MWANZA – THE SOUTH SHORE OF LAKE VICTORIA

The touts which surround you and aggressively advance their dubious services at any time of day around the Arusha bus station have the reputation of being the worst anywhere.  They at first do not readily adapt to my brusque “No!” when trying to snatch my bags.  I never utilize porters, let alone touts, as they always head off in different directions and make you chase them.  With a heavy backpack, flexible suitcase and light daypack for 137 days on the road, this can be a task at times.

But on the departure for Mwanza (not a destination in its own right, but a rest-station on the way west toward Burundi and Rwanda) they are behaving well.  My ticket agent who had sold passage to Mwanza has been replaced half a day later by one who speaks no English.  When the station gets really crowded and many buses carry the name of your line, it is difficult to tell which to board.

A handler presents himself.  A very modest, thin, self-effacing man.  He speaks quietly and earnestly, and has none of the pushiness of the other would-be arrangers.  He simply waits them out.  It is his crisp English that wins the day.  He explains to me the bus has been changed, I need to look for a new name on the side, and the bus will now be in a new location.  When it actually arrives.

The bus arrives only fifteen minutes late.  It is already full.  I’m supposed to have guaranteed seating, with an assigned place to sit.  Higher than usual coin has been paid for this luxury.  It is impossible to board the bus at first, especially with bulky luggage.  The aisles are full.  But things settle a bit, I go against the grain pushing its way to the rear, and find two seats up front.  Not my assigned seat numbers, but seating locations that need not be shared, squeezed, or have luggage piled on nevertheless.

My handler has come through nicely.  He even boards the bus to explain I have assigned seats, so that I don’t get left standing in the aisle (drivers get bonuses from short-term riders without assigned seating who board and depart with rapid regularity.  These cash-only passengers are generally called aisle rats).  I learn my helper has AIDS, and is worried about eating for the day.  He gets free medicine apparently, but no food. I fall for this unusual promotion and give him what amounts to nearly a $5 tip.  He earned it.

The trip to Mwanza (at the south end of Lake Victoria) takes 11 hours.  Part of the reason is the 23 police stops – some of which bore fruit – three weight scale stops, a lunch stop, and multiple bathroom stops.

Along the way I see my first African camels, who seemed to be free-range and without tethers.  I also watched a cocaine mule get pulled off the bus.  He was all but strip searched, humiliated in front of an enthusiastic crowd with a good roll in the dust by an guard armed with an AK-47, and then tied to another culprit presumably guilty of the same crime with rubber strips made from a discarded inner tube.

I also received a desperate and untimely call of nature just in time to sprint into a very questionable waste hole.  I’ve taken “the squat” while backpacking before, but never in one of those “official” porcelain glory holes so common in Asia and Africa.  There was no toilet paper, only the usual barrel of water with a ladle to wash your … uh … “service hand.”  No soap either.

It served to remind me why I always carry alcohol-based hand sanitizer in my cargo pants or fanny pack, and why so many along the path when offered a handshake, merely elected to cross forearms instead.  Some folks still  honor “the sacred hand” (it is supposed to be the left, so you can shake, eat and sign with the right).  And they said that chivalry was dead …

The driver was a cross between Michael Jordan and Eddie Murphy.  He was my kind of guy.  This man owned the road.  He did everything but put all four wheels on the dirt shoulder, and was consistent about avoiding potholes and speed bumps, while still passing everybody in front of him.  Most of the time at least three wheels were on the ground at any given time.  His attitude essentially said to other vehicles: “Clear the way!”  This is better than free alcohol when on a marathon bus ride.

I arrive in Mwanza at 7:15 PM, with still enough light in the sky to get oriented.  Four hotels have been recommended to me back in Arusha by Jurie’s partners in Sunbright Lodge.  I pick the first one.  La Kairo Hotel, otherwise known as The Cairo Hotel.  The usual appeals about being on a long trip of many days, every day being a budget day, and so forth are trotted out.  We agree on a less than normal fair.  But primarily because it is low season locally.

The manager, a very earnest and helpful young man named Hashim Dossi, learns that I have both a broken camera and a broken computer.  He offers to take me around in the morning to scout out potential repair locations.  The rest of the evening is spent learning about a new near-favorite national drink – “The Dawa,” made from gin, lemons, honey and mint – and learning how unfathomably incompetent his staff in their entirety could learn to become.

There is no drink menu.  And only one dinner menu for the entire restaurant.  You order a drink.  No ice.  The service is slow.  Ice finally arrives, 45 minutes later.  Dinner takes an hour to prepare.  It arrives with more of a snarl than a smile.  That veneer never changes.  Napkins (serviettes) have to be requested three times.  Then you get one. Nobody ever returns to ask what you want or need.  They don’t realize they are digging in to their own pockets and throwing out tip money.

Laundry service is requested.  The heat, dust and humidity can make a shirt riper than a campaign speech within a day, and regular washing – whether within the hostel sink or with a full spin and tumble wash ‘n dry via machines – is a necessity.  The fees are not posted in advance, no official count is made of the pieces, nor is a sheet provided to make a descriptive list of what has been sent out.

This is bad policy anyway.  But what it really does is promote fear of yet another Mzungu fee – the dreaded “laundry tax.”  Laundry services abroad induce acceptance of their services with very reasonable rates most of the time.  I’ve had up to 25 pieces done for around $2 in Africa.  The leveler however, is a piece or two is always missing at the end.  Something fancied by the cleaner themselves, their spouse, children, or relatives.  Maybe it should be called a gratuity instead.

So donations at your local Goodwill are not the only way American clothes make their way into foreign gene pools.  The best means to prevent this is a loud exclamation in advance that every piece has been listed, or presentation of the alleged list itself.  This latter option is always a pain.  To list “shirt” is not sufficient, you have to provide color, length of sleeves, etc to avoid your prized travel garment being replaced by simply another washed-out shirt from a pot-bellied pygmy with elephantine wrists).

The morning arrives and Hashim takes me with crisp punctuality to some nearby computer repair shops.  All are closed.  It is a Sunday.  We have coffee, review a partial  list of improvements needed by his staff, agree to pursue hardware repair the following morning, and I return to the hotel with a sinking feeling that a precious day on the road has been lost.  The preferred antidote: a good brisk walkabout.  I trot down to the shoreline for an inspection of the local waterfront.

Sadly, Mwanza is quite a bit like Tacoma, Washington.  Spots with beautiful deep water harbors, that have nevertheless been misused with almost exclusively industrial utilization.  You wonder where the restaurants, parks, and interesting bars are?  It is obvious where they should be.  The heat and humidity are oppressive.  This requires either a new beer, or a new “Dawa” about once each hour.

Once again along the African path, a sad fact of life is observed.  There is no pride in place.  They may be nationalistic and even patriotic, but being proud of your neighborhood ... or your city … or your collective manners, seems to have taken the bypass loop.  Trash is everywhere.  Open potholes are not repaired.  Water gets trapped or backed up into filthy little stagnant ponds, attracting mosquitoes.  Trash cans are not in evidence anywhere (except at La Kairo).

The next morning proves to be a fun outing day for a town whose acquaintance I didn’t even want to make.  Hashim once again punctually got me to a computer repair shop.  I am fortunate.  The plug leading from the outlet to the computer charger is shot.  It costs only $7 to replace.  I had feared I’d need a new battery, or a new charger itself. My gratitude goes out to Alfaz Kanji, a young Indian man working at Ideal Computers Ltd in Mwanza.  He could have fleeced me with a trumped up malady and a Mzungu price,m but elected to play honorably and win my unending admiration instead.

The camera is a tougher test.  Hashim delivers me there, also.  Is it the battery that has died, both batteries, the charger, or the camera itself?  After a patient series of tests requiring half an hour of charge each time from some very patient female Islamic sales clerks, we learn it is the camera itself.  The batteries (primary and back) both work when inserted into other Canon cameras.

The two of us have coffee once again, and discuss his career this time.  He had only been at La Kairo for three weeks, but has seen enough to agree with my complaints and recommendations.  “They are very provincial,” he says.  The all-black staff is used to dealing only with fellow blacks from nearby African countries.”  They are English deficient, and don’t really know about the different preferences and especially expectations presented by whites,” he told me.  “Yet.”  He paused.  “Give me time.”

My charger has no difficulty powering up other batteries.  Only the camera won’t cooperate by falsely indicating “recharge the battery,” then won’t open the aperature or viewing screen.” Use of the smaller and less complex Canon replacement will have to be prolonged for awhile.

Immediately I return to La Kairo and strike out for the local bus station.  The hotel staff indicate (though there is no concierge) that departures are supposed to take place all afternoon.  I am off to Bujumbura, Burundi, and anticipating nearly a 12 hour ride.  They forget to add that these departures are short-haul trips only.  It works out that trips not even halfway to the border are available.

So then straight to the airport.  Reservations are made along the way with a broker visited earlier in the day while waiting for camera charges to take hold.  He quoted $259 a seat to Bujumbura – potentially saving 12+ hours on the road.  Upon arrival at the airport, however – requiring two more expensive taxi segments – it is revealed his numbers are substantially off, and the payment must be made in cash.  The actual price is double what he listed.

After a desperate last-second ploy re: “Don’t you want to sell empty seats at a reasonable price and at least get some revenue out of the deal?” falls flat, it is off again to La Kairo.  There are no remaining travel options for the day.  Hashim doesn’t seem surprised.  He welcomes me back, and hearing of both the bus and flight dilemma, is off within an hour to personally arrange a bus itinerary for me starting at 5 AM the following morning to Bujumbura – this time by heading north to the shared border of Rwanda and Burundi, and not the longer route south of Bujumbura via Kasane.

This fine hotel having excellent (and speedy) wi-fi, I take to the keyboard for another evening.  Which gives me a chance to experience Hashim’s staff anew at their very best.  More delayed drink orders.  Two hours to deliver a lightbulb.  A request for a fresh towel takes an hour.  Dinner takes an hour for arrival.  It is mind numbing.  But Hashim delivers once again, with a $20 bus trip that will get me all the way to the Burundi capitol the next day.  And a personally selected taxi ride to make sure the beginning is not missed.

The final act of service from this new rafiki of mine comes at wakeup.  The bill was not ready late the previous evening.  I must pay at 4:45 AM.  Nobody under his employ knows how to work the credit card machine at that hour.  They won’t let me walk to my taxi.  So Hashim is called on the phone, diplomatically explains to the staff that I am good for my bill, and can make my credit card payment via transferred e-mail information when I arrive in Burundi.

This Tanzanian native has an awesome career ahead of him in hotel management.  And I am sure he will soon transfer sorely needed capabilities to his staff, once he has had more than three weeks to impose his knowledge, awareness, and experience of what it takes to make a customer happy in the hospitality business … standards that don’t disappear just because “This is Africa.”