The places we stay

We are lead down a dark passage with evenly spaced wooden doors down the sides of the walls every three or four steps. All the silver padlocks are at different heights and hard to open. When ours eventually does we're met with a very discouraging sight, and begin to negotiate:

- Shingapi? (How much?)

- Pipteen sousand!

- But it's five thousand a room

- There three you... one, two, three (head nodding on each count)

- Yes but we want one room

- OK, make ten

- We can only do five

- OK, just add two, make seven

- Only five, if not we leave

- OK is fine

The room is a three metre turquoise cube with chip marks all over the walls, the roof is mouldy with water marks everywhere. There is a window guarded by matching burglar bars, something very rare in Africa. Silky purple curtains hang from a thread and flap through the missing window pain. It overlooks  a pool table where games of 'five ball' with made up rules are hotly contested till the early hours of the morning.

As we put our stuff down, a beer bottle belonging to the previous guest is slyly picked up as if it was never there. The floor is littered with burnt matches and flattened cigarette butts. The bed itself is still unmade from the night before, it's crinkled sheets covered by the standard blue mosquito net used all over Tanzania. In the corner is a white plastic chair and a blue lantern. The only other accessories are two wooden planks with four hooks in each for hanging clothes on. Sitting down on the spongey mattress my relaxation is short lived as my pants feel suddenly damp. Jumping up I smell beneath me; stale beer! We flip the bed knowing even “pive sousand" is a rip off.

The places we stay part 2: Rummy tummy

Lying, all three of us, on our flipped mattress we take turns running to the 'long-drop' toilet in between countless games of rummy - sickness has hit us hard at Lake Tanganyika. It all started when we arrived in Kipanga village where we planned on buying a wooden fishing boat the locals use to paddle further up the lake.

After a two hour starlit 'taxi ferry' to Kipanga we swear to never reach a place in the dark again. Although the trip itself is something I will never forget for the way the shocked locals warmly embraced us and our travel method, the area is so rural that there are literally no lights and you find yourself struggling to see even a metre ahead. Needless to say finding a place to stay is no easier, until the one “engris” speaker in the village is summoned to talk with us. The different translations and versions of our story make it feel like a kids game of 'broken down telephones' until we are eventually offered an empty room in a resturant amidst the confusion.

Although touched by the generous act of hospitality, I find myself sceptical as I know a spare room in Africa is something hard to come by. As we approach the entrance I can see through the door into a spotless white room and repremand myself for my own 'scepticality'. As I enter I change back to the 'old me' and immediately congratulate myself on my 'knowledge' of Africa. The room holds the most intense smell of fish my nostrils have ever encountered. Looking down on the floor I can see one or two small shrivelled up 'kapenta' (tiny fish) and realise we have been given the drying room to sleep in.

Finally knowing what Jonah must have felt like in the whales belly I settle down thinking that if he survived so will I. As I fall asleep my stomach rumbles and I pass it off as hunger or an effect of the terrible smell that hangs over the room so intensely. Midway through the night I am woken by the sound of the tent zip opening and assume robs has given in to the pull of his bladder. Lying in the dark, my own stomach still going crazy, I hear the distant sound of vomiting and fall back to sleep knowing I better cash in as my turn will be up soon.

In the morning we put on a brave face trying to look as grateful and unruffled as possible. We sit in the shade as close to the 'long drop' as possible and graciously deal with the audience of about thirty children and twenty adults fascinated by our every move.

Despite initially being met with tears and an about turn, the children's confidence has grown with time and the circle of little bodies draws closer and closer. I see one boy in the corner of my eye that seems especially intreuged by the three 'mzungus' in his village. As if drawn by an uncontrolable desire, I watch him reach out his hand to quickly touch my knee. After a successful first landing he gently places his hand on my knee again and sheepishly smiles at me.

My smile back signals his success and cues the tiny mob to follow suit. Even in our depreciated state, the beauty of such a moment does not go unappreciated. Nevertheless, our fears of infecting this crowd of innocent children causes us to retreat to the safety of our turquoise sauna.  

Some pics of healthier times at the lake

So we know you probably think we're the laziest bloggers ever, which we are, but the interweb is really bad here! Anyways, there's a post below and you can follow us on twitter  @TheLovemores, or check out the cool little tab on the right, and we'll tweet when we post!
Cheers.

Teargas in Tunduma

We sit writing from within a grubby, plastic, decorated restaurant. The walls are a classic two-toned blue and cream and covered in dirty hand marks; the decor suddenly fitting.

We get talking to Allen, a young Ethiopian-looking man with thick side burns, wearing a smart collared shirt with slick jeans and 'takkies'. As we make friends we find out he's actually from Nigeria and now stuck in Tanzania since Zambia refused him his visa. His wife and daughter are in Spain as he tries to make some sort of 'wheeler-dealer' success.

The similarity we share is that neither him nor us are customers but rather foreigners in hiding. Earlier we crossed into Tanzania only to be met by a horde of locals fleeing an armoured police van. Upon inquiry we discover that the disturbance is due to continuous conflicts between Muslim and Christian residents which have recently turned violent.

Teargas bombing episodes erupt with ten-minute intervals. Although the atmosphere comes across as initially hostile, the reality is difficult to gauge since locals constantly switch from blood-curdling screams to roaring laughter. Upon speculation and some lengthy rummy games we come to the conclusion that, like all of us, the Tanzanians are simply indulging in a good dose of drama.

Nevertheless, the matter is being treated with a certain level of seriousness, something we realise as padlocks and long-bolts barricade the doors of our restaurant. Intervals between blasts have become shorter and the broken windows are unfortunately no defense against the gas which has left us and the rest of Tunduma coughing and crying. Police still parade the streets with a megaphone, apparently ordering everyone to remain in doors although with Swahili as the national language, we get our information in drips and drabs of broken English.

While the Tanzanians continue to enjoy their rounds of cat and mouse, the Zambians are not as amused, closing their border gates and preventing our retreat. With the road before us still deemed unsafe, we decide that the little area of no-mans land between the two borders is our best bet in terms of safety. We're also chuffed to scoop a free night without the mission of setting up a tent in the middle of nowhere.

The truck drivers have been forced into a similar predicament to us and we're invited into the inner circle to enjoy some strong black coffee, a taste both very familiar and very missed. A white South African man is the ring leader and is fluent in four languages. While he is no higher than any of the local drivers, he seems to rule the roost through his sharp humour and the respect which he's accumulated through his many years of driving and the understanding of their culture. He even gets the Xhosa men eating salad, playfully mocking their disregard for nutrition.

In the morning we rise early with the hopes that the strikers will be sleeping in after their long day of hard work. As we walk up the deserted street we are followed by an army of thirty plus children, fascinated by our great trek. Police still roam the streets which are littered with the remains of burned tyres. Morning greetings have changed from the normal “mambo-jambo” to a mutual smile and cough as a cloud of tear gas still hangs heavy over the town. Everyone walks with cloths over mouth and nose. Looks like the Muslims won.

Sneaky photo of a police van

Getting cosy in no-man's land

Police Search

Hot and baking in the sun with rolled up sleeves, loads of suncream, a minor case of dehydration and still without a lift. Hitching this leg of the journey to Lusaka has not been easy. Eventually we're picked up by Watson, Arthur and Philemon who offer us some cold water and bananas. Thinking we've hit a stroke of luck we relax and dose off in the back off the truck, encouraged by the dull hum and shaking of the moving vehicle.

After about one hour I'm rustled awake buy Watson saying we've been stopped at a road block and the police want to see us. We bundle out the vehicle still a bit puffy eyed and cumbersome in our movements. We're taken to an office and told to wait for the immigration officer. The multiple conversations in Swahili and hand gestures leave us slightly confused and unsure about why we're in this position. All we're told by Watson is that they are looking for three young white guys.

Thirty minutes pass, as we sit sharing a worn down wooden bench with an elderly man on crutches, until we are approached by an absolute hoodlum of a fellow. Of course it turns out that he's the immigration officer we've patiently been waiting for. He's short, wiry, very fair-skinned and has a skull-like face with a very defined bone structure. He's wearing a 'Muslim hat', a blue vest, bell-bottom jeans and a fat blue chain to top it off. He hardly says a word and when he does it's through a clenched jaw with a slight whistle caused by the gap in his middle teeth. Unfortunately he hasn't got the keys to his 'investigation room' and so he asks for our passports. Passports in hand he disappeared again for a while.

After fetching our bags, we return this time with the investigation room open and our inspection begins. One by one we empty our bags as he looks on tentatively for that which he wishes to find. As I sit waiting for my turn, my gaze is drawn to the investigation pin-board where a photo of four is enlarged with the heading 'Murder Suspects' and pictures of dead bodies brutally disfigured and lifeless. Remembering their faces in case I meet them along the way, I begin to wonder how serious this search is and if someone could have planted something in our bags as they sat unguarded for an hour or so. Gazing once again upon the pin board, I am drawn to a less severe case, "Garden table and chairs missing: Reward offered". The 'mickey-mouseness' of this case is comforting.

As for the remainder of our drug search, it was possibly the most pathetic drug search I could have ever conjured up in my head. Basically everything that might have contained drugs was not searched and everything that had no chance of containing drugs was. In fact, if we were smuggling drugs we definitely could have passed off with a good few kgs of something.

Coming across our Bob Marley CD's, used for bargaining and giving to truck drivers, he proudly stated "Rastapharianism" as if it was some major piece of evidence that he could add to his pin board. After forty-five minutes of unsuccessful searching he finally gave up and said "You are free to go" with a big grin on his face. Not only this, but he helped himself to one of the 'rastapharianism' CD's and wished us best of luck for our travels.

We walked outside, our truck gone, back at square one, and a dusty soccer game on behind us. Somehow we couldn't but wonder if Matthews was behind all this and maybe he was less of a laugh than we initially thought.