I’ve just made it to Uganda. The geographically astute will note that Uganda is a bit of a detour north-I’m meeting a friend who wanted to go there and it was also highly recommended- ‘the pearl of Africa’. We’ll be back in Tanzania in about 10 days for a jolly in Zanzibar among the 23 year olds and honeymooners. I think I was 24 when I went before.
Yesterday I took the ferry across Lake Victoria to head to Uganda. They only had 3rd class tickets for the ferry which the crew were all both horrified and amused by. I decided to sleep on a bench up top with my roll mat. And to use the VIP (ie average ferry) toilets. I had a shower soon after boarding in the economy bathroom and then found a woman weeing in the next shower with the door wide open. I had kept my sandals on for the shower- always wise.
People keep telling me I’m brave but the main challenges are tiredness when you’ve got to make the destination on time (it’s TSB’s fault I’m rushing for causing delays to Kilimanjaro which cut the number of cycling days), trying to find vegetarian food, trying not to get sunburn and dealing with long hours in your own head.
Tanzania was good- fleeting moments of profound loveliness mixed in with spates of irritation and angst. I think that is perhaps reflective of my headspace at the moment. There is a bit of Paradise Lost which I love that goes ‘The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven, what matter where, if I be still the same…?’ Neither Milton nor Satan had banging playlists or podcasts on ‘living your values’ or ‘closure’, but they were indeed right about your head creating your world.
There is a lot of time to ponder when cycling long days and it’s easy to think in unhelpful directions. Despite that, small interactions can really set the tone, and I have had moments where someone does something so charming or pure that the world seems infinitely lovely. Sometimes I can be in a grouchy funk, especially if there are big hills, and then people- often kids- do something so sweet or kind or profoundly innocent it acts as a reset. Or so terrible it shits on your day.
Some of the notables include polite school children, like the girl who approached me and asked if I knew the meaning behind the Tanzanian flag. She asked about my country’s flag and the story behind it. She’s probably the class nerd – I love the idea of accosting tourists with national trivia.
Similarly there was a particular area going into Igunga, where the tribespeople wore thin copper anklets stacked up like leg warmers, which went strikingly well with their white beads and black cloaks. The smiles I was met with, there in particular, were incredible, like the smiles when reunited with an old friend, but also having an aspect of curiosity. It is cliched to say that someone’s smile can brighten your day but the smiles and thumbs up as I cycled along were really heartwarming.
Motorbikers and their passengers often do cool and playful things. Fistbumps or offering (in gestures alone) to pull me along. The coolest has to be the lady who just turned from the back of a motorbike and blew me a kiss. Very slick. Maybe I’m a fan of these unobtrusive gestures particularly as they are the opposite of the numerous men who yell insistently (HEY MZUNGU! MZUNGU! MZUNGU!!! HEY!! HEY!) and get offended that I didn’t stop, or of men who will try to accompany me whether I like it or not.
The friendly interactions can be particularly valuable when juxtaposed with a shitty one. I think the polite school kids were the day after I was cycling near Ngorongoro Crater. It’s proper safari tourist-ville and it seems that this, combined with it being a weekend (no school) perhaps produced a rather nasty effect. I was cycling quite happily along looking over at some Masais in the field with their goats when one teenager picks up a rock the size of your fist and prepares to throw it at me. If I remember correctly, these guys throw rocks at hyenas to keep them away from the herd so I don’t fancy my chances. I called out ‘hey? What are you doing?’ and he stopped. About half an hour later I had similar with a younger guy. He wasn’t far away and I could see him biting his tongue in his mouth as he squinted to aim and jigged the rock up and down in his hand, weighing it for the throw. Again I called out and he paused long enough to get some distance between us.
Soon after that, I saw about 5 small Masai children running across a field towards me. This wouldn’t be unusual but I was taking no chances and sped up, thankful to be on flat ground. I was right to rush – this time rocks skidded about a meter away.
In the same morning, I was cycling past 2 Masai boys on the roadside. One had a machete and was calling out hello, which I replied to, but right as I passed him he swiped the blade, probably jokingly. But I thought ‘fuck this!’ and cycled as fast as I could. He turned and ran after me. I suspect he thought it was funny but I was unwilling to explore this joke and was glad to lose him.
For days after this I flinched when I heard the whistle across the fields and plains. But no similar hostilities were seen since. I’ve been told that tourists give money to the kids and thus they get angry if you’re not giving them cash. I think the proximity to Ngorongoro and Tarangire National Park and Lake Manyara and the Serengeti makes this the epicentre of tourism and the hostilities are no coincidence.
But yes, the juxtaposition of ups and downs… I then pulled over in a village trying to find a restaurant and found an American family just off their safari who invited me to share their lunch. Free food fixes an awful lot of feelings.
Accommodation is usually fairly easy and very cheap but one day I was in the hills and sought a place to camp. I’ve not done much camping in Tanzania because it’s often more than or similarly priced to a hotel. As a woman camping alone, I believe you are safer if either everyone or no one knows you are there. There are people everywhere so I won’t try stealth here. Instead I asked a woman in a village shop. Language barriers meant that my request had to become as direct as possible – ‘can I camp somewhere here?’ having shown her a photo of my tent. ‘No’, she said. Which is fair enough. The next village was bigger and I hoped to find someone sympathetic and possibly patriarchal/matriarchal. Instead I was approached immediately by fruit sellers and people started to gather and giggle as I tried to explain I needed somewhere to put my tent. I was met with fairly unsympathetic responses and told I should get a guesthouse 30km away – too far as it would be dark in about an hour . They suggested I hire their motorbike taxi.
I tried again in another village but this time I was immediately accosted by the village drunks spilling out of an unmarked bar. The response was similar and I vowed that I needed to change my strategy significantly.
I had been on the lookout for police checkpoints or churches as these are, reportedly, good places to seek safety, or at least get a sober response. And I was in luck! Shortly after the drunks I found a missionary with a dispensary. I stopped at the gates and managed to get the security man to summon the sisters. I asked if I could camp on the cut grass verge beside the gate. There was a lengthy discussion, all in Swahili, with me occasionally showing them phrases on Google translate. A phone call was made and then suddenly they swung open the gates and pointed me to the grassy courtyard. Success! Thank you, Jesus! Then they got worried as it was going to rain so took me to an undercover space with benches (classroom, dispensary waiting room?) to camp there. With toilets next door. I absolutely loved these nuns. The head nun (mother superior?) was so impressed with my tent, she summoned them all to have a look. It was a lovely peaceful evening and I have vowed to do more to help people when I get home. (My last attempt to get involved in the community led to scrutinising the council’s vulnerability strategy along with their bin and bike policies- I’m not sure that counts).
While polite school children and nuns have been Tanzanian highlights, the police seemed to have good chat. My interactions with them usually involved being pulled over and asked where I’d come from. And before that? And where was I going? And after that? Then they’d call me super woman and wish me good luck.
People do ask me for money all the time. I remember me and my sister hearing a child shout ‘hello, how are you? Give me money!’ and her replying ‘who taught you English?!’ back in 2008. This persists and people shout similar as I cycle past. I do wonder if they have any expectation of me actually stopping to get my wallet out, or if there are just rumours of mzungus haemorrhaging cash in their wake.
Despite this, there have been lots of really lovely generous people. An honourable mention goes to the trucker and his wife who gave me a lift yesterday (my first proper Tanzanian cheat- I’d done 100km). I gave them malaria treatment tablets and rehydration medication for their child who had malaria. And Ibrahim today who squeezed Biffa into his car after I’d spent half an hour puffing up a hill. (I really needed a day off so 30km was enough). He also taught me some Swahili.
But the guys who win all the good karma or heaven-bonus-points are the 2 who helped me with my punctures a couple of days ago. It was my first proper puncture- not bad for 3000km – the Cairo one was due to improper fitting by the bike shop (no rim tape!)- and it seems I didn’t get the offending wire sliver out so was repunctured an hour later. I didn’t want help but the first guy brought me water and helped a bit. The second guy, Simon, found the wire and was generally wonderful.
I’m afraid I’m very tired and this is probably more rambling than usual but the TLDR (too long didn’t read) is probably: I’m in Uganda. Tourism can be bad. Tanzania has lots of nice people and some assholes. Peeing in ferry showers is particularly gross.
Oh, and I watched the sunrise over Lake Victoria this morning. It was breathtaking.
Eilidh's Bicycle Adventures 