Dar es Salaam to Disappointment: Part 2

The drivers 5 o'clock alarm wakes us and we're kicked out onto the streets of Nairobi, deserted and much colder than expected. We wonder around aimlessly for about thirty minutes waiting for the rest of the city to wake up, our lack of warm clothes beginning to take its toll.

As usual, the best English speakers are either hobos, madmen, drunks or all three and so after each consulting, or several of them, we come together and see which pieces of information gathered were most common. From today's drunken ramblings it seems we require a taxi to Isiolo where we will find further transport to the border.

A kind 'piki-piki' (motorcycle-taxi) driver helps us find our minibus where a huge fight breaks out for our bums (to be places on seats I mean). Each tries to convince us their taxi is best and leaving soonest. It ends with a hostile "**** you" to which the insulted replies "you know are so so stupid". We go with him, his answer convincing us of his authenticity. As soon as we've made our decisions everyone is back to best buds and the game of trying to 'win' your customer is over.

We feel good about our choice as everyone has their own seat and it looks like we won't have to fight for space. The welcome leg room of the aisle between myself and Jordan is, however, short lived as a wooden plank is stretched across the gap and a little girl, nervously smiling, is placed between us. Other than this, all is well and I ambitiously buy some yoghurt which in turn gets donated to the street kids begging for "European coin". Their frantic yet joyous sharing is a clear indication that they're unperturbed by it's sourness, unlike it's previous owner.

At Isiolo, transport is not the only thing that changes; the environment is completely different too. Christian prayer meetings, with all the drivers joining hands in a big circle, asking for God's safety before the morning journeys get underway are replaced by sounds of "Allahu akbar" blaring over Mosque speakers. It's dry and windy and everyone is suddenly more 'Arab' looking. It's clearly a poorer area and the environment seems strangely unforgiving.

Sitting in the dry wind, my lips quickly becoming chapped, I watch the bags as Jords and Robdog inquire about the next leg of the journey across the Chalbi desert to the Moyale border. We learn it will take three days and can only be done by 4x4, lorry, or a bus that comes straight from Nairobi, which we've clearly missed. Apparently the first and third leg are done at night to avoid the heat of the desert and the second is done during the day as it crosses and area that is bad for bandits. A police block stops anyone from even attempting to drive through there at night.

I am taken back to the three of us sitting on comfortable couches in Charl and Este's crispy clean white flat in Dar looking at our 'Map of Africa' plotting potential routes. As you go North the roads slowly deteriorate down the hierarchy from Highways to Main Roads to Secondary Roads to 4x4 tracks to "tracks" in Sudan, whatever that means.

The sense of excitement is evident on our faces as we sense the journey is entering a new phase. The adventure of a wilder Africa is beginning and we hurry off to find a lorry that would be leaving sometime tonight.

Dar es Salaam to Disappointment: Part 1

Leaving Arusha, we literally bargained for a whole day to get a cheap bus into Kenya. This was, however, much easier said than done. Being a high tourist area, it is almost impossible to convince driver and conductor alike of our money shortage. Eventually we all just jump on a bus, produce half the fair requested saying "it's all we have" and try look poor; taking our cue from the ever familiar pro's found at every Durban traffic light. The conductor grumpily allows us to stay, much to the approval of the rest of the bus who seem amused and almost 'stoked' that there are three white guys in the world poorer than them.

Before we go, Jord's typical last minute hunger gets the better of him and he decides to quickly hop off and 'stealthily' grab a chapati, away from sight, still trying to live up to our self proclamation of poverty. Unfortunately the bus decides to leave early and Jordan is left scrambling into the already moving bus with two bulging cheeks and half a chapati in his left hand. 

The conductor turns and just says "money money, chapati chapati". We're caught out but he seems almost impressed that 'the tourists' managed to pull one over on him. He graciously, and now laughing, concedes defeat; us the worthy victors. As for the chapati incident, it wouldn't die as quickly as our financial victory and Swahili conversations containing the word "chapati" along with much laughter and glances in our direction were heard for hours to follow.

The conductor shouldn't mind too much anyway as the bus itself is the first semi-empty one we've been on and is apparently more for moving cargo than human beings. In fact, it's the first bus where there are no extra people, goats or chickens shoved into every little space available. It's a nice change and we spread out feeling like we've really landed with our bums in the butter.

Usually one is left feeling quite the opposite to how we are currently; hard done by, hot and bothered, squashed and frustrated. Looking around, I'm often filled with envy as Jords or Robs has more leg space, or a window with a priceless breeze whilst you sit hot and sweaty resembling something of a contortionist.

The reality is, however, that every seat comes with it's own set of problems. Sometimes it's just simply uncomfortable from overcrowding (and let me just explain overcrowding here: I mean where you think there's space for one person, three will squeeze). Sometimes it's a broken seat with no headrest or the person's chair in front, reclined so far back that it cramps your knees, their hair tickling your Adam's apple all the way. Other times you could land up with the classic 'inconsiderate neighbour' who takes up half your seat and uses you as a cushion. He or she may be smelly or perhaps it's something they can't even help like being short. Now this might seem harsh but being a young Caucasian male in Tanzania you're usually rather large in comparison to the rest of the bus and a short person will manage to sort of get underneath you; pushing your arms and shoulders forward with their elbow usually digging into your ribs, making for an extremely unpleasant journey. Other problems include the very common breast feeding mom and her soggy, biscuit-spraying baby or the over inquisitive kid who lifts your eyelids every time you're about to get some precious sleep. Also unless one of us is manning a window, they will all without a doubt, one hundred percent, be closed. African people's tolerance for heat is remarkable and often you'll see someone sitting in a full suit or sweater, the sun blazing with their window shut, totally content in their self-made sauna.

Thus today’s journey could be a lot more comfortable, the only challenge dodging the dripping water from the rain pelting against the vehicle. We did, however, have one more concern on our minds: traveling at night. Traveling by day can be scary enough, and the darkness of night adds considerably to the tension. As you sit staring forward, you witness some of the most hazardous driving on earth. Overtaking is so tight that you can feel the heat of the oncoming headlights. Blind rises and hair-pin bends seem to be viewed purely as occupational challenges and drivers use them to prove their bravery and valour, driving along like absolute madmen. Our only comfort is that it’s usually the biggest who rules the road and luckily we’re in a pretty large bus.

All’s well that ends well, something you truly learn in Africa, and we arrive safely in Nairobi at about one in the morning. The driver allows us to sleep the rest of the night in the bus and so Robbie settles down as Jordan and I set off to quieten the rumbling stomachs. We manage to find a 24hr Chicken and Chips joint, with a massive portion of chips for only R 6. We each eat two. Belly’s warm and full, we set back to the bus, content. The driver has pulled rank and taken the back seat, and we are left to try sleeping across the two sets of chairs either side of the aisle in the middle. It’s uncomfortable but the levitating act is probably good exercise for our fattened ‘boeps’. Either way, a free night is welcome and we drift off to sleep unsure of what adventures tomorrow’s passage to Ethiopia will hold.

The breast feeder and biscuit sprayer, guilty as charged.

The Budget Breakdown

Many have been asking about the 'dental-floss' budget Robdog wrote about, so we decided to clarify a bit...

Traveling is something that we've talked about for many years, and more intensely so over the last while as we begin to make our own ways in life. The idea to do a full 'Cape to Cairo' came into being after Jordan had gone to Zanzibar and back with his brother, Dave. Stories from that trip fueled our desire to do 'The Full Monty' and being proud Durbanites, Durbs to Cairo was born.

The predicament of a student is a profound thing; you have time but no money, yet realise that later you'll have money but no time. Thus we were determined not let the 'financial' side of things hinder us by any means and in all honesty, if anyone knows the Lovemores, being 'hobos' is quite up our alley anyway. So we scraped together all of our life savings; a grand total of R12 000 each.

After looking at flights back from Egypt we set aside R4000 for a ticket, and R2000 for the different visas, leaving us with a mere R6000 budget. Now there are many different ways to look at this:

It could be seen as R 666 per country, as our route would take us through nine countries: SA, Botswana, Zambia, Tanzania, Zanzibar, Kenya, Ethiopia, Sudan and Egypt. Not to mention that Israel is still very much in the plan. On a distance scale this would be 48 cents per kilometre on our 12 500km trek, something that has already increased to 15 500km with detours; both expected and unexpected. All in all we're currently on 38 cents per kilometre.

On a more ridiculous scale it could be six thousand bags of 10 Kenyan-Shilling peanuts, or twenty-four thousand South African Chappies, a currency I use to distinguish the value of anything I do or buy. More realistically, on an estimated hundred day trip, probably more, but for simple math, it equals R60 a day. Now on one hand this may seem a lot, as we realise that many people in Africa would kill to earn such 'good' money and so we are, to some degree, still very well off in our surroundings. Not only this, but it is by no means the most hectic version of 'roughing it' as in a fit of madness Jordan and Dave made it back from Zanzibar to Nelspruit on R750 (4 countries, 5 500km, 10 days).

On the other hand, if you look at the overall expenses, you'll see that the R60 disappears fairly quickly through transport and accommodation costs. In terms of a food budget, we are often left with just enough money for two R10 meals a day with a snack of peanuts or a samosa in between. As for the meals themselves, they are often less than impressive and there is usually a limited choice of one or two standard meals, country wide. Thus our travel mode has been mainly hitching with the trucks, a service you pay for, or using the cheapest local transport; usually an overcrowded bus. Our accommodation has mainly been cheap motels, usually turning out to be shebeens or brothels, at about R10 a night, the equivalent of a night at a homeless shelter back in SA. Other than this, we've camped or slept at borders and petrol stations or on beaches and in buses. We've scooped some nights with sympathetic truck drivers or locals, being taken back to their humble homes, often highlights of the trip. On occasion, we've also stayed with South African ex-pat hosts, in the lap of luxury, often a much needed break.

Needless to say our entertainment budget has been less than minimal, although in some ways our budget has created that very entertainment itself. All in all it has added an interesting dynamic to our trip. Something like the wrong R250 bus trip eats into four days of the R60 budget, yet a free lift can mean a night of indulging in excess food or a comfy bed and not the concrete floor. Slops breaking, teeth falling out (Robbie) or cut fingers requiring stitches (Jordan) can create an interesting thought or choice process as one ways up the pros and cons of possibly losing a finger versus filling a more than often empty belly.

Shaun Tait

So we recieved this message from our legendary mate Taitus the 'Snubnose-Grunter' himself, and decided to share the humour with all of you...

The man himself, in all his splendour!

It was a starry night, fire crackling in the distant wood, radiating heat from 1000 miles away. Suddenly, with a thunderous echo across the land, began a strange chanting in the air. "Ki Ki-ya, Ki Ki-ya, Jambo!"

Louder and louder, the sound grew with crescendos and musical notes dancing in the night sky. With sticks snapping and leaves, leafing...I was carried towards the fire at the heart of the dock(?) and thrown into a large cauldron. A deliciously scented aroma penetrated my nasal passages as the lid was secured shut!

Hours, possibly days before, (but we know it was split seconds) I was feeding the pelicans and seals at Sodwana Bay dive resort at the OR Tambo airport in Durban, when disaster struck! The pelican bit my finger off just as Jordan landed the plane from their return trip through Africa. With all passengers and cabin crew dead, eaten alive by the Lovemores, THE CANNIBALS - Robbie, Luke and Jords, disembarked to a glorious day in Mississippi! They attacked me, repeatedly hitting me on the head with rocks from their loincloth satchels - but I didn't bleed, not a drop! I ran, ran through the woods as day passed into night (I have high stamina) but the savages kept coming. Out of nowhere they tackled me to the ground. Punches, more rocks, no blood, a pelican! More punches, less rocks, still no blood, another pelican!!! Shaun screaming, Luke laughing, Robbie rocking and Jords, well he's just picking his nose!

I'm tied up, there's a fire, that strange chanting again and a pot!

I started choking, breathing was difficult but tickellish, and my nose, the skin was being peeled off in a monotonous routine! Breathe, I can't, they're eating me! Breathe. Dead.

So that's what I dreamt last night, you bitches ate me! Haha.

I woke suddenly, not being able to breathe only to find my cat had decided to sleep on my face and is cleaning my nose!!!

You come back from Africa and you're Cannibals! What a life story!!!

Zanzibar

People speak of travelling on a shoestring budget; well we must be on the dental floss budget. We realized this earlier on our trip when we were at Lake Tanganyika. Luke, Jords and I had refused to buy drinking water and decided instead to get water from a nearby river, using our chlorine tablets to purify it.

Immediately a group of local villagers, watching from nearby, start up in frantic chitchat; the only word we can make out: ‘Umzungu’. This word is undoubtedly the first word any white tourist or traveller will learn. From the moment you set foot in Africa till the moment you leave you will be, ‘umzungu’! It is the word with which older people will endearingly replace your name; the word screeched out by kids to attract your gaze; it is the word that you hear before many bouts of lengthy laughter or time after time during a conversation in Swahili; it is this word that now drew our attention to the group of villagers watching us.

The most courageous of the bunch pipes up using the best English he can muster and laughingly says “Umzungu, we have agreed, you have a poverty mind! haha”

All I could think in the stark irony of the situation was that this man, with seemingly nothing to his name, was to a certain extent very much correct. We were the ‘Umzungus’ with a poverty mindset, the ‘Umzungus’ on a dental floss budget. Not only was he spot on, but this truth also meant we were about to experience a very different Zanzibar to the Zanzibar of lavish spending, exotic food, five star hotels, dolphin rides and foot massages.

Our Zanzibar adventure started way back at the mainland ferry station. After dispersing all the hustlers with irritated and gruff statements like “My man, we know what we're doing. We have been here plenty times before” we set off away from the traditional ferry station toward the main harbour in Dar to try find the boat Jords had taken two years previously. It was after all far cheaper than the customary $20 wallet assassin, known to many as the flying horse.

We ambled along in the direction of the harbour, Jords leading the way to the ticket office as confidently as if he were leading us to his very own home. When we finally got there Jords had his typical puzzled look on his face, pointing to an old shell of a ticket office he says, almost humorously, “It must have moved o’s, cause this hole is definitely the place”. After asking around we discovered that the boat we were searching for had in fact sunk. And according to the helpful local it was on these grounds that he could say, without reservation, that our ferry would not be fetching us from this dock today (or ever again for that matter). Stuff!! Firstly we’re going to get crooked $20 each to reach Zanzi, and secondly we’re going back to the very same hustlers we so confidently blew off.

When the ferry arrives in Zanzibar we are greeted with the awesome that is Stone town. It has a combo that screams such depth of history and culture, but furthermore has an underlying soul that is just plain down impressive. The old buildings and stone roads roll seamlessly onto the warm crystal clear green ocean; it is a sight for any eyes (even for the most travelled of them).

We grab some lunch at the market and then head to Kiwengwa on the east coast of the island. Jords has a local friend living there, who let him camp on his land during his last trip to Zanzibar. Free accommodation is always a treat and agrees with our motto: “Free stuff is life. And if you miss out on free stuff, you miss out on life”.

We arrive to another handsome looking ocean with a brawny looking outer reef and paper white sands, vacant of life. A leisurely stroll down to Obama Beach Bar leaves us within a stones throw of Shaka’s (Jordan’s friend) house, or lack thereof. There are now only lush impenetrable weeds where the village, and Shaka’s house, once stood.

‘Our’ Zanzibar lies in ruins. Everything that once was is no longer and the rest of commercial Zanzibar lies beyond our financial reach. My mind starts gallivanting on its own mission to who knows where, trying to solve the mystery of the missing village. In due course we find out from another local, a blazing rasta named Montera, that the village actually burnt down not long after Jordan left two years ago.  

(Laughter everywhere and all over my soul) So within the space of one day we discovered that Jords has such bad luck that not only did he cause a ship to sink but also allowed for an entire village to burn down. Watch out the rest of Africa Jordan’s coming and he’s bringing his “luck” too.

We ended up spending a few days with Shaka and Nathi despite the lack of a village, sleeping under a rickety tin shelter; much to the glee of Shaka: “Jordan’ee o my God’ee it is really you’ee. No I can’t baleef it. O my God’ee it is really really you. Jordan’ee, o my God’ee, I am so happy to see you after these three or two years”. These two guys are absolute legends. Nathi is a proper Rasta man, firm in his weed smoking beliefs, while, Shaka is just a genuine, unadulterated, and simply fantastic person; a beach boy by trade. It was a delight to meet and spend time with them, united in our ‘poverty mind’. Shaka touchingly says how we are the first white people he has not felt inferior to; mission accomplished.

And so, in our state of blissful contentment, the time in Zanzi flew by and Shaka’s concrete floor became a little too comfy and the mosquitoes a little too familiar. Thus we decided to wrap things up in paradise and settled on spending one last night in Nungwi for the full moon party before heading back to Dar in our $20 ferry,

The party itself was probably the biggest anti-climax of all time, EVER. It had been hyped up by every local in Zanzibar to be the greatest night of our lives. But regrettably, when the time came it was far from it, there were just not enough tourists to keep the party hip and happening. Unimpressed we settled for an early night on the beach, feigning drunkenness to bypass the Hotel’s attentive guards.

As for myself, the night’s events only went from bad to worse. I woke up in the middle of the night, my tummy brewing a storm that could and would rival Katrina. I hopped up, clinched and power waddled my way up the beach.  After the required distance from my sleeping companions complete, I ripped off my pants and set my sights on the eye of the storm. Me, my tummy and I were in an abysmal way, but even through all the discomfort I could not help pondering “At least I’m leaving my mark on possibly the most beautiful beach in the world, full moon glimmering fiercely off the slick now oily looking water”. The beauty helped, and I thanked the man upstairs for giving me such a glorious landscape in which I could get my reprieve. It is probably not a story I’ll be telling the nephews but it is, never-the-less, a memory that will keep me chuckling if I ever return to that stunning beach in Zanzibar.  Needless to say Luke wasn’t chuckling when I graciously passed my ailments on to him.

All in all Zanzibar was an utter pleasure, draped either side by extraordinary stays with Charl and Este (our hosts in Dar) who treated us to a time we shall surely never forget. From yacht club sunsets; to Super rugby braais and touchies tournaments with the Mexico 7’s captain; to wakeboarding and warm comfy beds; to boys nights and food that would make your mouth salivate endlessly... All things considered, poverty mind or not, we made memories like monsters (and that’s what it’s all about… dah dum). 

Zanzi You were EPIC (F.U.L.L.S.T.O.P)

A little bit of Stone Town in our life...

....and a little more of ST

Obama beach bar in its prime, the home of Shaka and his Rasta mates

A day in the life of Samweli

A large portion of our travel so far has been spent hunched up in the back cab of trucks, for hours and often days on end. Although trucking has sometimes proved challenging, it offers a perspective of African life and culture that cannot be experienced through the public transport system. To share this perspective we follow a day in the life of Samweli, a Tanzanian truck driver who picked us up in Southern Tanzania.

We met Samweli passing by a tavern on the outskirts of Sumbwanga. “Hello my flendies!” he shouts to us as if we're old mates. After some confusing Swahili banter and introductions to his friends and 'wife', Samweli excitedly requests that we join him in his convoy of trucks en route to Dar. Gladly accepting the offer, our response is met by round upon round of Safari, a local beer considered slightly lower class but very popular among Tanzanian truck drivers.

The evening with Samweli is one filled with laughter as we are entertained with mocking immitations of  fellow drivers. Midas, one of Samweli' s better friends at the table, is the epitomy of the term BFG and as a result is often the tail end of all the jokes. The biggest of these being his love for soft drinks and disdain for any form of alcoholic beverage. In the trucking community this could almost be considered a criminal offence since social life is so strongly centred around the taverns which line the roadside of the central trucking route.

Still, most drivers know their limits and as it nears the ten o' clock margin Samweli decides it's time to go to bed. “We have wake up  four 'o clock!” he shouts, pointing to his alarm clock. “That says six?!” we say, slighty perplexed. “No!” shouts Samweli indignantly “that is a four!”. After double and triple checking times we exit the tavern still unsure of when to return. In the background we hear some final warnings being shouted at us “be here four o clock or we go!”

We reluctantly agree on the safer option and arrive back at the crack of dawn. As suspected we return to our convoy, all sound asleep in their trucks, a deep rumble of  snoring confirming our initial suspicions.  At 6 o'clock some of the drivers groggily emerge, slightly hungover but happy to see us. Our bags and ourselves are hauled into the rear cab and we set off for Dar.

The beauty of each truck is that they differ according to each owner, often resembling  a shrine to their favourite football teams, musicians, Gods or otherwise. Samweli's truck is fairly plain in comparison but is at least kitted out  with a double bed, so two of us can sleep while the other is entertained with Samweli's ridiculous 'stories of the road'. Some of them, for example 'the truck driver who got eaten by the giant snake' we've heard before and so are not sure whether to believe. Others such as the 'wicked congolese policeman' seem more believable and every truck driver has about 10 000 different versions.

After some lengthy story telling full of sound effects, imitations and passionate hand gestures Samweli decides it's time for breakfast and we stop for the classic combo of chapatis and chai. The thing with hitching is that you never know how regular stops like these will be. Some drivers treat their journey like a hippie road trip finding any excuse for a break and a leg stretch, while others are more regimental and may drive an entire 12 hour stretch without so much as a toilet break. For safety sakes we stock up on peanuts, bananas and an empty coke bottle before climbing back into our cab.

Samweli returns with a stack of tanzanian notes freshly drawn from the ATM, we suspect that these are part of his 'bribery allowance'. Fines in tanzania range from legitimate offences such as broken electronics or missing seatbelts to more ridiculous accusations of having two different tyre brands or a truck that is too dirty. As a result, most drivers choose to bypass these frustrations and simply drive slowly by every road block with a large note peaking through their fingers.

As midday approaches we're grateful for the peanuts and bananas bought at breakfast. Gauging from Samweli's broken english, that was our last food stop for the day. His boss says he must to get to Dar in three days and so, averaging a speed of 40km and hour, he needs to drive 14 hours a day in order to make it there in time.

The pressure, however, does not stop Samweli from continuing the usual time wasting wheeling and dealing which all truck drivers involve themselves in; these activities include courier services for any private packages on route to Dar, passenger transport for under budget customers such as ourselves and sale of company diesel to roadside sellers who siphon their tanks with hosepipes. On the trip thus far Samweli has already strapped a large bunch of bananas, two sacks of charcoal and three chickens to the rear of his trailer, picking up a few thousand shillings at each stop, probably beer money for later.  

As it reaches late afternoon, we approach  the first weigh bridge. For Samweli this presents a problem; his truck is carrying a bulldozer and he knows his chances of making it through unfined or unimpounded are min. Being the wheeler dealer character that he is, he stops in a lay-bye and sets about waving down other truck drivers going in the same direction. He has already dismantled a portion of the machine and plans to offload it on another truck with a smaller load. The truck driving community, although divided on some class and ethnicity issues, are generally a supportive bunch and Samweli is quick to find help.

With truck drivers, everything except eating and drinking is always done in a massive hurry and with huge amounts of screaming and shouting. So, fortunately, it's not long before we're off again and Samweli is triumphantly celebrating his clever thinking, excitedly recounting his actions to us as if we weren't there to witness it first hand.

Unfortunately Samweli's conquest is short lived and his celebrations are interrupted by an explosive bang coming from the rear of truck. We grind to a halt and Samweli once again springs into action, darting down the road to assess the situation. “Tire is go flatty!”  he cries pitifully. As he stands there in a cloud of black smoke and shredded rubber we can't help but see the humorous side and try not to laugh. At the same time though, you do feel sorry for truck drivers; many get paid below minimum wage, they have the most ridiculous work hours and, on top of it all, they have to deal with problems like this almost on a daily basis.

Watching Samweli, it is clear that he is an expert in crisis management. He hurriedly sets about changing the tire, delegating tasks to everyone. I am instructed to break branches from the roadside trees and place them  at the front and rear of the  truck; a traffic warning system which seems to be understood all over Africa. Meanwhile, Luke and Robbie assist Midas who is frantically throwing tools out the truck in search of a Jack and wheel spanner.

Eventually we arrive at the weighbridge. Samweli parks his truck on the massive scale, hops out the cab and scampers into the tiny office with his papers ready to be approved. After half an hour, however, we begin to wonder what new hassles he's encountered. Finally he emerges through the rickety iron gate, his dropped bottom lip a clear indication that his duties of crisis management are not yet over.

“Four tonnes too much heavy!” he moans as he approaches the cab “we make lighter!”. After off loading  all private packages from the trailer, Samweli takes a spade and begins to remove all the dirt clinging to both the bulldozer and the truck. It seems ambitious to remove four tonnes of dirt, but  he's the boss and he's adamant that this plan will work. Nevertheless after meticulous cleaning and multiple readjustments Samweli's truck is still grossly overweight and he falls to the curb in a slump.We sit with him in some awkward silence for a while but as darkness falls, and with the familiar beckon of his friends  in the tavern across the street, Samweli seems happy to momentarily concede defeat.

And so ends a day in the life of Samweli, outside a tavern where it began. Tomorrow holds another set of challenges and he may have to answer some new questions;  how will he find the front end of his bull dozer? What will he do with the chickens and bananas he's been entrusted to deliver?, never mind the mzungus that need to get to Dar! These, however, are 'future Samweli's problems' and for now he seems content in the company of a beer, his mates and  perhaps the possibility of a new 'wife' for the evening.

A beer for the road

Up bright and early to catch a truck

probably the most comfortable truck ride ever!

Here is the boat we got, only problem is we had to sell ALL our stuff to get it!!