Iringa, Tanzania February 2016
As the small plane carrying the group disappeared over the hills to the east, Modest, Ernest and I got in to the and Cruiser and drove back to Iringa . (for an account of the group trip follow this link.) From the car I saw a man in a cherry-coloured suit and tie standing in a field facing a camera team. It seemed a bit odd and I wondered what they were doing there.
Back in town, I check in at the Neema and join Modest on the terrace. Over coffee and lemon drizzle cake we have fun putting together some nice programs and enjoy the idea of making some more trips together. Who knows? Then we walk to the market, to look for some music CD’s; I had promised Jeanne I would bring her some funky Tanzanian sounds. But, at the music shops and stalls we visit it’s all DVD’s – I should have realized, who in Tanzania has a CD player? And now I understand what that fellow in the field was doing – making a music Video! Instead we get a Flash Drive for modest to copy tracks from his computer on to and go to a barbershop for a haircut.
I suddenly remember the group – they should have landed in Dar by now and I have completely forgotten their existence. Modest calls Jeanne on his mobile and she reports that all is well, they loved the flight and have safely arrived at the hotel. I can forget about them again.
So that’s it, I thank modest Modest and make a date for next week when I will be passing this way again and head to the Neema for a shower and a change. I sit on the terrace, alone at last, writing my diary and readying myself for the next part of my journey. I should be really excited, I will be going back to Ruaha National Park to stay at a very exclusive bush-camp and see wonderful things. Instead I am restless and ill-at-ease.
I’ll skip over the next two days – forgive and forget. Briefly – the exclusive bush camp (which shall remain nameless) Safari experts operation was a bit of a rip off (to put it mildly) but I managed to get a sizable refund and cut my stay short. I had spent 3 great days in Ruaha the week before, with my group, and of course it was still lovely but – well lets not go in to it. No wonder I had felt a bit funny about the whole thing. I resume at the camp in Ruaha after my second (and last night) there.
I finally slept well that night (in spite of the awful mattress). Perhaps it was the walk that did the trick, maybe it was the collapse of my plan and the prospect of the unknown lying ahead that brought relaxation with it.
I was up early, and fetching some coffee from the so-called mess tent, passed by the kitchen to get some milk to go with it. Seeing R___ hard at work cutting up onions and peppers for another Spanish Omelet I asked, please, just plain fried eggs this time and returned to my tent.
Sitting there sipping my coffee, I remembered all the other places I had stayed at where I had been asked how I liked my eggs, and added this to my long list of complaints. And then, it was almost as if a little voice spoke and said:” What are you doing? Here you are, in one of the most beautiful spots in the world, and all you can do is grumble about fried eggs!” I looked up; the river burbled sweetly, the dawn light glowed off the rocks on the mountain and birds were singing in the trees. I was a fool! I let the river take my anger, all the accumulation of the last days. I let it all go.
After breakfast ( fried eggs, and I couldn’t care less that the toast ran out), with a much lighter heart I brought my bags to the car, said goodbye to the crew and S_____ and I headed out for the final game drive and the road to Iringa. We had hardly cleared the trees around the camp when a Falcon came dashing across the way, zigzagging at high speed low over the grass. Falcons are special for me, there’s a story behind that – some other time. Even a small one like a Kestrel I take as a good sign, but this was a proper hunting bird (looking through the field guide I later figured it was probably a Red-necked Falcon), a powerful omen indeed. Maybe I was back on the right track.
Not wishing to return to camp, I had opted for a packed lunch; it also meant the crew could start striking camp for their return to Dar. The mysterious third crew member now turned out to be the truck driver and he came along with us in search of a ride to where he had left the truck outside the park. As we dropped him off at the airstrip – Ruaha’s traffic hub – I saw that the small plane from yesterday was still there and that a rather expensively dressed European gentleman was sitting in one of the shade huts with his luggage. Obviously going somewhere. Perhaps I could hitch a ride to some exciting destination? I asked S_____ to give me a minute , strolled over and started a conversation; it turned out they were heading to Selous Game Reserve – much too hot and sticky for me – but his accent intrigued me. Sure enough, he was a Belgian, living about 50 Km. From where I did! We left him waiting for the rest of his party and went on to have a nice drive along the river; this time we didn’t get stuck in the mud and the birds were especially good – I saw several new species.
We turn back early; It has been a good morning and I feel ready to leave. Feeling hungry by now, we stop at the Ruaha River bridge for our packed lunch. Par for the course, this consists of a sandwich with a few cucumber and tomato slices for filling, a boiled egg and a tiny, dry muffin; S___ and I have a good laugh about it and drive on to Iringa in a good mood.
On the way I borrow S___’s mobile and call Modest. He is far away somewhere near Lake Malawi, chaperoning a South African team of Ecologists conducting an environmental impact study for a proposed Wind Turbine site. He sounds busy and doesn’t have any immediate ideas for me but promises to call the hotel in Iringa and ask them to keep a room for me.
Iringa is cool and civilized on its hilltop. I feel like I have come home as a check in (again) at the good old Gentle Hills Hotel. I lie on the soft bed ,sit on the armchair , have a shower and change out of my sweaty bush clothes. I discover that I can send texts to Belgium on my mobile and soon Jeanne calls me back and we have a nice long chat.
All is well, I am happy I got out of that one and tomorrow is another day. And I learned something today (for the who knows how many-est time).
Net day I wake early and breakfast on pancakes, watermelon and samosas. I loaf around the hotel a bit ( the computerized key-card system is down so each time I wish to enter my room I have to invite one of the ladies from the reception to accompany me with the master key). Finally I head off into town, stopping en route at the Neema for some of their delicious coffee.
Having procrastinated long enough, I enter the the busy town center and after a few wrong turns, mange to find the money-changer/hairdresser from last week where I convert some dollars into shillings.
Next step is the purchase of a Tanzanian Airtel SIM card for my mobile phone – easily done. Soon I am chatting with Modest again, explaining the situation in more detail to him – especially that I have a big refund to spend on having some fun for the remainder of the week, and that I want to walk, anywhere will do really. The answer is, of course – “no problem”. I buy a newspaper and sit in a shady cafe by the city park, sipping Passionfruit Fanta , and trying some snacks (“Egg Chop” is a sort of Scotch Egg). This is really nice, and soon Modest calls back with instructions.
Later that afternoon I present myself at the Chabo Africa Office and meet George, a trainee guide. We are going to visit Isimila Stone Age Site. We take a land cruiser and drive a short way out of town on the TanZam highway, turning off onto a small track. We are in a broad valley surrounded by granite hills. The track leads us a short way ,past maize and vegetable patches, to a smart concrete building standing in a grove of trees. Clouds have been building up all afternoon and on the way we passed through a brief heavy shower. Now, a flicker of lightning on the darkening horizon announces more to come.
Two friendly yellow dogs welcome us, followed shortly by a smartly dressed young man who introduces himself as Hilal, caretaker of the site. I buy a ticket, sign the guestbook and Hilal suggests I see the museum before we walk to the site and the gorge. Seeing as it isn’t yet actually raining, I propose we walk first; George and Hilal look a bit doubtful, especially as at just that moment a spectacular bolt of lightning strikes a nearby hill. But I am sure, and I tell them not to worry, the rain will wait. So we set off, the dogs, tails wagging, trotting ahead of us.
A short way through the bush and we descend in to a wide sandy riverbed and walk over to a roofed enclosure. Inside is a huge pile of chunky Palaeolithic handaxes. No glass cases here! While we try out the ancient tools a rumble of thunder reminds us to keep moving.
Up the other side of the river bed and across a grassy plateau and there is the gorge. It is everything a gorge should be. Steep sides, tangled vegetation, eroded pillars, eerie bird calls – the works. An Eagle is perched on a tree overlooking the chasm, and silently glides away at our approach. It’s magic – I love it.
We descend (carefully) and wind our way along the stream running along the sandy floor. I find some beautiful flowers – pale mauve Gladioli, Figworts, Yellow Alliums and a stunning red Fire Lily. George, who is wearing flip-flops, keeps sinking in to the wet sand; we find a Chameleon; Hilal, who reads a lot (he has plenty of time – the last entry in the guestbook was 4 days ago), is interested in politics and history and questions me about countries I have lived in. Thunder reminds us again not to dawdle.
We come out into the wider river bed and walk slowly upstream to the site, our starting point. The recent heavy rains must have exposed new bits of the ancient lake-shore sediments, for soon we are picking up stone tools right and left. They are far too many to carry over to the roofed shed so we dump them unceremoniously in a pile for Hilal to find again with his next visitors.
It has been a fine walk and we are in no hurry now. The dogs, who had turned back earlier, greet us as long lost friends. Hilal and I sit on the steps leading up to the museum to discuss the Mossad and the Yom-Kippur war while George wanders around talking on his mobile. But the rainclouds, which have been waiting patiently, now start leaking fat drops onto us; we beat a hasty retreat to the museum just as the heavens open and it pours down.
I have been dreading the museum but am pleasantly surprised. The design is simple and uncluttered. One room explains the stone age site and the other is devoted to the region’s recent history and traditional culture. There are some well chosen artefacts, nice photos and a beautifully painted mural.
The rain has eased off and as I get into the car I hear a high pitched “Ki-Ki -Ki-Ki” from some high trees nearby. I smile – this is a bird-call I know; As we drive off I see him rise from the trees and swoop across the fields: a dark Falcon with long pointed wings – an African Hobby. I turn to George to share the good news but he is having fun steering the big car through a flock of chickens; I say nothing.
In the evening I venture out and enjoy some very nice Indian/Tanzanian cuisine; I walk back through dark, puddled streets to the Gentle Hills where the key cards still don’t work. It’s been a lovely day.