This is the second instalment of a four-month trans-Africa trip from Johannesburg to London that I did with Exodus Expeditions in 1980, camping and living in a truck. We were not sightseeing, though we did see some incredible sights. Our goal was simply to get through Africa by whatever route was open. You can read the first instalment here.

It’s about three in the morning. I wake up to hear heavy breathing outside the tent; even in my sleep I must have been aware of it. I turn over and see the tent flaps are unzipped and there are two men kneeling in front of me right at the tent opening! I scream and they run off. Then the trembling sets in; I’m now wide awake. After a few minutes they come creeping back to Steve and Mary’s tent. I scream Steve wake up! as loud as I can, and they run off again. No one answers me, not even Cameron and Eric who are sleeping under the truck next to my tent. No one fucking answers me! I don’t understand why. Gail, in the tent with me, is of course awake by now, so we lie there keeping watch and talking. We suddenly hear a scream and see the two men go racing away from Steve and Mary’s tent. They had been cutting the back of the tent with a razor blade, but Steve had finally woken up. He smashed one of them in the head through the tent wall. They don’t manage to steal anything. Eventually we all go back to sleep.

We’re camped in the grounds of the Silver Sands Hotel on the beach about fifteen kilometres north of Dar es Salaam, but first I’ll backtrack a bit. Two days earlier we crossed from Zambia into Tanzania at the Zombe/Kasesya border post. The reason for the trip to Kalambo Falls was to go west to avoid crossing into Tanzania at the main border crossing at Tunduma. Eric has been too long in South Africa (still under Apartheid) and the stamps in his passport show it; because of this he’ll likely be refused entry into Tanzania. Craig, our fearless leader, is hoping that the guards at a smaller, more remote border crossing (the one near Kalambo Falls) won’t notice. They don’t.

Initially travelling north from the border, we stop in Sumbawanga to shop for fresh food.

















Everywhere we stop people gather to stare. We keep the canvas flaps along the sides of the truck rolled up and we lean out and stare back. It’s fun. Everyone is curious, us and them. We wave and smile and they wave and smile back. For security we always lower the back flap of the truck when we’re stopped in a town. Still, little kids crawl under to get a peek inside.





We travel east, backtracking towards Tunduma and from there head north on the main road.








We stop briefly in Iringa. The markets are fascinating; fruit and vegetables, and beautiful crafts. I have hot sweet tea in a dingy cafe grandly named Safari Hotel, and little round fried dough balls with onion and chilli in them.

From Iringa we head east towards Dar es Salaam on the coast, crossing the Ruaha River at Mbuyuni by cable ferry. The guys squat down by the cable, and by hauling on the cable the ferry is slowly pulled across the river.





In this photo, behind Craig’s legs you can see one of the guys kneeling down, hauling on the cable. There are three others in front of him doing the same. This seemed pretty hardcore at the time. We didn’t know there was worse to come. Much worse.





And then suddenly they are everywhere! Zebras, elephants, giraffes and warthogs, springbok, buffalo, and wildebeest.





We have come to Mikumi National Park,





the fourth largest national park in the country, where the landscape is often compared to that of the Serengeti. We stop at a water hole to watch the hippos,





and a herd of eight elephants come to drink.





From the truck we watch them, getting as close as we dare, wary in case they should decide to charge. I feel as if I’m living in a movie.

From there we drive to the notorious Silver Sands Hotel.

It’s the second night in the grounds of the same hotel as the thieves. This time we prepare properly. We put both tents close together and close to the truck, with the open ends of the tents facing each other. Cameron and Eric sleep under the truck again. Nearby there’s a huge pile of prickly branches from acacia trees so we drape these all around the outside of both tents, surrounding them. So we have the truck on one side, and a wall of extremely prickly acacia branches forming a barricade all around us, but even this doesn’t stop them. They come again at about the same time, three of them. I’m woken by the scraping of the branches. I shout Steve! at the same instant that Mary screams – a knife is ripping through the side of the tent next to her head. The thieves run off at the shouts and screams, with Steve adding a loud bellow to the general mayhem. We all get up to see if we can spot them in the darkness, wander around for a while giggling hysterically, and finally go back to bed and try to sleep.

It’s frightening of course, but we all understand that they don’t actually want to hurt us. They just want what we have; it is so much more than they have.

From the Silver Sands we do a day trip to Dar es Salaam –  crowded, colourful, and  grubby,  loud and frenetic, decaying and crumbling, exciting and dangerous and fantastic! I love Dar es Salaam! It is a day of ice cream (such a treat to find ice cream that is safe to eat), samosas, wandering the streets, wandering along the waterfront. We have vegetable curry in a crowded filthy restaurant, but the food is good!





We poke around in souvenir shops with their drums and skins, knives and wood-carvings, masks and batik, delight at finding (miracle) cheap scotch to restock the bar, and finally return exhausted to the truck late afternoon for the drive back to Silver Sands and the second night of the thieves.

From the Silver Sands we drive north to Bagamoyo and set up camp in the grounds of a hotel on the beach.





Today is my birthday. I am thirty years old. It doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t seem to have anything to do with me. Old people are thirty.
I am so amused by this. I wrote the same when I turned 70!

In the 1800s Bagamoyo was one of the most important trading ports on the East African coast. In Kiswahili Bagamoyo means “lay down your heart”, or “take a load off your heart”. It likely referred to the Arab-run slave and ivory trade that passed through the port. Slaves, and especially ivory, from the interior were unloaded here before being shipped to Zanzibar Island and elsewhere. It was the end of hope for the slaves, and the end of the journey for the porters. But now, despite its troubled past, it’s a peaceful serene town; and it feels like the perfect place for my birthday.

We arrive at about eleven and with Gail I wander around the village, and back in time,








poking our noses into dark shops, watching children splash around the village well, looking at the intricately carved wooden doorways from the Arab days. Bagamoyo: old, crumbling, the fortress still here but long forgotten, the Arab buildings still here but old, crumbling.

I buy myself a Makonde-wood carving from an artist in the village. I pay US$9.00, plus a baseball cap, a small hand-held mirror, and a pen. I choose it because it represents the movement between the corporeal and the spiritual worlds, and especially for its serene expression.








The others give me a birthday card with a beautiful batik on the front,





and I am congratulated for now being officially old!

After lunch I walk via a long, mango-tree-shaded avenue with Brett and Craig to the Catholic mission and the museum on the history of Bagamoyo. Then (joy of joys) Mary gives me a haircut, and then (even more joy) Steve gives me a head-to-toe massage. I swim for a while, and walk alone along the beach.





Then I go to have a shower.

I’ve washed in some unique situations in my time, but this must go down as one of the strangest. It’s a small dirty smelly room next to the toilet and overlooking the courtyard of the hotel. Overlooking being the operative word. There are windows (no glass) from about waist to shoulder height. As it turns out this doesn’t matter as I have to squat anyway – there’s no water from the shower-head, only a small tap about 18 inches from the floor. So I attempt to squat under it and wash myself, not daring to think what has been on the floor, feeling certain people had been peeing in there and all over the walls, scared all the time someone would look in the windows (such an undignified position!), desperately trying to hold my balance without touching the walls, my legs squishing together from the oil Steve has used for the massage. Somehow I manage to come out of there feeling cleaner than before I went in.

We have dinner there in the dark
down by the beach
watching the full moon rising
over the Indian ocean
first deep orange
slowly imperceptibly rising
changing to silver
rising higher
the silver-stream reflection
advancing across the water
a softly rippling mirror of the sky
an entire universe
reflected in our eyes

From then on the evening degenerates. We all get horribly slobberingly drunk on various spirits, and Dodoma.





Dodoma – wine from the Tanzanian Milling Corporation. What did they mill? Was it paper? Was the wine fermented from wood pulp? It could well be. This Dodoma is a powerful potion indeed. The giggles set in very quickly, followed by a band of steel just above the eyes, incoherence, dribbling, double vision, glazed eyes, complete loss of all motor functions, and a disastrous effect on the bowels. Over the course of the evening I also have two double gins, a double vodka, and uncountable amounts of scotch.
I now look back on this completely gobsmacked! I had forgotten that I was ever able to drink that much. Or wanted to.

I remember a long loud and heated discussion (myself and Craig, with Mary chiming in occasionally) vs Brett and Cameron) about rape and feminism. At about three in the morning a guy staying at the hotel storms from his room and screams at us all to shut up. When we take no notice (we’re far too drunk) he yells Why don’t you all go back to England!, but we still don’t take any notice (still too drunk) and continue right on with the scotch and the argument.

Finally it dies, and Brett and I go for a long stagger down the beach. A full moon shining, the world grey and silver and shimmering, Tanzania (it feels so exotic), we make drunken giggling love on the sand, get lost coming back to the truck through the town, and I finally finally crawl exhausted drunk sandy and incoherent into my sleeping bag at about 5am. Happy birthday.

August 28th: No hangover! From Bagamoyo we drive south to Dar, then follow the highway west stopping in Mbala for groceries, and the next day, passing small towns and villages along the way, 





we head north towards Moshi and Arusha, passing close by Mt Kilimanjaro.





Arusha has long been the gateway to Tanzania’s, and indeed East Africa’s, most famous game parks: Serengeti and Ngorongoro. These days it’s a big city. What we experience is a lovely town where we get our first glimpse of the Maasai,





and where I find, blowing in the breeze this page from a child’s school book – handwritten exercises in Kiswahili. It seems so astonishing to me, though I don’t know why it should. It’s a sudden grounding, an unexpected glimpse, into the reality of everyday life here. Friends gather at the markets, kids go to school, life is ordinary, families, friends, home, loving and crying, being.










Next post: We don’t go to Ngorongoro or Serengeti! I still feel cheated. More on that in the next post, which will be about Kenya – Nairobi, and the game parks we do go to.

Disclosure:
1. I’ve changed the names of everyone involved for privacy
2. Obviously any photo with me in it was taken by another member of the group, but I’ve no idea who.






All words and images by Alison Louise Armstrong unless otherwise noted
© Alison Louise Armstrong and Adventures in Wonderland – a pilgrimage of the heart, 2010-2024.