Lushoto Revisited - 18 May 2002
Lushoto Revisited
Jambo in the woods
Fawlty Sands and Micky Mouse Mechanics
Hippy retired early and I headed to the bar as I seem to be able to manage with about 6 hours of sleep at the moment. I got chatting to a couple of white farmers; one a Kenyan, the other a South African who has moved to Tanzania. They were both rather right on and this was a great surprise to me after all one is fed by the media. Their main aim was to find good earning cash crops that did not compete with the peasant farmers locally. They were really up for the removal of third world debt and many other current issues. They reckon that the white farmers of Zimbabwe got on absolutely fine with everyone and it was simply the feudalism within the government that has led to the farm seizure scenario. All very credible.
I admittedly had retired early I little drained from the dayís activities, but feeling that I was going to survive, if a little sore for a few days.
The trip back down to the Usumbara Mountains was not uneventful. Within seconds of leaving the campsite a dog with a death wish ran out barking at the bike. Pat swerved to avoid it, it ran recklessly in front of the bike and under the front wheel. The bike felt the bump as we clearly went over part of said dog. Pat was not brave enough to look back and concentrated on keeping the bike vertical, whilst sensibly considering the complications of stopping and possible repercussions. I on the other hand had the time to turn and check on the stupid mutt, which seemed to just saunter off the road as if this was an every day occurrence.
Later the road ahead was being traversed in both directions by swarms of miniature birds, creating the effect of a grey mist blowing over the surface of the road. Very odd.
We hooted our horn at the restaurant that had attempted blatant overcharging of us muzungus before. The silly woman in charge will not have known what the peeping was about, but it mad us feel better, so there.
The road was getting long and dull, both I and more worryingly Pat were falling asleep. The only answer was the ëhokey, cokeyí which is I assure you perfectly feasible on a bike. For confirmation ask Stevie. Back up that lovely valley road to Lushoto, but today we decided to continue on the dirt road out to Mullerís Lodge, which had been recommended by Hans in Shimoni.
Mullerís Lodge turns out to have been built by a Brit. They only admit this when pressed. Turns out a guy had been farming in Tanz and built this place as a country retreat. Ruddyís (Ruddy is the present owner ñ a pot bellied affable chap who certainly gives off more of a German aura than that of a Tanzanian) grandfather had bought this place for his retirement only to pass away a couple of years after taking up residence. Set high (1700 m) in the Usumbara Mountains, this is a most extraordinary place. The kitchen garden has banana, passion fruit and other tropical fruits growing alongside ordinary apples. On the day of our arrival, it was a little cloudy but it came up fine the next morning.
As we emerged from our traditional hut (double bed, lino, electricity, etc), we had a real walking mood on and so we ate our hearty breakfast as quickly as we could. In Hippyís case, this was tricky. Using only her front teeth to gnaw away at chunks of toast and trying not to get bits of muesli stuck in her craters made for a trying time.
Our last experience of walking round here had been a bit of a flop and so we were dead chuffed when we got a set of walking instructions to take ourselves off to Kavuga Rock. As we meandered up the trails and paths, there was a regular chirping up of ìJamboî from every direction. Most of the callers where impossible to see as they were hiding nervously behind banana trees.
We were unsurprised, then, when we read that a previous walker had met a chap up on Kavuga Rock who was making a little pile of flour and egg for the people who lived in the rock. Heíd probably heard people shouting and couldnít see them so assumed that they were inside. Another golden moment on the walk were the number ten bus syndrome ñ you donít see anyone for quarter of an hour and as soon as Hippy squats down to pee, a quaint elderly old lady with obligatory basket on head rounded the corner and passed us as if we were not there. How polite. Later we came across a couple of laughing dudes wearing immaculate suits coming the other way down a little steep path in the middle of nowhere. We exchanged Swahili pleasantries and they chuckled off as bizarrely as they had arrived. We were so pleased that we were wearing our respectable long sleeved shirts, but vowed to put on a jacket and tie in future to be on the safe side.
Kavuga Rock turned out to be a spectacular spot with 360 degrees of views. The last 20 feet were a bit of a technical climb where long arms were needed so Hippy missed out a little. Still, we had some nice Camembert sandwiches to make up for it. She sucked at them as best she could. We were cautious when eating our lunch as we remembered how the black kites at the Ngorongoro crater had attempted to snatch my chicken sandwich from between my hand and mouth.
As we descended to the lodge, we debated whether to spend another day up here or whether to descend back to Lushoto to the guaranteed footy watching venue of Anthonyís bar. We hardly noticed, but the trail became narrower and narrower and more and more overgrown. Now we were hacking our way through a mixture of bramble and giant hogweed. This path must be used all the time during high season and I think we were simply being guinea pigs to see if it would be viable for this year. I was playing with the GPS to see how far it was back to the lodge and seemingly we were walking around a complete circle with the lodge in the middle. The distance varied between 1.2 km and 900m and I began to wonder whether we would ever get there when at last we came across the road. It was one of those golden moments, we were at last confident of where we were and a pickup came around the corner full of folk dressed to the nines singing African spirituals in the way that only Africans can. Ask Paul Simon.
The chance of watching the last Premiership matches of the season won and we headed back down the road to Lushoto. Horror of horrors. Anthony was not there. The hotel was very quiet. The bar containing the TV was locked up. What was going on?
Just before kick off the staff arrived and normality was restored. Just like me, the locals seemed to have a downer on Man U and we all watched gleefully as Arsenal strutted their stuff. The news from Liverpool was even better. Not only have Man U won nothing, but they have to play off for Europe. My how we laughed.
We strolled over to the Irente viewpoint in the morning. Although we got a bit lost to start off with (just follow the road straight!) we did get the chance to hear kids at school on Sunday chanting their spellings ìMonkey m-o-n-k-e-yî (sic)
The usual chorus of ìJamboî followed our every move and we returned the greeting only to get caught up in the rest of the greeting ritual which is a bit beyond our limited grasp of Swahili. The only bad vibes we got was from groups of lads who wanted to guide us and no doubt charge us for their sage advice. When we pointed out that there was in fact only one path in front of us, they were much miffed at our ability to spot a fleecing and the gave us their best surly looks.
Irente viewpoint looks out over the Masai Steppes and the villages that lie immediately below the escarpment. The boss of the campsite attached to the viewpoint assured us that on a clear day you can see Kilimanjaro. Given the elevation of 1300 m and the fact that there is nowt in between, I have no cause to doubt him.
The chap ran a quiet little campsite with views over the plains. But I fear that he may be drowned out by his neighbour who is busily erecting a huge building which is likely to become a muzungu style restaurant and viewing station. I only hope that those who wish for peace and tranquillity still frequent his humble establishment. We toyed with the idea of walking back and bringing the bike up and watching the sunset. But it was all a bit of a pipe dream, in our hearts we knew that by the time we had walked back we would be too knackered to pack up the tent and ride. Shame - another thing to put on the list to do next time.
A few hundred metres from the viewpoint the same ëladsí were waiting for us. Now more miffed than before, and I am sure that their shouts of ëFÖk youí following down the path were learnt from some action B movie from the US. It is a shame that wherever you go in the world there is always a minority of ëw..kersí who swear at you. But these were so atypical that they could have been imports from the UK. Most, young and old greeted us with beaming smiles.
On return to Lushoto we viewed a bustle of activity in the centre on closer inspection it was a thriving market. This an amazing meeting of people and all manner of edible foodstuffs. The ladies running the stalls were a little shy of photos, until we explained that we were only taking pictures of their produce. ìFocus on the food, Cliveî There were tables of dried fish and all sorts and all around were shoppers (female of course) carrying their purchases home in clever baskets with fancy handles but perched on the top of their heads. I am sure the design consultant would have been disappointed to see their carefully sculpted handles being so ignored.
We set off to Dar-Es-Salaam down our favourite stretch of road. I donít know whether it was a compliment or not, but Pat decided on the way that I was the perfect bike accessory. I steer the bike for him, clean his visor and tell him if heís getting a little too excitable. Iím not entirely sure that I want to be an accessory, perfect or not, but I suppose itís better than being thought of an hindrance.
It is becoming increasingly embarrassing that we keep being caught up by the 4 cyclists. This time they were grinding their way up hillocks on their way to Dar. It does make us feel a little pathetic each time we see them that we are going by motorised vehicle while they keep pace with us with pedal power, especially as they are also taking times out to see and do things.
Fawlty Sands and Micky Mouse Mechanics
Weíd seen adverts for a campsite in Dar, Silver Sands, under new management that was being revamped with all mod cons including a 51 inch TV in preparation for the World Cup, so we were curious.
Itís yet another truck stop but it seems that campsites on the coast are rare and expensive. The whole of Dar es Salaam is expensive in fact! The camp is surely being changed around. On the first night we met up with the new manager ñ a rather hyper young English fella-me lad. Seems heís been running a safari company in Kenya for some time and got head hunted by some Tanzanian Indians to come and sort out their failing hotel business.
He is faced with lack a history of lack of commitment and enterprise from his African staff and obstinacy from the Indian accountant who has been running the hotel. He finds it hard to get money released to fund important projects such as the 5 dollars required to buy a chip cutting machine. Speculation in an effort to create accumulation is not an accountancy principle that this fellow understands.
He spends all of his time running around looking into any and every aspect of this hotel and is constantly horrified by the lack of planning. Imagine that you are organising a wedding reception for 450 people. How many glasses would you require. According to the existing policy of the hotel, 84 are sufficient. There were 50 coffee cups which had to be utilised as pudding bowls being snatched away, washed, refilled and replaced in front of the next guest in the blink of an eye. Something of an uphill struggle for the lad. Your mission should you choose to accept it Ö
We did our usual visit to the VSO head office and waved the flag. There was quite a bustle; volunteers arriving in country, volunteers leaving, training sessions ñ all go. We had a quick chat with Bruce, the director of ops, but tried not to get in the way. They had a bicycle repair man who pointed the way to a mechanic who could fix my floppy mudguard for me.
When I went in for my mudguard fitting the next day, an efficient looking chap who got a piece of string with which to make appropriate measurements met me. This may seem like a micky take, but it seriously is about the only way to make a template up for what I wanted. I left them to it and went round the corner for a pop and to read my book. When in Africa, go prepared for a long wait!
A couple of hours later, I went back to check on progress to find my mechanic cutting some strips of metal for the mud guard stays from a sheet using Ö a hammer and cold-chisel. I was amazed that in this city with Internet cafes and all that jazz, this was the level of technology in the repairs department. I stopped to watch the rest of the process which involved bending the strips and then piercing some mounting holes using a six-inch nail. They did a lovely paint job, though.
Hippy meanwhile was back at camp turning a headscarf into a sun outfit using a needle and thread ñ seems like a more appropriate use of tools.
We spent the evening with an overlanding couple, Louise and Ben. She had travelled in a Nissan powered Rangerover down the West Africa route but instead of doing the Chad and Sudan bit, had shipped to South Africa and travelled up with Nairobi as their final destination. She had had two co-pilots, initially Matt and now her partner Ben. Their stories were more outlandish than our own. We cannot boast of having spent an evening out with a drunk, retired Dutch computer tycoon with his former lap dancing partner who put on a spontaneous show in a Moslem restaurant in Morocco when the cultural entertainment obviously struck a chord with her subconscious sexual urges. Apparently she writhed on the floor before a captivated crowd of 50 odd men only onlookers. Embarrassing or what? Louise plans to write a book of her adventures when she gets home ñ should make a good read if she writes as well as she tells a story.
During the evening, a blur shot past the bar in a Basil Fawlty kind of a way. It seems that someone had been fiddling with the wiring to the 51 inch television set and had blown up the speaker system that is attached to it. Mark was pointing fingers and threatening the sack to anyone found fiddling with electronic devices ever again. Later, when he had calmed down he explained how he was changing the management ethos of the hotel from a reign of fear to a sympathetic form based on mutual trust. Something of a do as I say, not as I do policy, then. It turned out that he might actually have buggered the TV himself. Yes, Mr Fawlty.
In a moment of true care for his staff, later, he was making a hot toddy for the secretary. He needed honey, of course. He did not explain to anyone what he was doing and stood at the bar with a glass saying ìI need three things; boiling water, honey and a glass of freshly squeezed lemon juiceî
Manuel was bemused.
ìCome on. Honey. You know buzz, buzz.î
It went on for some time and could really have been scripted.
ìBut, Mark, I cannot find anyî ñ after he had been looking amongst the optics. ìLook, itís not a drink, you fool!î etc, etc, etc
In next weeks instalment of Fawlty TowersÖ