The Border Between Kenyan and Tanzania
Added on Monday, June 9th, 2008 by Carole Nash Editor
The Border Between Kenyan and Tanzania
At Namanga, the border between Kenyan and Tanzania, I found a small hotel with clean linen and for dinner, acceptable chicken and chips. Omelette in the morning predictably washed down with tea set me up for the day. The bar was noisy but quietened by four and eventually I got some sleep. Tanzania was less familiar than Kenya and while signs and indices of safety were reduced because of the presence of beer, it was quite safe.
There was a ’steppe’ feel to the Masaai plains. Expanses of short grass were hemmed in by Mount Meru to the east and mountains in the distant west that undulated in such a way as to form several horizons when the sun set. Further along, volcanic soil gave the area more fertility and wheat fields and pastoral life generally began to be more prominent than the nomadic herding of livestock generally observed from the road.
At Ayrusha I changed some money and had an egg chop at the Seven-Up Restaurant on the right as you enter the town. Egg-chops are a cross between a Scottish Egg and a haggis and served hot are delicious. Initially there was a feeling that the level of prosperity of rural dwellers was higher than in Kenya. In the northern regions of Kenya, huts had progressed from round houses to wood and mud, here mud daub had already moved on to breezeblock. Masaai tribes people walked along the road holding spears whilst four wheel drive Pajero’s booted along at high speed. This only further perpetuates the paradox of how an ancient way of life can co-exist with a modern one.
On television, in the café, his Excellency the President of Tanzania is addressing an important symposium attended by most of the countries of Africa. One statistic he held out for review was that in the USA, each individual uses 23 000kws of electricity per year, whereas in Africa it is 600. He continued to tell the audience of delegates that 30% of all Africans have no access to fresh water. Next up was the President of Rwanda. The analogy he offered to allude to the differences between Africa and the first world was that to get a container of goods across any one of the borders around his land-locked country required 29 signatures. The cost of getting that container to the coast cost $5500 while the cost of shipping it from there to Holland was only $1100.
Days past as I rode across Tanzania. The landmarks of time passing were more spaced apart than in Kenya. From what I could see from the road was the start of spacious Africa. Riding south towards Korogwe, tree covered mountains descended down from the sky to sit on my east side whilst the massive Masaai Steppe sloped off to the western horizon and beyond. The road bisected this land as if to cut it in half just here, separating the mountains from the plains. Pointy-leafed sizel plants sat in rows and stitched together the land for miles. Patches of maize interrupted this flow of vegetation that grew as far as the eye could see. The plains brimmed with sisel. Houses rose in stature from clay to unfaced breezeblock to a full-frontal cosmetic finishing of scree and paint. Life in socialist Tanzania did appear to function better than any other African country I have so far seen. Quiet in it’s industriousness, mango pickers sit by the plastic buckets full of the fruit, their days picking done. No point picking more than they can sell, otherwise the fruit would over-ripen, and in any case, they only had a limited supply of buckets, so better laze about until the commerce is completed.
As more days past it seemed that I would be on the road forever. I saw no end in sight. There was still a long way to South Africa and then I had planned to ride up and down India. South East Asia would follow and then Australia but it was the awesome last leg of the length of the Americas that was so intimidating given the shortness of time.
After Korogwe the sizel plantations disappeared only to be replaced by bush and the sound of cicadas. Peaking between the foliage, small brightly covered houses complemented the green and brown.
There were very few private vehicles on this stretch of road. Steep fuel prices must be taking effect and a private vehicle was surely beyond the parameters of what most families could afford. I passed trucks carrying bags of charcoal trussed in grey sacks and tied with sizel that had been twined into rope. Buses were the only other vehicles and they kicked along at 80mph, expressly delivering people to all parts of the country. The mountains steepened but somehow seemed tamed. Patches of cultivation began to creep up the slopes to the tree line and the trees continued up to the clouds. Down below, we were as ants, toiling along our thin grey line offering as to the Gods our Herculean task to get to where we needed to be.
By Chalinze the road turned left for Dar es Salaam and right for Morogoro. As usual a life of its own spread around the junction to provide chaos and all manner of services. Cooked chicken hung next to fresh pineapples and sodas were stashed in crates. In time such chaos would have been turned into a community after which houses would have been built. Perhaps after more time services will have been laid on and then acknowledgment from neighbouring communities that this one adds to the collective needs of the region and is then given a name, in this case Chalinze.
Always, small white butterflies litter the highway like bits of paper. Smells of wood smoke from the village charcoal factories, hang in the air, hitting me at speed pungently. I once asked the bike racer Robert Dunlop what he saw as he raced around at 170 mph and he said he actually recognised people in the crowd. I see trees on the skylines of mountains, boughs weighed down by the sundown breeze. I see lizards run between a break in the grass. At a slower speed than Mr Dunlop I see goats in peoples houses as I ride past, tables and chairs in the darkness and flashes of peoples smiles.
All day buses pass and stop, painted in bright colours and prayers - Inshaallah. Sizel, maize, tobacco grows in the autumnal sun. The sweet smell of tobacco catches my senses as the bike continues to work hard, 10 000 miles since its last service and already 4000 miles since the last tyre change.
Further south the rains fall in the morning and progress is slow. Potholes, anyone of which that could break a rim, appear in there thousands. One less than nimble move and the bike ends up on the back of a truck until someone can heat up the rim and hammer it back to life. One hit to hard and the wheel is ruined. By the thousand, trucks, animals, children and potholes, all have some negotiation with the road that thin grey line where we all live.
Soon, over the mountains on the way to Iringa, armies of baobab trees stalk us as we pass through their forest. This is one of the greatest forest regions of baobab trees in the world, and like the Ents from Middle Earth, they have upside down shapes with branches of arms and fingers that look as if they want to engulf.
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