transport when I reached the center, but
everyone told me there was nothing until the morning. I checked into a very
nice little motel called Graceland and slept there for the night.
The next morning, I woke up one hour late because I had forgotten about the
time change between the two countries. I thought I was going to miss the
5:00 AM bus, but good ol' African inefficiency saved me -- we left late.
The bus ride from Kisoro to Kabale was, officially, the scariest bus ride
I've ever been on. The roads snaking up the mountain sides were incredibly
narrow and I had the 'good' fortune of sitting on the left side of the bus
which gave me an all too close view of the sheer drop just scant feet away
from the tires. The so-called 'luxury' bus was way too big to be going on
those roads, too.
Every single time the bus hit a particularly big pot hole and tilted heavily
to the left, I was certain we were all going to die. This happened far too
many times. In my life, I don't think I have ever been in such a high state
of fear for such a long period of time. Imagine the feeling you get on a
rollercoaster just the instant before the big plunge. Now, imagine extending
that feeling for over an hour and you might begin to understand the terror I
felt.
When we finally cleared the mountains and hit some flat straight roads I fell
into an exhausted sleep.
I woke up as we neared the town of Mbarara. I had a decision to make in this
town. I could continue to backtrack more into Uganda until I reached a good
road that would lead to the main border crossing into Tanzania, or I could
get off here and take the much less traveled road that also lead to Tanzania.
I foolishly chose the latter. I did come to Africa for adventure, right?
In the town of Mbarara, I had the great experience of traveling in my first
private taxi. The name is a bit misleading, though, as the taxi was basically
just a smaller version of a matatu -- cram as many people as humanly possible
inside.
By the time we drove out of Mbarara there were nine people stuffed in this
Toyota Corolla. Four in the front and five in the back. I was sitting on the
emergency break handle in the front and there were two people sitting in the
driver's seat! The driver had to reach over the other guy to shift.
During my very uncomfortable time spent in that car I pondered the concept of
luxury class in Africa. I had scoffed at all the so-called luxury buses I had
taken in Africa so far. Then it dawned on me. Luxury here means sitting one
person in one seat the way the designer planned it. The standard class is
being stuffed in the back seat like a contortionist or sitting on the goddamn
e-break!
After a long two hour ride, we hit the Tanzanian border and I started to have
my doubts about what I was doing. The immigration office was a small tin
shack and nobody was manning it. I milled around for a few minutes until
somebody ran off to get the immigration officer. Once my departure card was
filled out and passport stamped I headed into an incredibly remote part of
Tanzania.
The immigration office on the Tanzanian side was slightly bigger but also
unmanned. I sat on the steps outside and several children across the street
entertained themselves by shouting, 'Mzungu!' over and over again. White
person! White person! It gets annoying after a while.
Eventually the immigration guy turned up and I paid 50 dollars for my visa.
I asked him if there were any buses leaving for Bukoba and he started
laughing. 'My friend this is a tiny village.' he said. My heart sank a bit.
'What about private taxis?' I said.
He just continued chuckling and said, 'You can try my friend. Walk that way,
sometimes taxis come here.'
I walked out of the office and down the road a bit into a tiny village of
nothing. The center of the village was two shacks and a white truck with its
hood popped. Someone was under the hood and I immediately went to him to see
if I could pay for a ride -- anywhere.
The guy under the hood spoke no English. In front of one of the shacks there
were a number of people sitting on plastic molded chairs drinking beer. One
of them ran off to find someone who could help me. A few minutes later the
local English speaker arrived and asked me what I wanted. I told him I wanted
to go to Bukoba, and after a bit of discussion, he told me I would have to
take a boda boda to the next town because the truck in town was broken.
'How long will that take?', I asked.
'Maybe 30 minutes'
Riding a motorcycle for 30 minutes with all my gear was about the last thing
I wanted to do right then, but what choice did I have?
'Or, you can sleep here my brother.', he said.
They charged me an extortionist twenty dollars (I did bargain down from 30 at
least) because they knew they had me. I agreed and a big dirt bike appeared
for the ride into the nearest town.
Knowing this was going to be hell I separated my zippered day pack from my
main pack and strapped it to my chest. I could also see it might rain so I
pulled out my rain jacket and put it on. Two minutes after we left that tiny
village it started to rain.
The bike we were riding on was not designed for passengers. The main seat was
pretty small, which left me sitting on one of those steel framed things that
people hold stuff down on with bungee cords. The first ten minutes or so were
bearable, but then the pain this was causing my ass became intense. Weighted
down with all my gear and traveling on a wet, muddy, pot holed road that was
little more than a wide trail was excruciating.
For more than 40 minutes I endured this pain. Whenever we hit a big bump or a
big pot hole I would scream a random profanity into the wind. Despite this I
couldn't help but notice the scenery we were driving through was just
spectacular. I tried so hard to focus on this and not the pain I was feeling.
After nearly an hour of torture (30 minutes was a lie) we arrived in a muddy
town. I stepped off the bike in agony and my feet sank into two inches of
mud. I paid the man I had clung to for almost an hour and he left without a
word.
Much like other African towns I had seen, this one had the look of something
from an old western, except there was a bus parked on the side of the main
thoroughfare and I got my hopes up. The rain had stopped, and there were a
lot people milling around doing nothing. It was Sunday, after all.
I wandered around the main street and it felt like the entire town was gaping
at me. I literally saw jaws drop when they caught sight of the mzungu.
I wonder what they thought of me? There I was, dirty and tired, with all
these bags strapped to my body. It was like some alien had just dropped into
their world from a distant planet.
Before long, some kid on a bicycle that was too big for him peddled up to me
and asked me what I wanted in broken English.
'I want to go to Bukoba.'
'No bus. You sleep here.', he said.
I'm surprised I didn't despair at this point. The last thing I wanted to do
was sleep in this muddy hole, especially considering it was only three in the
afternoon. Instead, I found resiliency from somewhere and just tramped up and
down the main muddy street looking to see if there was another option.
During my tramping I spotted the boda boda driver that had taken me here
talking to a man next to a big truck. He waved me over and I got some
fantastic news. The driver of the truck, a truck filled to the brim with bags
of coffee, was willing to take me to the next major town. I was overjoyed.
While waiting for the driver I leaned up against the coffee truck unable to
sit down or even drop my bags due to all the mud. Now that I was stationary,
a half circle of townsfolk formed around me and gawked. This normally annoys
me, but I was starting to get used to it. I mean it's not like these poor
people have TVs to watch. Whitey was the Sunday afternoon entertainment.
When the driver arrived I climbed into the spacious cab and we were off.
Robert, the driver, had an unopened liter bottle of Kilimanjaro beer wedged
in beside his seat. I tried to talk to him but he didn't speak any English. I
hadn't eaten all day so I pulled out a couple of energy bars and gave one to
him and ate the other. Robert opened the bottle of beer with his teeth, while
driving, and started drinking it. I felt strangely content at that moment. I
had my own seat in this big spacious cab -- I had found African luxury.
The luxury didn't last for long, of course. We picked up a few hitchhikers
along the way and moving along that terrible road was very slow going for the
heavily laden truck.
One of the hitchhikers was a fellow named Eric who was with his two young
daughters. He could speak English, the first English speaker I had met since
the immigration office. He told me he was a business man and a preacher. He
also told me I would have to sleep in the next town because traveling at
night was forbidden in this area.
When we arrived in the town of Kayanga I said good-bye to Robert, and Eric
told me he would help me find a place to stay after he took his daughters
home. We took a taxi to his house and he asked me to come inside and meet his
wife. I think he really enjoyed coming home to his little neighborhood with a
white man in tow. His neighbors were all gaping as I got out of the taxi on
that Sunday evening. When his wife opened the front door she was as slack
jawed and wide-eyed as everyone else. I went inside their quaint little one
bedroom home and was formally introduced to Eric's wife. She said something
to me in Swahili and I said, 'Very nice to meet you, ma'am.' and I sort of
half bowed feeling awkward. Eric seemed satisfied with this exchange and then
took me to a guest house.
Outside the guest house I thanked Eric and gave him one of my cards telling
him to e-mail me sometime. Eric said, 'Gob bless you and safe journey.' What
a lucky person I was to meet such a nice fellow in such a remote place.
The guest house was just that -- someone's house in which I was a guest. It
was a clean place but I didn't sleep well there because I could hear people
outside the door and windows to my room much of the night. I had paid upon
arrival (about $6) and left very early the next morning wondering if I would
ever make it to Bukoba.
In the dusty center of Kayanga (a town I'm sure you won't find in any
guidebook) I sat alone on a bench waiting where Eric had told me for a bus to
Bukoba. Sitting there at 7:00 AM I had my doubts whether that bus would come,
but sure enough, it did. Four hours later I was pulling into Bukoba on the
western shore of Lake Victoria.
When I checked into my beach front hotel I got cleaned up and laid on my bed
reflecting on what happened over the last couple of days: someone had tried
to steal from me; I saw the swift and violent hand of African justice; I
nearly had a nervous breakdown on a terrifying bus ride; I spent two hours
stuffed in a car with eight Africans; I rode on the back of a dirt bike for
almost an hour from an extremely remote village; I hitched a ride on a coffee
truck; I was introduced to an African's wife in his home.
What had I learned from all of this? I think the biggest lesson was, when
you have a choice between the safe route and the adventurous route, you go
safe in Africa. Because the fact is, you don't have to go looking for
adventure here -- it will almost certainly find you.
The Serengeti is next...
