Journey to Nowhere

Iringa, Tanzania  February 2016

I am up early but already a slim young man is waiting for me by the reception.  He introduces himself as Isam, Modest’s brother. We set off on foot to Gangilonga  (the Talking Rock), where Chief Makwawa meditated. It’s not a long walk through the leafy suburbs and then up a hillside path.  Birds are stirring and starting to sing and Isam  identifies them by song, including a Yellow-breasted Apalis, a new one for me. We see it, a colourful little warbler hopping around in a tree. I am impressed and Isam is delighted.  Tiny colourful finches fly up as we walk on – Cordon-bleus, Mannikins and Firefinches. We meet a tortoise and then we are at the rock.  The ticket booth is abandoned so we climb on up and soon are sitting on the lovely granite surface enjoying the panorama. Below us is a chequer board of houses, gardens and fields; further off we can see the town center and all around the larger rocky slopes of the mountains.

Isam is a keen ornithologist and has fallen in love with my binoculars, so we take turns using them to look at  birds and to spy on the town below us.  A small Falcon,  a Kestrel, floats past and sinks down to the fields and houses below ; Red-throated Widowbirds are  making display flights off a Mango tree in a garden far below. It’s a lovely place to just hang out and we do so for about an hour. Isam is at the start of his career as a guide and is very keen to learn more about birds, so we stop on the way back at marshy pond and do some “proper” birding. We see quite a few species, but then a pale morph Booted Eagle steals the show, hunting low along the hillside. Isam has never seen one before so I explain how to identify it and that there is a dark morph too.

Back at the hotel my favorite manageress informs me that she has managed things so I can stay on (they had been fully booked); I tell her she is wonderful, Tanzania is wonderful. Isam and I are waiting outside  for a car to pick us up when  a dark morph Booted Eagle circles overhead! The bird-watching spirits are smiling on us today.

A van picks us up and we drive to Kalenga,  Makwawa’s fortified capital during the Wahehe war against the Germans in the 19th century,  now the site of a small museum and the resting place of his much-travelled skull. The Germans had removed the heroic chief’s severed head and kept it in the Bremen Anthropological Museum. In spite of a clause in the Versailles Treaty stipulating its return, it was not until 1954 that it was finally recovered.

The museum is a pretty little building in a much cared for garden. The curator and (of course) a yellow dog meet us at the entrance. There is a single room, with a lot of things inside. The walls are covered with copies of old photographs and documents. Sadly, there are no photos of Makwawa himself or of the dramatic events of the rebellion he led; nobody was around with a camera at that time.  There are old guns and spears, a splendid cow-hide shield and two special boxes used to transport the skull.  A stool and a wicker bowl used by the great man and a copy of the 4 cornered medicine pot used for divining the enemy’s intentions. And, of course, in place of honour, the skull.

Suitably humbled we leave, not before admiring a truly lovely patchwork tapestry of traditional village life. Back in town I ask the driver to drop me off near the market . I head for a bookshop I had seen the other day, in search of reading material for my planned lazy day tomorrow. I am hoping to find some African novel or a scholarly  treatise on Tanzania; alas, there are shelves and shelves of text books,  from Oxford Dictionaries to Tanzanian Tax Law (parts 1-6), but only a few abridged plays by Ibsen for “literature”;   But I am in luck. I find a single volume that stands out from the shiny schoolbooks. It has a bright red rooster on the cover and is titled:”Human Sacrifice and the Supernatural in African History”. Not exactly what I had in mind but irresistible; I purchase it and go off to have some lunch.

In the afternoon  Isam,  the driver and I head  North on the Dodoma road and turn off at a sign reading “Igeleke Ancient Rock Paintings” . We pass through maize  and vegetable patches leading to a small village shaded by tall Eucalyptus trees. Children in blue and white uniforms are just out from school and are  hanging  around and playing along the track, in no big  hurry to get home.

 

We drive on out in to the open country beyond the village and stop by a hill with a large boulder on top. After a brief discussion with the driver Isam explains to me that neither of them have been here before, we could go back to the village and get a guide or figure it out on our own.  I like the idea of the guide, so far these have always been nice people; going local has worked well for me. So we turn back not before enjoying some good views of a handsome Augur Buzzard perched on the big boulder (which  later turned out to be the Rock-painting site). Back at the village we sit in the shade while Isam calls the  guide and receives instructions to proceed to the site where he will meet us shortly.

We drive back to where we were before, find the path and Isam and I make our way up the hill to the huge overhanging rock at its summit. To my (slight) embarrassment and (great) relief Isam has not only appropriated my binoculars but also carries my backpack .  We meet a couple of workers laying foundations for a fence to protect the site and after discovering a large leech in one of their water buckets (I pick it up, much to their amusement), we pass through the fence and reach the huge overhanging rock. And there are the paintings : giraffes, Elephants, Maize plants, a Buffalo and all sorts of shapes and patterns in red and black. A rock Martin has a nest just above and higher up in a crack are Swift’s nests. We sit under a tree and wait.

We have almost forgotten what we are doing here when a short, middle-aged man in an immaculate green safari-suit pops out of the bush. Hardly pausing for breath he announces “My name is Ngulinzira” and launches into a lengthy explanation of the subtle meanings of this name. I don’t quite understand the explanation, but am captivated by  Mr.Ngulinzira’s enthusiasm .   I’m not even puzzled by his outfit (he is also wearing very shiny city shoes). Only later we discover that he is the chairman of the local NGO that cares for this site and the small nature reserve surrounding it; when he received our call he was in the middle of a board meeting and he came straight over, climbed the hill and here he his.

We get an explanation about the paintings and Mr.N mischievously points out a copy they made in modern oil-paint a few years ago – it is almost totally washed away while the ancient iron-oxide pigments, bonded with the rock look almost new . We go for a walk around the 56 acre reserve barely keeping up with the bubbly Mr.N as he skips up and down boulders and steep paths. We come to a stunning view over the surrounding countryside; “Do you have places like this in your country?” he asks.  I can’t really explain that I don’t really have a country, but say that where I live, in Belgium, we would see a lot more roads, cars, buildings and it would probably be raining. How can I explain what this landscape does to me?  I gush a bit about what a beautiful land this is and how wonderful what people like him are doing is etc. I get a big smile, “Karibu”.

We walk on and seeing me taking picture of flowers he gets on to the subject of bees; the rest of our walk is a tour of the multi-function bee-hives he has set up around the perimeter of the reserve: they keep cattle out and generate an income for the reserve. They are the apple of Mr.N’s Ecological eye. Really a remarkable (and very entertaining!) man.

Back at the car he sells me a ticket (equivalent of 5$  to which I add substantially, resisting the urge to dump the entire contents of my wallet into his hands) and I sign the guest book which is what he has been carrying around the whole time in his little green bag. Grass-roots conservation at its best!

 

 

 

 

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.