SUNBRIGHT LODGE AND THE NGORONGORO CRATER

Even looking back later, with time to reflect, it is hard to see how the signals were missed.  It came down to the fact that the young man who provided airline tickets at a very good price from Zanzibar to Arusha, came through with complete accuracy and otherwise flying colors.  I projected he would be able to do the same on the safari front as well.

Needless to say, Bora Picha did NOT meet me at the Arusha Airport.  A stand-in only known as Frank, driving a fairly respectable Land Rover, appeared instead in his place.  Frank was perplexed when I said the plan was to stay in Arusha, utilize the excellent services and internet availability of the Arusha Backpackers hostel, and then be picked up in the morning for a three-hour drive to The Crater.

“Oh no, you need to come with me now,” he said.  “Bora sent me.  We have a two hour drive still.  We will be much closer to the crater.  It is all arranged.”  I reluctantly agree.  After all, it is all an adventure, as long as you are still breathing by nightfall and not utilizing hospital services by day.

We arrive two and one-half hours later (Frank is reluctant to get beyond third gear and goes uphill like a loaded 18-wheeler) in the settlement of Mto wa Mbu – which, when converted into Swahili, translates into “Mosquito River.”  We pull into the Sunbright Lodge.  A very agreeable appearing, Polynesian style place.  “So, this is Bora’s hangout,” I think to myself.  At the moment, the attractive lodge seemed to fit with the overall plan I’d negotiated back in Zanzibar.  Things were looking very promising.

Bora soon presented himself.  Along with a cadre of hangers on, assistants, cooks, and barfly types.  You try to separate the wheat from the chaff in Africa so that you don’t needlessly speak to everybody and repeat yourself ad nauseum.  But, it is difficult to tell who is who, who has a position of responsibility and a real job to attend to, and who is merely lurking because they are being tolerated and things look interesting.  All are hail-fellows-well-met types.  All want to belly up to the bar before business is even cemented.  I am wary of this.  Unless clarified with absolute certainty, often times the Mzungu is expected to pay ... for everybody.

Bora himself appears rather slouchy, dressed in khakis and poor quality shoes.  You can almost always tell a man’s bearing and station by the quality of his shoes.  Good ones give a mediocre suit the panache of the King of Siam.  Poor ones make a Brooks Brothers suit look like the outfit of a waste manger removing animal renderings from a chicken ranch.  Bora’s looked like hinged clown shoes.

We have a Serengeti beer to celebrate our upcoming safari to Ngorongoro Crater the following morning, and then sit down to cement details.  He invites me away from the reception area to an outside table “where it is quieter.”  I double check to make sure the handwritten contract arranged with Hatib Kassim back in Zanzibar is available for rapid reference.  I first ask to review what all is included in the two-day safari we have planned to the Crater and the famous Serengeti National Park.  Then ask to confirm the price.

Bora does the roundabout method of negotiating.  “What do you want to be included,” he asks?  He ignores temporarily any reference to price.  “Well, what we talked about.  What Hatib told you about on the phone.  A day at the Crater, and then a day in The Serengeti.  I just happen to have a list right here, signed by him.  You should already know what is included.”  And then I show my list, taking care to keep my thumb over the final price.

“Ah, yes, we can do this,” Bora lights up.  I am familiar enough with Arabic/African negotiating to understand that the agreed price is always something to be undermined both throughout, and at the end of any final actual payment.  Plenty of references to “My Friend” are made throughout, to soften the sabotage.  “And at what price?” I finally ask.  My thumb remains over the final written number agreed to by his agent in Zanzibar.

He calculates some figures – as if this is a whole new destination requiring a start from the beginning – and comes up with a price well in excess of $200 beyond what had been quoted to me.  I then show him the number on the paper.  “No, that won’t work.  That is excessive and not in line with what you already agreed to.”   And I show him the line-by-line signed copy of our safari itinerary agreed to by Hatib.  “You already agreed to THIS price, Bora.”

He slumps in his chair.  “But The Crater is so expensive, and The Serengeti is so far!” he protests.  He is correct.  The Crater alone requires a $50 per person National Park fee, and then a $200 descent fee per vehicle.  You are out $300 US before even paying for the driver, his vehicle, gas, food, or anything else.  We go round and round the mulberry bush on this.  I rapidly lose my confidence in his ability to deliver.

“Look,” I finally say.  “You had time to calculate this earlier, when we were on the phone with Hatib.  You knew the pricing.  It should have been included.  I presumed you would save money by taking an entire group down into the Crater.  Now it appears you will be taking only two of us.  That is not my problem.  It is yours.  I am not paying a dime beyond what is agreed upon here.”  And I point with renewed emphasis to the signed itinerary sheet agreed to on the phone.

He attempts to renegotiate, perhaps sensing I at least understand his dilemma.  He pleads.  Dusk draws near.  I may have to journey to a nearby place and make new arrangements.  And finally: “Take it or leave it, Bora.  I was in discussion with other safari operators.  I can just as easily leave here now and go with them.  You need to decide.  Now.  Actually, NOW-NOW.”   And I request that the presumed porters (which I never use, always carrying my own pack and flexible suitcase) put my luggage back into the Land Rover.

Bora opens up his phone.  He calls Hatib.  I remind him Hatib took his pricing from a professional looking price schedule prepared by Bora, then start walking to the car.  “Okay.  It is okay.  You pay in cash though.”  I point to one of the final lines in the handwritten agreement between myself and Hatib: “Must be able to use credit card to pay!”  And then point out cash machines in Tanzania won’t let you take that amount of cash out on a daily basis anyway.  Not even in two days.  And then resume walking.

“Okay.  Okay.  We go.”  Bora finally agrees to the original terms.  Then directs me to a white man who had earlier introduced himself as Jurie (“Yuri”) who had the credit card machine on the premises for payment.  I paid $30 extra for the bank processing fee, then asked Jurie to provide me a receipt.  He did so, taking care to note: “Accommodation and safari.  Paid in full.”   Bora went over a few minor details, such as starting time for the morning.  And then, since there was no internet, I retired to the bar to watch soccer (the universal language of the planet) and talk with Jurie and other locals.  Bora disappeared.

Jurie van Riel, as it turns out, is the Operations Manager and co-owner of Sunbright Lodge.  He was curious what business I was transacting with Bora that required the use of his credit card apparatus.  I told him about my safari arrangement.  That is a very reasonable price,” and nodded his head thoughtfully.  And then I learn that Bora has nothing to do with Sunbright whatsoever except for the fact he rents a single thatched round rondevel there where Swahili and Tanzanian art is sold.  I begin to understand why Bora did not want to occupy any part of the official offices in the Reception area to conclude our agreement.

Sunbright Lodge itself is a relaxed, quiet location off the busy highway leading to The Ngorongoro (and hour’s drive) and The Serengeti (a day’s journey away).  It is used primarily for foreign visitors wishing to visit the nearby Manyara National Park,  Tarangire National Park, and The Crater.  Due to the distance, most tourists utilize safari camps in other areas to visit The Serengeti.

It has a Lodge with nine fully-equipped rooms and full board (including buffet meals prepared by Jurie’s wife, Nadine, offering locally sourced Tanzanian and Swahili meals).  It also has 12 tents, two of which are family sized – each includes en-suite bathrooms with hot water and 220V wiring.  Finally, there is a campground for the budget minded. A pool, bar, restaurant, reception area and campfire circle complete the grounds.  My package with Bora includes one of the tents.

He comes to me later, beckoning quietly to talk in private and explaining there is a problem.  Of course there is a problem, I tell myself.  Either Bora can’t add, or he is feeling the narcosis of negotiating poorly.  I am feeling like a hard-ass, and not subject to additional negotiation.  Bora explains that since I made my credit card payment to Jurie’s account, he won’t have access to the money for up to two days from now.

That leaves me with two choices.  I can hang out for an additional time at Sunbright Lodge and take a chill day (and also lose a precious travel day), or – since Bora is lacking the resources to pay for the crater descent fee and two national park fees on his own until he actually receives my safari payment – perhaps I could go to the cash machine in the morning, get $300 for the fees, and get reimbursed by Jurie directly?  I could only laugh.

But Jurie drops by to add he will personally assure the refund, then writes me a brief promissory letter (quoted in full) notable for its crisp professionalism and directness:

23/04/2014

Refund of Park fees and Crater Service fee to Mr. Lawrence A. Cenotto

As per our discussion on the evening of 23/04/2014, Sunbright Lodge, Mto wa Mbu hereby pledges to refund Mr. Lawrence A. Cenotto the amount of US $300.00 for Park Fees in order to facilitate his Safari to the Ngorongoro Crater.

Said transaction will take place on Friday 25/04/2014 at Exim Bank, Karatu Branch

Signed,

Jurie van Riel

Operations Director

Sunbright Hotels Ltd

I agree to these new terms.  It remains within my awareness that I am still getting one very attractive deal and do not want to lose my advantage due to somebody else’s cash flow problem.  Jokingly inquiries are soon added about where I can go about having Jurie’s letter bronzed?

Jurie suggests we leave the next morning for The Crater about 10 AM, to have time to visit the ATM cash machine and still get a relatively full day with wildlife.  That way, since the park fees at Ngorongoro operate on a 24 hour basis, it will be possible to traverse the park on the way to the Serengeti the following day without having to double up on the fees if we pass through the far exit gate somewhere between 10 and 11 AM.

Instead of two of us making the trip from Sunbright (plus Frank the driver), there are five total.  Bora and a friend of his, Christopher, also decide to attend, the reason being completely inexplicable.  A disclaimer is quickly made acidly clear: I am only paying for two park fees, not three and not five.  Once again, when dealing with these folk, you can never be clear enough, nor ask enough questions, nor make enough disclaimers, nor get enough in writing.  Even ministers are required to put their price in writing now.

The cash machine portion of the safari is another episode of Keystone Cops.  First the $300 must be withdrawn.  It arrives in Tanzanian Shillings.  Then it must be converted mathematically into dollars.  Chris comes up with one number.  The Bank Manager comes up with a number more favorable to me.  I insist on using his number.  Then that amount must be tendered to Frank.  He drops by one office to convert the cash into credit on a special Ngorongoro Descent card, and then another – I think it was the park entry gate – to actually pay the fees.  It should have taken ten minutes, fifteen tops.  It took 75.

The winding dirt road to the top of Ngorongoro Crater and then along its rim is very well maintained.  Along the way a small army of workers using nothing more than hoes maintain potholes in the road, and more importantly, drainage culverts to the side.  These drainage portals are numerous and very well manicured.  This road is a cash cow for Tanzania, and must be kept up to heavily traveled standards.  A grader and later heavy roller are also present, keeping access smooth and level.

Before the steep descent even arrives, there are several miles of rim driving to negotiate.  The very first carved-out viewpoint in the crater edge is stunning, and gives broad hints of what is to follow.  Several large lakes dominate the crater floor, which is slightly smaller than the 19 kilometer rim-to-rim distance.  Entire herds of zebras, impalas, elephants, wildebeests, and gazelles and warthogs look like ant armies from nearly 3000 feet above.  It is a virtual wildlife zoo sans gates or fences.

Upon first descent, I notice cattle near the point where the crater floor begins to flatten out.  How can this be?  I am told it is because they are attended by young Masai tribe herders, clad in bright red robes and armed with several sets of knives and spears.  It is the duty of each Masai warrior to kill a lion prior to his full maturity.  The lions have collective knowledge of this, and when they see a red robe, they quickly flee.  Thus the cattle remain safe.

The Masai clan– famous for their jewelry, bright clothing, and cattle culture – arrived in Tanzania and Kenya from Namibia (far to the south and west).  Perhaps one should say they are really famous for their cattle thieving.  They have been in competition locally with the Iraqw Tribe (arrived from Ethiopia, to the north and east) for many years now.

Each has stolen cattle from the other (and others), and each denies it.   Each claims they originated the cattle, which was stolen from them.  They both claim what was rightfully theirs was merely taken back again. The competition got very serious until about 15 to 20 years ago, when the Iraqw started utilizing firearms.  Having long eschewed these weapons, the Masai soon found a different way to settle their differences.

The Masai, I am told, also teach their children to beg, and teach their animals to run into the road as vehicles approach.  In that way, they benefit both ways: they get to keep the meat, and get recompense for the animal.  We shall see … there must be some truth to the matter, however, as any time a driver I am with approaches a Masai herd, he does so very, very carefully [ I plan to visit these people for a longer stay once in Kenya ].

The crater itself is pure bliss.  Rarely have I ever enjoyed each square yard of an area as much, or lost track of time so willingly.  At first it begins like a Midwest prairie, since trees are lacking in the center of the crater and animals are less numerous.  But beyond the cattle we are eventually introduced to:  Grant and Thompson gazelles, Zebras, warthogs, wildebeest, water buffalo, many birds (including ostriches), velvet monkeys, baboons, lagoon with hippos, hyenas, impala, elephants, jackals, and … lions.  Finally!

In four previous visits this trip to South African National Parks or Game Preserves, not one single lion had been seen.  That was a primary motivation for visiting the crater.  With all those trapped animals, surely there must be some lions present?  So that became the directive to Frank: Find lions!  His forecaste in broken English: “100% chance of finding lions.”

The suspense builds slowly.  At first only likely hangouts where lions might be lurking are seen.  “Pride Rock” (Lion King reference) type jutting rockpiles, where a lion can observe from his throne all beneath him – and his next likely meal.  Then hints.  A leg sticking up here, a tail wagging there … clearly lions, but too far away.  Best viewed through field glasses.  Then the word from other meandering Land Rovers: “Lions on a hard right turn, 20 minutes away.”  Less than 5 kilometers.

Along the way, I witness an unexpectedly touching moment.  A male hyena, forlorn at the loss of a now deceased mate, keeps rising from a matted spot in tall grass, walking around almost drunkenly, and then laying down again.  On closer examination, his head is resting affectionately on her wasted hindquarter.  He is loathe to leave.  The sadness in his eyes tells an entire across-the-species universal story.

Finally, lions with more than one visible body part.  About 25 feet away.  But laying in tall grass.  Why won’t they just stand up and cooperate a little?  Maybe investigate us?  I begin to get the sinking feeling that this may be as good as it gets regarding “100% chance of lions.”  A sucky photo op to be sure, but click away is the rule.  Digital camera snapshots are mercifully erasable.

We round the corner discussing the notion of “at least we saw lions!” and upon clearing the first bush, nearly run over two more fast asleep right next to the road.  Could have spit on ‘em.  Snap away remains the rule.  Why won’t they just stand up a little?  Frank guns the engine, hits the road edge with a thud and the lions are upright in a millisecond.  Now they can be seen in their full glory.  I get every imaginable profile shot, both singly and collectively, before these two fall back asleep.

Then off to lunch.  Less than half a mile away, there is a so-called protected area with a bathroom, a water buffalo skull, and numerous velvet monkeys just waiting to steal your food.  We stop here to use the loo, look at the monkeys up close, and dine in the Land Rover.  At this time, I notice I am also providing identical lunches for Frank, Christopher, and Bora.  Not part of the plan.  Yet the annoyance rapidly slips away.

Other suprises await.  The ostriches, so ungainly and misshapen compared to the sleek and intelligently designed plains animals they mingle with.  The lack of obvious animal bones (they are scattered, since everybody eventually gets in on the “kill” action in The Crater).  And the hippos near the end of the day.  A herd of perhaps eight, was clustered around a newborn in a lagoon at the south side of the crater.  They get sunburned easily, and won’t show themselves – and only a peekaboo at that – much beyond a couple seconds.

The lagoon, hippos, surrounding marsh, forest of acacia trees just beyond, and pristine views of the rim rising high above become my favorite part of the crater.  Lighting in the crater changes throughout the day, and it is often fortuitous to return to a given spot hours later to see what new things – and viewpoints – have replaced a known commodity.

We have to be out of the crater by 6 PM.  Our ascent begins toward the opposite or south rim.  The labyrinth of road choices gets significantly narrowed.  Just over a short rise, we suddenly see three Land Cruisers clustered at the side of the road.  There is a lion.  A heavily maned male!  Then another.  Then six others on the opposite side of the road.  Then a female lion with two cubs.  Twelve lions in all.  It is so rich a find it is almost lion porn.

The reason for the cluster becomes immediately apparent.  A large water buffalo has been taken down within the last six to nine hours.  The lions are engorged on meat, and sleeping it off.  It is the simba version of having an all-night drunk.  We are lucky to have arrived even before the jackals and vultures.  Both soon appear.

The small and ever-wary jackals circle from way around to approach the kill.  Though the lions all sleep, they only approach furtively.  One finally gets the nerve to snatch some meat from the carcass, only to flee at the first twitch of movement.  This goes on for half an hour, while every photo angle imaginable is taken of maned male lions, mama lions, cubs, jackals, and the water buffalo remains themselves (largely a rib cage and hideously grinning jaw bones).

After five and one-half hours of this bliss, we crest the south rim.  Another forest of Acacia trees – quintessential Africa --  greets us as we take our leave.  It looks like something out of a postcard.  I am personally gratified to have been present in Ngorongoro Crater during the tourism low-season, and at a time of day when there were fewer humans in the crater.  We arrive at the park entry with five minutes remaining until 6 PM.

One gets the impression Frank has pulled off this timing coup in previous trips.  It is only then, in discussing my plans for the Serengeti for the next day with him, that he claims he has no idea what I am talking about.  “I am not supposed to take you to the Serengeti tomorrow,” he says.  “That is a long way. I’m not being paid for that.”  Right afterward I learn from the park rangers on an exit potty break, that the 24 hour rule for park departure is not a reality anymore – as soon as you leave the park, your fees are fully realized.

To enter the park again, you must pay a whole new set of fees.  Entering the Serengeti from these parts, requires first passing through The Ngorongoro Conservation area.  There is no such thing as a transit fee – or free pass for repeaters  I look at Bora.  He looks at Frank.  Frank quizzically looks at me.  This is worse than a Giordian Knot.

Near the end of the day’s nevertheless brilliant outing, we pass next to the deepest part of the Rift Valley – that part of the continent which splits Africa into low level troughs like Lake Malawi and Lake Tanganyika.  Nearby is the famous Olduvai Gorge, where paleontologist Louis Leakey first discovered multiple human ancestor fossils – including the 2.5 million year-old “Lucy” skeleton from the species Australopithicus Africanus.

Back in Sunbright Lodge, celebrating The Crater over gin and tonics, Bora beckons for yet another private meeting.  I have no patience for this continuing crap.  I jump him immediately with: “Why the hell doesn’t Frank know about taking us to the Serengeti tomorrow?”  He has no answer.  “We need to talk about expenses,” he adds.  “Fuck your expenses,” I bellow.  “We have an agreed price.  You also signed to the number.  I can’t help it if you can’t add.”

Over the next three hours, Bora pleads for reasonable money to break even.  I ask him what the name of his business is.  There is none.  He is a safari operator wannabee.  How many has he taken to the crater?  A total of ten.  What is his real job?  Selling art.  Why can’t he stick with his agreed to price?  No answer. 

Christopher and then the cook chip in, with their inflated expenses for jobs real and imaginary that contributed.

Chris reiterates how he understands what I am saying based on what he now knows, but intones that reasonable money is still a necessity.  He elevates the argument to a moral issue.  I take him to the sideline with: “Easy for you to say when you’ve just eaten your daily meals at my expense.”

Bora tries nothing new.  Just attempts to wear me down with repetition.  “We need to discuss a reasonable price.”  He has no idea how laughable I find this.  My swearing takes on new levels of both volume and profundity as his coterie of hangers-on and underlings attempt to augment his repetitions with fresh approaches.  I’ll have none of it.  I am The Lion King.  I have a throne and a written agreement.

I suddenly find myself very, very grateful that I’d gotten my safari arrangements on paper both in Zanzibar and at The Lodge, and then signed by both arrangers – at the selling end, and the provision end.  And in addition, that the credit card transaction went through Jurie.  For it was abundantly clear now, Bora intended to collect in full, then stiff me for the Serengeti end of the trip based on a “perhaps you misunderstood me” approach without receiving additional significant money.

In addition, I would now have to pay an extra $100 in park fees just to pass through the Ngorongoro on my way to the Serengeti.  For anybody who is aware of my backtracking rules and attitude toward either renegotiated trip arrangements or hidden fees, this option would be dead on arrival.  I discussed the whole development at length with Jurie.

The extent of the deception was just now becoming clear to him.  He advised me what type of fees professional safari operators had to pay just to stay in business, then pointed out HIS cost as a licensed provider for one day in The Crater would have been at least as much as my entire package, and without inclusion of the Serengeti.  He and I agreed to go to the bank in the morning for a full refund (of course I was already out my $300 for the crater fees, but I’d had an incredible outing for a day which could not be replaced), and then with he and Nadine’s help discussed what payments might fairly be paid for services actually delivered.

I settled on the camp fees for two nights with Jurie for his wonderful tents (bar bill had been previously paid, all in cash), $43 for two days worth of meals for two people for the cook, and $150 for Frank the driver based on a package deal of $250 for two days but with the Serengeti clearly off the table now.  When Jurie agreed to drive me clear back to Arusha in the morning so I’d have better flight or bus options west toward Burundi, I insisted he accept payment for a tank of gas.  He refused at first, until I insisted. 

Needless to say, this stand-up man came through in every respect the following morning.  He took me to the bus station and the airport.  Stood by while I bought tickets.  Delivered me to the Arusha Backpackers hostel for the night. And provided my full refund in American dollars.  These were then ladled out as diminished return payment portions as described above for all concerned (except Bora).

I headed west by bus the next morning, both wiser and yet richer due to the never-to-be-forgotten memory of the Ngorongoro Crater. The “reasonable price” on my terms and not that of the art sales con man was an added bonus.  Bora came away empty handed.  Except for an eviction notice from Sunbright Lodge I learned about via e-mail from Jurie two days later, after I was already in Mwanza – Tanzania’s second largest city, the economic engine of Lake Victoria, and halfway to Burundi and Rwanda.

A ROAD ANGEL APPEARS -- AND THE EXOTIC SPICE ISLAND OF ZANZIBAR

The attempt to fly directly to Dar es Salaam – the largest city and capitol of Tanzania in all but name only – following the return trip to Nampula does not bear immediate fruit.  All the seats are sold for the day.  The website for LAM Airlines (and a number of others) also will not accept online bookings within 24 hours of departure -- which really means within about 36 hours of departure.  I’ve been through this before, in Rio de Janeiro, stuck at the end of Carnival without a guaranteed departure seat and everybody and their entourage trying to make it out of town.

While at the airport I attempt to get airline personnel to help.  They are too busy with a recent flight, and can not assist.  An office across the midway is noted, with a sole occupant seemingly lacking pressing duties.  I duck into his office and inquire about a workaround.  He indicates it will be all right to both use his computer and stow my gear, then shows me a way to bypass the 24 hour black-out online booking blackout.  It becomes possible to get tickets to Dar after all for the next morning.

Once done and paid for (and with a hefty $45 savings over the direct ticket window) the same gentleman asks where I am to be staying for the night?  The answer is a probable return to Nampula’s Ruby Backpackers.  “Just a minute,” he says.  “I think there is something better  we can do for you.”  He quickly checks a schedule on a clipboard to the side of his desk, then allows: “We don’t have any pilots in town tonight.  You are free to use our layover house that is reserved for them.”

He notices my hesitation.  This gift is coming out of nowhere.  I am feeling a need to get grounded, and am wondering if the place is merely a dive bunkhouse close to the airport.  “Oh, don’t worry,” he continued, as if reading my mind.  “It has only one bedroom, with a King Bed, air conditioning, its own kitchen, a security detail, television, and a space-age bathroom.”   After a moment’s hesitation, he adds: “It’s free.” He then offers a ride with one of his assistants to the location.

By way of this out-of-the-blue perplexing scenario, I am introduced to my latest Road Angel, Litovio.  I mention him not only out of his kindness and generosity, but due to the circumstances under which he his generosity presented itself.  There was no “situation.”  No panic.  No circumstance of being isolated in a strange town and without money – like in Cuba in 2013.  His offer just came out of the blue.  I never really did find out what Litovio did job wise.  Nobody else seemed to interact with him.  It was not clear who he worked for.  He seemed to have plenty of free time to assist me.  It appeared as if he was a divine plant.  Was I being tested in some way?

We journeyed over to the pilot layover residence in about ten minutes.  Litovio provided a mini-tour of Nampula along the way, making sure to point out the shopping center, cash machines, and a place I might get my camera repaired or acquire a new one – since my treasured lightweight Canon digital S2500 had crapped out on me in Mozambique Island, probably from the humidity.

The evening is spent camera hunting, enjoying my first African monsoon while walking the streets of Nampula, procuring food at Shopright (a large African chain much like Safeway or Albertsons in the United States), and then writing in complete peace in the evening.  Only the security guard coming around to check on me presents any interruption.  I gladly share my homemade dinner of salad, rice, Portugese sausage and spaghetti with him.  He seems utterly shocked at the offer.

In the morning, Litovio has arranged for a vehicle to come pick me up at the pilot house.  Again, no necessity to pay for the taxi.  At the airport waiting area, I attempt to repay him in a very small way with a gift of coffee and three take-home beers; one of each available local brand.  Then off to Dar es Salaam, the largest city in Tanzania and the capitol of the country in all but name only.

My two hour northbound flight is routine except for the incredible view from 20,000 feet of the Quirimbas Archipelago, which stretches roughly from Pemba (eight hours by bus from Nampula) to the Tanzania border.  These offshore islands – the most famous of which is Ibo, known for being suspended in a Portugese colonial timewarp – simply astound with the richness and variety of their blue-green wave patterns, surf flurries, reef breakers, and dormant lagoons and atolls.  The iridescent water appears as if backlit from underneath.

Most of the islands are heavily foliated in a deep verdant green mangrove thicket.  There is some settlement, but no rhyme or reason as to where.  The populated areas are not always closest to the mainland nor to the nearest harbor or sheltered cove.  Palm trees prevail along the coastal sandy areas.  The view is very Caribbean.

There is nothing I particularly want to see in Dar.  Like most large cities, it is to be avoided mostly, as it is more of a flytrap with all the street touts (pseudo arrangers and phony ticket providers), overpriced taxis, extortion rate money exchangers, crappy hotels that promise the moon and don’t even deliver hot water, and so-called restaurants where not even rats would dine.

My very courteous Indian taxi driver takes me from the airport directly to the Zanzibar ferry.  But I miss the last departure for the day at 4 PM by five minutes, and have to settle for exchanging paper money from South Africa, Mozambique, and Zimbabwe (nobody wants anything to do with the Malawi money).  He extends his hospitality by waiting while I negotiate for a hotel, then takes me to the cash machine.  Overall I have found Indian providers – be they merchants or taxi drivers or restauranteurs and no matter what country they reside in – to have much more integrity than most other locals found  along the way.

The fast ferry hydrofoil to Zanzibar takes 90 minutes for the 50 mile crossing.  My cost is $40 for Executive Class, which includes air conditioning.  The boarding is routine, except for a continuation of the sideways monsoon of the previous few days, and all the Tanzanian women pushing and butting in line.  The situation is amusing, if for no other reason than the men seem to do very little of this line crashing.  It seems to largely be an estrogen related sport.

Upon arrival I am fortunate to be introduced in the taxi line to Seif Tembo, probably the senior taxi driver on the island.  He takes me around to my initial hotel of choice, talks me out of it (and agrees to a lower fare to preserve his credibility), then once again waits on standbye while bags and backpack are unloaded and directs me on his own to several notable Swahili restaurants, the main market, and Zanzibar’s famous spice market.  I am only too happy to pay him more than initially agreed.

Zanzibar – actually the name for an archipelago of islands, of which Unguja is the most visited and the most famous – is known for its complete change of pace from the mainland, and its illustrious past.  From about the eighth century on, Persian traders established a presence on the islands.  From the 12^th to 15^th centuries, Unguja became a powerful city-state, importing glassware, spices, and textiles and exporting gold, ivory, wood, and sadly slaves.

In the 16^th century Portugal took control over the archipelago, followed by Omani Arabs and later the British – who created a Protectorate there while still allowing Omani Royalty to retain nominal rule.  The area became so prosperous that The Sultan of Oman relocated his court from the Persian Gulf to Unguja in 1846.  In 1892 the islands gained their independence from Oman, and joined mainland Tanganyika in 1964 to form the tenuous United Republic of Tanzania.

This place is remarkable, not for its pristine beauty, but for the variety of its religions, customs, ethnicities, architecture, types of food, and smells.  The shopping bazaar should really be called “The Bizarre” for its tiny narrow twisting alleys, its narrow shadowy interiors, strange offerings of exotic goods, and fascinating mix of ethnicities (primarily black, Persian, Indian, and Arab).  The place truly is a melting pot, in the way America used to be. Religious tolerance is the norm in Zanzibar, though the islands are about 97% Muslim.  Which makes finding a beer or mixed drink a very difficult task at times.

After making an arrangement to stay at Jambo Guest House (a backpacker type haven with reasonable hostel type costs and all amenities except for private baths), the heat and humidity immediately drive a reasonable man to drink.  Using largely hand signals, a man at one of the bazaar shops walks me half a mile through the maze of cobbled streets and alleys in the bazaar to a rooftop watering hole with a territorial view out over the mainland and neighboring islands.

The beers are too expensive compared to recent travels, but that is probably where supply and demand come into play.  Rarity spikes prices.  My liquor guide lets on that he is Muslim, but enjoys an occasional beer.  As do many of his fellow Muslims.  That was supposed to be the tradeoff for his directions.  But as it becomes time to leave, as so often happens, he changes his story.  He now wants a contribution as well.  I remind myself to clarify up front afterward there will be no contributions – only sharing of a couple beers as recompense for direction or accompaniment.

The Lukman Restaurant near the Spice Market next commands my attention.  It is known for its local dishes and Swahili food.  Mostly locals are eating here.  The small shop with its buffet type offerings is not feted in any tourist guides that I have seen, and is vastly underrated.  I spend the next two hours, savoring small portions of multiple dishes served over rice or noodles, and washed down with delicious karkade – hibiscus passion juice.

The food included: pilau (rice browned with fat and spices) … ugali (cooked maize flour dough) … muhogo wa nazi (cassava root cooked with coconut) … mchuzi wa chaza (clam and oyster curry) … mchozi wa mboga wa nazi (carrots with green peppers) and …mkate wa kusukuma (chapatti bread).  I find the pilau particularly appealing.

On another meal the following day, I sampled at the Dolphin Restaurant similar food but packed inside a Mexican quesadilla.  It too, was delicious.  Most notable was a drink sampled out of sheer curiosity: “The Dolphin Drink.”  It looked like a green vegetable shake … not particularly appealing.  But with lime, sugar, honey, mint, and soda as ingredients, the taste belied the appearance.  I drank two.

Just away from the spice market, is the former slave market – the largest on the east coast of Africa.  It is now the site of the Zanzibar Anglican Church, begun by British missionaries in 1873 when slavery was officially abolished (much of the credit for that went to explorer David Livingstone, whose end-of-life mission was to abolish the 300 years of white participation in slavery within Africa).  A spot where the whipping post was located near the center of the market, is now symbolically the high altar of the church.

The whipping post was essentially used as a test stand.  Slaves were brought up for auction, chained, and then whipped.  Those who were strong stood up to the whipping well and brought top dollar.  Those who suffered badly, brought small offers at auction and had a much lesser survival rate.  I witnessed two rooms that were utilized for the storage of slaves until the arrival of ships to take them to India, the Americas and The Caribbean.  They were segregated by gender.

The first held 50 men.  It was perhaps 12 x 40 feet, with a human waste trench in the middle, low ceilings, very little ventilation, and even less light.  The second held 75 women and children.  It was barely larger.  The survival rate in such holes was about 50%.  A slave was considered a good buy and likely to survive an ocean crossing if they first survived the waiting, lack of food, insufficient ventilation, dim light, and horrid sanitation in these rooms.

During the evening hours, I met up on the street with a helpful young man named Pongo.  At first, as always, it appears he wants to “practice his English.”  He directs me to various places around the bazaar, including various camera shops and then the spice market (where I bought saffron threads and four bars of scented soap).  I offer him a beer as a reward and inducement for further conversation.  Upon arrival, however, he passes on the beer and requests money for his four children instead.  He is a fisherman.  “The rain keeps us from going out lately,” he says.  “Besides, the Chinese trawlers are taking all the fish.”  I break my own rules and agree on a small cash payment.

Stone town (so named due to the coral content in the permanent buildings during the Portugese colonial era) is small enough that I run into Pongo the next day.  He is delighted to see me.  I am wary.  But he is delighted with some clothing purchases he had made, which he says will be leveraged into greater profit by selling them to other fisherman.  “This will help my children eat,” he proudly exclaims, then shows me his new larder.

Pongo also helps me tour the old Portugese Fort in Stone Town, and assists in getting some bargain flight tickets at a travel agency inside the fort.  He asks no further recompense.  He also directs me to the dynamic Beit el-Sahel (“Palace by The Sea” or Sultan’s Palace), the home of the Omani Sultans and now a museum devoted to the line of Omani royalty that ruled over Zanzibar up to 1892.

I am particularly impressed by the Indian hand-made diplomatic waiting room furniture, ancient maps adorning the walls of the palace, and the parchment commercial treaties Zanzibar entered into with the world powers of the 19^th century, including the United States in approximately 1834.

Stone Town, The Spice Market, the Bazaar, and even much of Unguja’s waterfront is a rabbit warren of cobbled streets, narrow dirt alleys, recessed shops, and twisting watercourses.  You always wonder how anybody navigates at all in this labyrinth.  And yet everybody seems to eventually find their intended location.  It is fun, weaving a route without intent, with discovery awaiting you at every turn.

Searching for a new dinner spot on my final night in Stone Town, I encounter a young man named Ken.  He had earlier directed me to a recommended restaurant which turned out to be closed.  When he saw me looking again afterward, he took offense, and asked why I had not come back seeking him out for further direction?  I laughed at this assumptiveness.  Yankees don’t take to ownership well, I mused to myself.  Ken directs me then to an eatery  called “The Chinese Restaurant.” where alcohol and a varied menu are available. He offers to walk me there.

I accept.  But only after a long preamble about trading for a beer only.  No food, no offering, no reward, no recompense of any kind.  He agrees to this.  And then upon being seated while I dine, suddenly remembers he is on medication and can’t drink alcohol.  He wishes to substitute food.  Apparently Ken is well known at this dining establishment and brings people here regularly.  I agree when it is discovered the outlay on my part will remain the same.

But Ken has also spoken to the waiter in Swahili.  When the food arrives, there are beef samosas and spring rolls for him, plus a huge bowl of seafood soup.  He starts to reach for it.  I interject.  “What is THIS?” I demand loudly.  “This is not part of the agreement.”  Ken sulks, and falls back on the old saw about how the waiter probably misunderstood.  And slyly suggests, now that the soup is here, we may as well share … I indicate to the waiter I will refuse to pay for the soup, and have it sent away.

I have a great deal of difficulty shaking Ken after dinner.  He wants to know which hotel or hostel I am staying at.  Experience ensures this is information not to be shared.  “I don’t know,” I claim vaguely, “I just know how to get there.”  He thanks me for dinner.  Then asks for a donation.  I remind him of our earlier agreement.  He does not care.  “So, you find no value in my contributions?  You don’t think my suggestions and directions are worth anything?

I am so sick of this ploy by now, I nearly push him away.  It is characteristic of male street Tanzanians.  Not quite touts, not directing you into an off-site hole-in-the-wall office to purchase phony tickets, but dodgy nevertheless.  I find them almost universally exuberant, persistent, charming, but sly, manipulative, and always reneging on agreements.  There is no such thing as abiding by terms to these creatures.  Everything can and should be re-negotiated up to the very end in their viewpoint.  I develop a learning curve very early on, dealing with this class of Africans.

My final act in Zanzibar is to conclude the purchase of a safari package to both the Ngorongoro Crater and Serengeti National Park, two must-see Tanzania highlights about eleven hours to the northwest.  The young man at the ticket office who had provided two cut-rate flight tickets to the safari marshaling center of Arusha, helped arrange the package.  I made him write down all costs on a line-item basis, then initial each one, and then sign the offer sheet.  He agreed.  “You will be met by Bora when you arrive in Arusha tomorrow, he said.  “He will take care of everything related to both parks.” 

THE  ALLURING  MOZAMBIQUE  ISLAND

The whole point of traveling through northern Mozambique instead of the come-hither beaches down by the capitol of Maputo to the south is the siren call of Mozambique Island.  Like some ghostly castle in England or France, this place stands sentinel over time off this country’s Indian Ocean coastline near a major port called Nicala.  It is about three quarters of the way upcountry on the way toward the Tanzania border.

In the south end of the island (connected to the mainland by a three kilometer single-lane causeway) is the reed village – macuti town -- home to local workers and the decided poor-end of this island of 12,000.  The north end is home to stone colonial architecture and most of the tourist magnet that draws so many here from throughout the continent.

Mozambique Island is not for everybody.  But for the history, culture, customs and architecture fan it is a must see.  The island served as Mozambique’s first capitol in the early 16^th century after being discovered by the famous Portugese explorer Vasco de Gama in 1498.  It had the first European building in the southern hemisphere of Africa at the tiny Icapela Baluarde Church.  Immediately next door, is the massive Portugese star-shaped military compound of Fortaleza Sao Sebastiao, home to 2000 garrisoned soldiers and the colonial governor in the early days of Portugal’s rule over Mozambique.

The fort is abandoned today, yet its huge rooftop serves as a water collection matrix for the island (only 3 kilometers long by 500 meters wide), where fresh water is in very short supply.  It is about a 75 minutes leisurely walk around the island, partially on dirt in Macuti Town, and on patterned cobblestones in Stone Town.  The journey is mindful of visiting Old Havana in Cuba – the former colonial splendor of massive stone and coral buildings in a plethora of pastel colors is evident, and yet the charm of the journey is in its decay ... like witnessing a frozen slice of history as it slowly melts back into the earth.

Nearby are the Palace and Church of Sao Paolo, home of the island’s ruling governor after his residential stint at the Fortress (and now a museum displaying primarily very well restored Portugese, Indian and African furniture).  One piece, from Gao across the Indian Ocean, is exquisitely carved from a single block of ironwood.  The sculptor, after taking years to craft his masterpiece, had his hand cut off by The Governor to ensure that he might never again make a similar piece for another nobleman.

Adjacent are the small but fascinating Museum of Sacred Art and Maritime Museum.  A dozen gold pieces taken from Portugese Man-O-War shipwrecks is displayed on one of the nautical museum’s walls.  It has the worst security I’ve ever seen to safeguard its preservation.   A blind man with wooden legs could remove them and make his getaway within five minutes.  All three museums are easily visited within an hour.

Two days are spent here, just lapping up the atmosphere of what used to be the grandest of the grand colonial assignment stations -- enjoying the sun and heat, drowning in beer and caipirhinas, touring, investigating the local markets, traipsing out to the end of several piers along the island’s north shore, and dining well.

Authentic homegrown Mozambican food is a feature of the island’s Sara’s Restaurant, a location that is recommended from as much as 120 miles distant.  I ask about local fare, and then dine on camarao frito (friend shrimp), salad, xima (pronounced “shima”, a flour and water paste flavored with peri-peri sauce) and caracata – a doughy cake made from cataba root flour).  It is satisfying and moderately filling, but by no means as inspiring as good Mediterranean Italian seafood pasta or Spanish tapas.

Also on the island, I get additional chances to observe the nature of African behavior.  Despite making fun of or acting derisively toward other Africans, members of a tribal affiliation can be wonderfully collaborative with each other.  You see this endlessly in cooperative attempts at loading packages on  a mini-bus or trailer, pushing a vehicle to jump start it after stalling, or making a sale with many attendant “testimonials” to the truthfulness and reliability of this or that product and service or vendor.

Yet the average black African remains without much sense of personal efficacy … that they individually can or will make a difference.  They are very beholden to following the strongman, the tyrant, the bully – as if so doing removes any necessity for responsibility on their part, following being the easier path toward survival.  They accept things being slow, inefficient, corrupt, mismanaged, broken down and just plain wrong quite easily, from all appearances.  They have quite a sense of humor about it.  But they accept.

This is why you see despots being the rule in Africa.  There is little education on a mass scale.  There is often not much of a middle class.  There is little initiative or entrepreneurial sense on the Yankee model.  I believe the educational vacuum breeds a lack of discernment and contributes to stoic acceptance of the strong man winning out … what can I do? Campaign promises are made, only to be forgotten.  Large impressions are made with showy displays of delivering to and for his people.  But the strong man (and increasingly, democratically elected strong women) do NOT deliver to their people.  They just accumulate more wealth, homes, cash, diamonds, cars, and entourages for themselves.

Civilization began in Africa.  But I believe it grew when man began migrating tens of thousands of years ago.  Away from the absolute rule and reach of the strong man.  The bully.  The law of the jungle. To escape dominance, a lack of choices, and the rule of The Chief.  Using that sense of collaboration so evident even today, I can speculate that democracy took its first nascent steps in Africa as well when some intrepid souls dared to think that what they thought, said, and did mattered also and then took their first steps north to a new way of life. 

CROSSING  MOZAMBIQUE

Mozambique  (formerly Portugese East Africa) is huge.  It starts out just north and west of Kruger National Park in South Africa, and continues for six hundred miles north until it splits into a rough “Y”, divided by Malawi and Lake Malawi (formerly Lake Niassa).   From there it continues up to the Zambia border 230 miles to the west, and the Tanzania border 350 miles to the east as a split entity. It is probably the least interesting country I’ve been in so far within this continent in the past 38 days.  And yet I have learned the most about Africa here.

Travelers rarely venture here.  At least in the north.  The southern half is cosmopolitan, there is Mediterranean architecture, a modern infrastructure that has taken off in the last four years particularly, and the people are friendlier than their more reserved countrymen where I am traveling.  The southernerspeak English to a greater degree than throughout most of Africa..  World class beaches and resorts are the norm for southern Mozambique.

I make my crossing from Lake Malawi and the magic of Likoma Island via a 17 foot sailing dhow to the border town of Cobue.  The three lads powering the vessel row against the wind for the first hour of the journey.  Then on the point of land closes to Mozambique, they raise their sail – the same way their kin have been doing for thousands of years.  They only know how to reach into the wind, and not tack however, so that we miss our mark on the opposite shore and the boat has to be dragged along the water like a reluctant donkey until we reach our mooring place.

Cobue has a visa fee of only $32, since there is very little electricity (solar power only) in the village and the customs office does not have power.  Everything is done there by hand.  The customs officer – who has to be summoned from a siesta to document my papers – does not speak English. He does all his work the old fashioned way -- sans computer.  Therefore my visa costs much less than the standard $82 as at the other border posts throughout the country.

There is no ATM in town.  There is no electricity.  There is next to zero running water.  Nobody can tell me how I am supposed to get south and away from here to catch a train from Cuomba halfway across the country to Nampula (and then to the rarified historical gem of Mozambique Island).  The reason for that is: nobody speaks English here.  Or Spanish.  They speak a local tribal dialect, or Portugese.

After an hour of sign language and negotiation, a friend of the border official brings Julius, who just happens to own the Khango Beach hotel in town and is used to visitors crossing over.  Julius prepares a modest meal for me of Manica beer and emaciated chicken and spaghetti.  He then describes my options for proceeding further.  They are few and far between, and offer Julius himself a better than 50% chance to benefit from my isolation.

First of all, I can wait for the morning.  A large truck will arrive.  It will transport me and about 30 others (but only when it fills up) to Metangula over what even he admitted were abysmal roads.  They are washed out, rutted, full of potholes, and cross rivers or swamps or streams about every mile.  The cost: about $4.  Time involved: about five hours.  The road surface: all dirt and rock and sinew.

Choice number two (you of course see this coming) is Julius himself can drive me to Metangula for the modest fee of $150.  But he is willing to do it that evening.   Thus allowing me to reach Lichinga early the next day, and Cuomba late in the evening. If he conforms to national averages, that one ride alone will allow him to make bank for about half his monthly nut.  He paints a rosy picture of all the advantages, little of which is heard by me.  The reason is that I am contemplating the “cost” of a day.

When traveling freestyle, your schedule (or lack thereof) is really determined by your airline legs.  Which can not be changed without significant financial penalty.  So, without knowing where exactly, you must make decent progress each day toward the true highlights of your trip.  Where will it be possible to save time between locked-in-stone airline segments?  Each day must show measurable progress.  All I can say is, the road looked good on the map …

The cost of a day IS significant.  With a day saved along the trail, you can have a rest stop.  You can savor a particular area you didn’t even know you’d discover.  You can go swimming or surfing or sailing or diving.  You have time to write.  You get bar time with locals – and hear the best stories the world has to offer anywhere.  Not even dining with Bill Gates and Warren Buffet for an afternoon will top really good bullshit from a group of inspired local renegades.

I am therefore mindful of reaching Cuomba in two days, and not three.  Julius is offered and accepts my $130 offer for the ride to Metangula over tortured washboard roads.  During the first hour, his truck never leaves second gear.  Anything headed downhill mandates first gear, due to the fear of runaway and total loss.  The trip takes five hours.  At the end, the reward is a $10 room with a wash tub for a bathroom (toilet hole at one end, tiled wash area at the other, and whatever residue remains, is washed down the drain with a toss of filthy bucket water).  The all-night mosquitos are an added bonus.

Departure is at 5 AM.  The mini-bus cruises for 45 minutes seeking passengers.  Once full (meaning five sitting where three seats are nominally suggested) and baggage is piled on top of passengers new and old equally, we take off in earnest for Lichinga.  The road is impressive since it is paved the entire way.  I take the opportunity to sleep.  Writing all night, necessitates such catnaps.

Upon arrival in Lichinga – a market and crossroads town with much litter and a dirt track feeder road system , my first stop is the ATM machine.  I pay Julius, and send the money back with a gopher he has sent along – a very helpful young man named Vincent with an excellent command of English and an entrepreneurial disposition.  He then helps me find a vehicle bound for Cuomba, still (allegedly) 300 kilometers and eight hours away.

It is a  stake-side truck, with room for cargo and perhaps 25 to 30 passengers.  It is impossible to tell, due the talent of the driver’s handlers and money counters in continually getting fresh passengers on to the flatbed at each stop.  Of which there are many.  Perhaps one each two kilometers on average.  Luckily I am able to negotiate for a seat in the cab and avoid shifting loads in the rear, the omnipresent smell of stale sweat, and  the 95 degree Fahrenheit sun.

Before even beginning, the driver circles about town, delivering preliminary loads of cargo and produce, and prompting passengers to join in for the ongoing journey.  Nobody dares leave the truck through all this posturing, in fear they will lose their only ticket out of town.

The road resorts to dirt once more.  We are in isolated northern Mozambique.  The wild and unexplored portion of the country.  This is like a wild frontier, and a complete bonus to a curious freestyle traveler.  Most of the locals are unemployed, ethnically tribal, don’t wear shoes, walk rather than ride, live on subsistence farming, and – though more prosperous than Malawi – are still decidedly Third World.  The landscape is once again rich, eloquently green, varied in topography, and beautiful.  Acacia trees grow to full girth since here are no giraffes to rob them of their foilige.

Distances are deceiving.  It might be the light.  It might be the hot (still) air.  It might be a lack of fluids, until the next spontaneous market gathering or quick bathroom stop is attained.  Then you are assaulted by 1000 hawkers from three year-olds peddling bezel nuts, to women offering live chickens, youths tempting you with cold soft drinks, tomatoes, chips, candy, sugar cane, peanuts, hot grilled corn, squashes, cookies, cell phone time vouchers, beans, onions, garlic, firewood, various tubers and roots, goat meat, grilled entrails, bread, boiled eggs, and cashews.

All of these and more are thrust through the window into your face.  Each vendor realistically expects a sale.  As the only white man on the truck (and the only member of my race I’ve seen all day) I find this all utterly fascinating.

The day cannot end without some controversy.  The driver who drove around recruiting passengers, apparently was a stand-in.  He covered the first two and one-half hour shift.  He asked me for payment.  I naively provided it.  When we arrived at the halfway point after 150 kilometers of hard fought dirt road at Machingo, I am asked by the primary driver for payment once again.  I tell him I have already paid 500 metacal (about $17) for my ticket all the way to Cuomba.  He advises me that I am stupid, you only really pay at the end, why didn’t I watch and pay when everybody else did, and just pay me now – for a second time.

The new driver in the smaller truck we switch to with a smaller passenger load wants payment also.  Another 500 metacal.  He is interested in getting his money up front, since he has observed my disagreement with the first driver.  I refuse to pay the first driver, and tell the second he will only get payment once actually delivered to my destination at the train station in Cuomba.  I tell the first driver to take up the issue of payment with the fellow who occupied his seat for the first two and one-half hours and pocketed my up-front payment.  The new driver grudgingly accepts half payment of 250 Mtc (his actual share, since 500 for the full trip would be that same amount in reality to him).  In this way, I am only partially overpaid for the day’s arduous trek, but wiser for the low cost of the lesson.

Shortly after this exchange, one of many amusing episodic incidents takes place.  The second truck had supposedly driven past a load we are supposed to pick up, in addition to transferred passengers.  We turn around to retrieve it.  Dusk beckons.  To speed things up, I offer to help lift cargo up into the hold.  Suddenly, from out of nowhere, four barely clothed youth materialize to help me.  We put the two pallets of equipment on the back of the new truck in rapid time ... Yankee time.  Now-Now time.  Not African time.

I brisk my hands and walk away.  The other helpers confront me with palms outstretched and jabbing fingers, demanding payment.  I protest that it is not my load, that I was just helping.  This is a concept they don’t understand.  “You are white.  You are the boss.  You pay us,” they demanded.  I had to get another man nearby who spoke Portugese and at least some English to explain that the cargo was not mine, and I was not getting paid either.  They refused to believe his story.  They had never seen a white man work before.

We finally arrive in Cuomba with a second set of drivers after a twelve and one-half hour combined recruiting session and then actual road journey.  Once again, the hotel is a hovel.  The bathroom sports the same dump hole, fractured tile floor, and tub of water for either pouring over yourself (a Mozambique shower) or sluicing residue into the waste hole.  Places like these are where you learn to take two pairs of slaps on such journeys – one for pleasure and foot ventilation, and the other for gingerly wading through standing water near “glory holes.”

Cuomba to Nampula is a 400 kilometer exercise through north-central Mozambique that has the reputation of being one of Africa’s classic train journeys.   While to most it is a 12 hour exercise in patience, to me (despite the 4:45 wakeup call again) it is a quality run that beats the living tar out of the previous 22 hours of slogging over impassable roads to arrive here.  The ride is smooth and uneventful (except for the classless pushing and line butting practiced by the locals to supersede those already in line, the women being the worst offenders in the lot). I get a chance to catch up on sleep, and have a firm writing desk in Executive Class for keeping ahead of the curve on observations and writing.

Along the way are at least 150 massive granite dome bulges that are mindful of my favorite place in the world, Yosemite Valley in California.  I give them imaginary names, based on what their profiles and massive faces suggest.  Some are needlelike in appearance.  Others rounded and domed.  Most have probably never been climbed on their massive granite faces and ridges, and offer untapped potential to the bold spirit who can get close enough to them to pioneer new routes.

The dramatic granite spires and domes remind me of a series of fossil molars in their regular placement along the horizon.  Some look up close like whale sharks.  Others like dinosaurs.  Others like Moby Dick, about to breech dramatically up out of the waves.  Some have human faces. Still others are representative of mesa shaped tepuys, as found in Venezuela.   Several are dead giveaways for the iconic Sugarloaf Mountain in Rio de Janeiro.  Merely without the aerial tram cables strung from peak to peak.

A brand new road paralleling the train track (sadly demonstrative of Mozambique) is already deteriorating.  For while the Mozambicans love to inspire others to build things for them, they are loathe to maintain them once built.  In this case, a brand new ribbon of fresh raised asphalt keeps pace with the train track for 100 kilometers.  Yet the road shoulders (if you would care to call them this) are riveted with erosion and will soon undermine the road even before its completion.

As dusk turns to deep night, many campfires are seen just a few feet from the road.  Most of the route is not electrified, and if artificial light is present, it is the result of solar panels which individual families can invest in, largely to power their living room and kitchen lighting.

Along the way, I learn a bit more about Mozambique from Armando, a Portugese ex-pat working in this country as a surveyor, primarily as there is little work of this kind at home in the current economic climate of the European Union.  Over the lazy discourse of the lengthy ride, I learn primarily two things about how things are really sliced here.

First of all, I am told, the blacks are much more racist than whites ever were.  They are racist toward whites, for having been colonialists for such a lengthy period of Mozambique’s history, and for being suspected of “having more” and “wanting too much” and “being rich.”  The White Tax or Mzungu tax is based on this “Whites are all rich” attitude.  It  fuels a desire to whittle down to size or equalize in some fashion the assumed class and economic differences between whites and blacks that the latter takes for granted.

Whites are also viewed as cash machines.  It is the job of the locals, to get as much money out of the cash machine and yet with as little effort as possible.  Even friends can’t be trusted, I am sad to hear.  One example given to me: two colleagues who had worked with a Portugese lady named Barbara for two years.  Two blacks she thought to be friends who were work colleagues (at a church together), tried to cheat her over an extended period of time.

They are even more racist toward poor blacks.  Those who have landed to new money in the last decade especially, are now arrogant and disdainful of lower-class or economically challenged blacks in a manner that could in the United States get a man indicted.  Sometimes the disdain and disrespect gets physical.  There is much abuse that is suffered at the hands of upper crust nouveau riche blacks, by common workers or village dwellers in this section of the world.

It is said that Barrack Obama got elected to the Presidency of The United States as a result of white guilt.  (I personally feel it is because the Republican party paraded a series of buffoons with entitlement mentality to the nation’s highest office in opposition to the Democratic Party, making the choice easy for many voters who thought they were electing a moderate).  Nevertheless, I doubt many white voters in the US would ever again display this guilt if they knew what true racism was and how it so rampantly rears its ugly head in Africa.  My white guilt and latent racism– at whatever level it lay dormant, is now purged after watching these players in action.

On top of that, tribal and national differences are endemic.  Mozambicans make fun of the Malawis.  Tanzanians mock the Mozambicans.  Everybody distrusts the Tanzanians. The Nigerians are assumed by all to be the world’s biggest liars and con artists.  Only the South Africans seem to be respected by other nation’s black citizens on this continent.

As a result of these travel all day only to arrive exhausted at night and get nothing done journeys, my travel plans begin to change.  I know now, it will be very difficult to visit the alluring Indian Ocean beaches and archipelagos of northern Mozambique.  If the roads are anything like I’ve just experienced, it will simply be impossible to maintain any sort of regular progress.  Additional flight segments to make up for road impediment delays will have to now become part of an adjusted itinerary.