World Wittering

The alarm went off at five and we dragged ourselves out of bed to discover there was a power cut. Outside the rain poured down torrentially. A 6am bus to Rwanda you say? Huzzah!

Our taxi dropped us down to the bus station and we ran through the deluge to find our ride, bags were thrown into the hold and we clambered aboard. My heart sank.

Lee had obviously felt the need to compensate for the luxury of the previous bus from Nairobi to Kampala – where that one had had three comfy armchairs per row, this one had been stuffed with five narrow threadbare seats, the business class legroom had given way to knee wedgery of the highest order, the man in front had a live chicken in a carrier bag.

And so we rattled thusly, crossing the equator for the third time in three days, passing lush tea plantations and through wide savannahs, until we reached the border around mid-morning. We shuffled off and into the exit queue, then on through no man’s land to the entry queue. We were soon stamped in and heading back to re-board the bus when we noticed that all of the bags were being unloaded and piled up on the tarmac. Our fellow passengers milled around looking bored while a group of young men without uniforms began opening the bags and examining the contents.

We asked a spectator what was going on and were amazed to discover that plastic carrier bags are not allowed to be brought into Rwanda – each bag on the bus was to be searched and all carrier bags confiscated.

Quirky rule, you may be thinking. Very environmentally sound, no doubt. All we could think of was that, as seasoned backpackers, we had hoarded plastic bags from everywhere we’d been. A quality carrier was something to be used and re-used – laundry, keeping books dry, a convenient way of storing and finding things within the cavernous recesses of the pack – we were filled with horror.
It came to my turn and I opened the lower section of my pack, the border guard made me pull out the contents and relieved me of several bags including the high strength duty free number I’d kept my boots in and four virgin black refuse sacks brought from home. The carnage didn’t end there – next I had to open up the lid pocket and my reserve stash was uncovered, I felt like some kind of criminal scum as he pulled out a carrier bag that contained nothing more than a dozen other carrier bags of varying sizes – was I some kind of plastic bag dealer? I opened the main compartment of my pack, fearing the worst, but the guard must have lost interest as he only gave the contents a cursory inspection, completely failing to look beneath the T-shirts and find the bags containing my books and various other essential supplies. My bag was passed and loaded back into the hold. I returned to my seat and watched Lee go through the same process. The women in the seats in front laughed uproariously as she was made to empty and hand over her laundry bag, I looked across the aisle and saw another lady serruptitiously retrieving her stash from under the headrest cover of the seat in front, our eyes met and we shared an incredulous look.

Finally, the searches were complete and confiscation appeared to be the only penalty, we were under way again and suddenly climbing through green mountains.

We reached Kigali in the early afternoon and hopped in a cab which wound its way up into the centre of town with country music blaring from the radio, giving us panoramic views of the city sprawling up and out over the surrounding green hills, and then lied to the receptionist of a nice hotel, convincing him we were married in order to be permitted a room.

We took a stroll out to get our bearings and found the office where we were to pick up our permits for the gorillas – it was closed for two days. We wandered on, trying several establishments before finding a restaurant which was still serving food, then headed back to the hotel to relax.

Alas, Kigali at the weekend appeared to be devoid of life. No doubt there was plenty going on somewhere, but we were unable to find it – we hunkered down in front of CNN with room service and waited for Monday morning.

We were at the permit office first thing and, after only a couple of hours of ineptitude, faffing and the payment of yet more money, we eventually left with the paperwork that would allow us to track the mighty mountain gorillas.

We spent the afternoon at the Kigali Memorial Centre, where we were graphically explained the story of the 90’s genocide. Like the Killing Fields of Cambodia, it was a harrowing experience, the fact it was so recent and that the rest of the world had failed so miserably to take the opportunity to intervene made it all the more poignant and depressing. Outside, a funeral was taking place of recently discovered remains, driving home the fact that this is a community still dealing with the ramifications a decade or so later. Upstairs there was a further exhibit telling the stories of other genocides of the twentieth century – no mention yet of Darfur, but give them time.

Heads wrecked, we retired to the hotel.

Next morning we crammed ourselves into another over-burdened matatu and were jostled and squashed for several hours as we passed through beautiful mountains to reach Ruhengeri. Once there, we found a hotel, ate and turned in, then another 6am start saw us collected from reception in a decrepit pick-up and driven to Kinigi, headquarters of the Parc National Des Volcans, home of Diane Fossey’s legendary gorillas in the mist.

We loitered around the office as the various other groups turned up, some fat lesbians, a family with a pair of sullen teenage sons who refused to appreciate the enormous amount of money their parents were spending on them, retired couples in pristine outdoor gear, overweight men with excessive quantities of camera equipment they could barely carry. Our driver asked us whether we had any preference as to which group we wanted to visit. I said I’d rather not be around sulking teenagers with silly fringes, but he said he meant which group of gorillas.

We plumped for the Susa group, the largest with 35 members, but the most remote – we may have to trek several hours into the mountains to find them – all good training for Kili, we thought. We’d assumed this would be a popular choice but, surprisingly, hardly anyone else seemed to want the exertion and we were joined for our briefing by only an elderly Spanish couple and an overweight American. Our guide ran through the rules of acceptable behaviour and filled us in on a bit of gorilla behaviour and some detail on the Susa group’s members – plus handy trivia such as that a gorilla’s nose is as unique as a human fingerprint.

We clambered into our ride for the hour or so drive to the start of the trek. Naturally, it was then that our driver clobbered us for an extra $25, on top of his already ridiculous fee, as the Susa group is “a bit further to drive to”. We reached a village after an hour or so and the cars were chased by hundreds of children screaming for gifts. Soon we came to a halt as it became apparent that our “4-wheel drive” vehicle, which we’d been assured was “absolutely necessary to reach the start of the trail, and that’s why it’s so expensive” was no such thing and completely unable to get up the muddy track. We were decanted into the guide’s Land Cruiser and were soon being dropped at the head of the trail.

From there we spent a pleasant hour and a half strolling gently up the foothills of the volcano, through the terraced fields being worked by villagers, ignoring the constant cries of children demanding money, until we finally reached the dry stone wall marking the border of the park. From here it was a mere twenty minutes before we were met by the tracking team of armed guards and vets who monitor each group at all times and protect them from poachers. We dumped our bags, grinned at each other with anticipation and made our way in complete silence the final few metres in the footsteps of our guide.

Suddenly, we found ourselves in a clearing and in the presence of a pair of gorillas, male and female, they sat eating clumps of natural celery and completely ignoring us. It was a moment charged with electricity as we all struggled simultaneously to contain our excitement, crane our necks for a better view and reach for our cameras. As we watched this pair, both yet to reach maturity but still enormously powerful, we were gradually aware of more and more presences in the surrounding forest.

After a short while we were able to maneuver around the pair and the rest of the clearing came into view. We counted seventeen gorillas, ranging from a tiny baby, two days old, which the mother was keen to show to us according to the guide, to an enormous silverback, the alpha male. It was this male who demanded our attention with his sheer size and bearing, the ominous sense of enormous power in repose which could be unleashed at any time, yet he was the least active, munching distractedly on some roots as he kept a watchful eye on all of the group, most notably the young male we’d first encountered who, we were assured was testing the silverback’s patience being in such close proximity to a female.

Some youngsters tumbled about in higher branches and fought in mock battles, the older gorillas simply tore up the undergrowth and munched contentedly, ignoring our invasion. Not alot else happened but our visiting hour was over in an instant and we were all in a state of ecstatic rapture, scarcely able to believe we’d been within a few short metres of these amazing creatures, able to watch them go about their business almost impervious to our invasion.

As we returned to collect our bags we were breathless, back over the park wall we were able to pause for a bite to eat and discuss the morning’s events, but they already seemed like a dream. We all agreed it was one of the most amazing things we’d ever experienced and then set off back down the hill in a state of euphoria.

At the bottom we were again mobbed by kids, this time demanding our plastic bottles, then fighting amongst themselves to be the one to keep hold when the bottle was given, how quickly we were back in the real world. We were given certificates by our guide to commemorate our achievement (presumably being able to afford the permits) and then we were driven back to town to grab our bags and catch another matatu.

We bought our tickets and had time to grab some lunch before the minibus showed up. When it did, it appeared to be completely full. We spent an interesting ten minutes as the driver attempted to open the boot with a hammer and a screwdriver. He finally gave up and somehow squeezed our packs into unfeasibly small gaps below the seats. He then squeezed us into unfeasibly small gaps on the seats and slammed the door shut before anything could fall out. It was a rather uncomfortable three hour ride to Gisenyi, made worse (or better, depending on how you look at it) by the exhaust fumes, which seemed to be piped straight into our faces and made it hard to stay awake.

Disembarking, there was a lack of cabs and so we climbed, fully packed, aboard a pair of motorcycle taxis and made for, the attractive sounding, Hotel Palm Beach – “a rambling old colonial-era house, the rooms here are spacious and comfortable” – Lonely Planet. Reaching our destination, we discovered that Hotel Palm Beach was now a derelict colonial-era house which didn’t appear to have been open in a good long while, thanks again LP. Somewhat bemused, we made our way along the pretty lakeside and came upon a fancier alternative, somewhat out of our normal budget but we were tired and it had been a long day. Ah, room service, yes, cold beer and ludicrously priced microwaved food if you please, it’s been a hell of a day and there’s a rolling news channel to watch.

The following day we were able to sleep late before taking a leisurely walk along the beach on the lakeside. We strolled into another fancy hotel to pay silly money for lunch and watch some Americans being loud. I left Lee lapping it all up and made my way to the local internet cafe to do some blogging. Alas, foiled again, the place had weird keyboards which appeared to be some kind of bizarre French layout – no qwerty, impossible to type on, I couldn’t even find the “@” symbol to access my email – this was something we’d never encountered even in China, I thought the whole world used a standard keyboard, apparently not. There was nothing for it but to repair to the hotel and catch up on world events with CNN.

Later, we took a walk along the shoreline in the other direction, reaching the border with the Democratic Republic of Congo - had a look, it seemed alright - then turned back and popped into the White Rock bar to watch a pleasant sunset descend over the lake and sip a cold one. As darkness descended, we strolled back to our hotel bar to take excrutiatingly priced gin and tonics and cable TV.

The next day we retraced our steps in yet another boldly overloaded matatu, back through Ruhengeri to Kigali and back to our previous hotel. Next stop was a handy internet place to get the latest word on our rendezvous with a certain American gentleman of dubious repute.

Last seen making his way to Lijiang airport with the mother of all hangovers, Nick, who had trekked Tiger Leaping Gorge with us some three months earlier, was due to meet us the following day, having done his own gorilla trek in the Congo. Alas, the news was not good, he had been further delayed and it would now be Sunday before he made it to Kigali.

We were less than thrilled to be staying an extra day in Rwanda’s less than vibrant capital. I know this because Lee expressed this disatisfaction almost perpetually for the rest of the evening.

Nevertheless, we were up and about reasonably early Saturday morning and deetermined to find something to do. The streets of the centre of town, which we’d found to be pretty quiet pretty much all of the time, were even more eerily quiet than usual. Taxi drivers that we were normally beating off with the proverbially tipped stick were suddenly impossible to locate, absolutely nothing was open.

Nothing.

We finally tracked down a taxi and made our way to the bus station to enquire about onward travel to Arusha in Tanzania. The ticket office was also closed, no buses were running and a crowd of people were waiting patiently in the morning sun. A kind gentleman explained that the buses would start running in the afternoon and that the day was some kind of public holiday for spring cleaning. Very strange. None the wiser, vis a vis buses to Arusha, there was nothing for it but to purchase some over-sweet pink sparkling wine (which turned out to be almost undrinkable, but you need a change from the beer every now and then) and retire to the room and lovely informative CNN.

Lee was overjoyed.

We were woken the following morning by aforesaid American on the telephone to tell us he was on his way - “I’m literally on my way” he said and estimated he’d be with us around eleven. Lee expressed her feelings at this news and I tried to get back to sleep. The telephone rang again around eleven, Lee answered “Oh hi Nick, yeah lovely to hear from you, oh, one more hour you say? OK then, no problem.” I said nothing.

Cometh the hour, cometh the man, and, yea verily, he came. And his first words were to compliment me on how much weight I’d lost (YES!). And he brought a luxury air conditioned people carrier driven by the lovely Sheba. We made a brief stop to collect a huge bag of samosas and then, picking up where we left off in China, decided to buy a few beers for the journey.

Sheba made great progress and so did we with the beers, soon having to stop to replenish our supplies, as we caught up and compared notes on the gorillas, rafting and our travels in Africa. Nick was equally smitten with the continent and it was great to see a familiar face and recount our exploits.

Within a few hours we’d made it to the border with Tanzania and it was time to say goodbye to Sheba and our luxury ride. We walked through the barrier and up the hill, crossing a raging river, and found our way to Tanzanian customs. Having been stamped in, changed a little money and replenished the beer supply, we negotiated a ride in the most clapped out Toyota I’d ever seen and soon found ourselves in the border town of Benako.

We quickly found a lovely, tiny guesthouse, the cheapest we’d stayed in at two pounds a night, yet spotlessly clean and run by the nicest old geezer, and then went to explore. The village consisted only of a few buildings along the side of the road, seeming only to exist to service people crossing the border, trucks lined the road while drivers took some rest. We established that we could get a direct bus the next morning to either Mwanza or Bukoba, both passing through on their way from Ngara.

We found a small restaurant and were treated to a delicious local meal which cost virtually nothing, then we made our way over to the only bar in town for some liquid refreshment. We decided that we’d go for the bus to Bukoba, a slight detour up the side of Lake Victoria that would enable us to catch an overnight ferry to Mwanza instead of going straight there, an attractive proposition in our state of inebriation.

Nick and I took to the pool table and were soon surrounded by, what seemed to be, the entire village, all anxious to watch this clash of the titans. Nick took me apart comprehensively, I blamed the combination of the huge audience, the large amount of alcohol consumed and the fact that the table’s surface resembled a mogul field and had more roll than, well, something very, er, roly.

Nick confirmed this by being hammered by a twelve year old local boy, who then proceeded to do exactly the same to me, we never stood a chance. We retired to our table and more beer, before, finally, all the lights went out in the village and it was time for bed. We stumbled back to the guesthouse to discover the lovely old man had waited up to give us our keys, he really was very very lovely.

Seemingly moments later it was time to get up for the bus. We purchased our tickets and loitered at the roadside. A bus pulled up and people piled on, it was the Mwanza bus. We continued to loiter for another ten minutes before the ticket salesman informed us that the Bukoba bus had been completely filled at Ngara and so would not be stopping for us. This was not good news.

The ticket man advised that our only available course of action was to take a matatu which was going part of the way and then change. Conveniently, there was one waiting. It continued to wait for another two hours, every now and again driving up or down the road a few yards so we wouldn’t get bored, I was so glad we’d got up so early. Finally, another matatu pulled up and a horde of people got out and then got into our one, we were finally full enough to depart.

After only a couple of hours of intense discomfort, we were deposited by the side of the road at Lusahunga, where the road to Bukoba forked off and a sign informed us we had a further 200 odd kilometres to go. It was now midday and I worked out we had to make an average of 22-ish kilometres an hour in order to reach our ferry before departure. It seemed feasible, yet the doubts were already creeping in.

After an hour of waiting, a car stopped and gave us a ride to Biharamulo. On the way it picked up some small children and they sat in the boot staring at us. Lee carried a small girl in a pink dress on her lap and we practised swahili from Nick’s phrasebook on her but she was so shy we couldn’t hear any of her answers.

At Biharamulo we were shown the only matatu departing that day for Bukoba – it was on a jack with the front nearside wheel off and a group of men stood around scratching their chins. We booked our places and made for the cafe for some lunch. Within twenty minutes they were ready to leave, despite being not completely over full. This was remedied ten minutes up the road as twenty more people were picked up. Nick and I watched incredulously as the whole minibus was emptied and the driver attempted to fit all the new people’s luggage in, speculating on the revolutionary effects on Tanzanian public transport the invention of the roof rack would have, if it ever made it. A mere half an hour later we were back on our way, Lee had managed a cushy middle seat, Nick and I hunched together in the dreaded back seat, the matatu the most overloaded yet. We decided a valium would help.

The clock continued to tick as the kilometres sped all too slowly below us. The driver had to stop repeatedly to jack the bus up and remove the front wheel and adjust something which, presumably, kept coming loose. At each stop our co-passengers would desperately try to flag down alternative transport, shouting gleefully, if they were successful, as they disappeared into the distance. We’d been warned that this area of Tanzania was “bandit country”, hence the AK-47 toting guards on each matatu and the regular road blocks. At one stop it became evident we were no longer in “bandit country” as the guard flagged down a pickup with his AK-47 and joined the exodus. We didn’t complain, it made more room for those of us who remained.

The Lonely Planet had promised tarmac road from Biharamulo to Bukoba – this was a complete lie. In fact, there was a tarmac road being built the entire way from Biharamulo to Bukoba but it didn’t look like it would be finished anytime soon. As we bounced and shook our uncomfortable, cramped way along the dusty track we cursed you Lonely Planet, we cursed your name with all the foulest and vilest words we could think of, but deep down we were cursing ourselves for having watched that direct bus to Mwanza drive right off without us at seven o’clock that morning.

Some 70 kilometres from Bukoba we pulled into yet another small village but were this time all told to get out. It seemed the problem with the wheel was just too serious and the matatu would not be carrying on. The driver agreed to give us a partial refund and promised there would be another matatu departing imminently. Just to keep our spirits up, the little old lady I’d been sat next to all afternoon informed me that the ferry left Bukoba at 6.00, not 9.00 as the Lonely Planet advised, so we didn’t stand much of a chance of making it anyway. Ta for that.

A battered minivan pulled up beside us and said it was going to Bukoba. The doors were opened and the little old lady barged me out of the way and claimed the middle seat for her and her friends. Lee, Nick and I were squeezed into the back seat, then some more people were crammed in, then we waited a while and some more people were squashed in. The driver raced along at nutcase speed, screeching to a stop next to anyone waiting at the roadside to see if they wanted a lift, invariably they did and were then rammed into some vacant nook or cranny.

Eventually, exhausted, we finally reached Bukoba. A passer-by thought we had probably missed the ferry, but we decided to check the docks just in case. It had been a long day, we were all tired, the taxi took us to the docks, we confirmed the ferry had left – at 6.00 – and then deposited us at the welcoming Spice Beach hotel. Then the taxi driver demanded $15 and we realised we had forgotten to negotiate a price in advance. We felt violated but coughed up and dragged our sorry backsides inside.

The rooms were nice and cheap and, better still, we soon found ourselves sat on the hotel’s beach, overlooking the moonlit blackness of Lake Victoria beneath a wondrous canopy of stars. As we supped our cold beers and reflected on the muppetry of the day, the manager, Faustin, joined us and extolled the virtues of Bukoba. Since the ferry ran every other day, we would now have two days to enjoy it. At that moment we didn’t care that we’d missed the boat, Bukoba seemed lovely and, as Faustin reminded us literally every 30 seconds for the next hour or so, we’d received a special discount rate on the rooms, he just needed to confirm it with his “supervisor” in the morning.

Predictably, next morning, the “supervisor” declined to honour the discount rate we’d been promised by Faustin, but allowed us to have breakfast included in the higher rate. We cursed Faustin as we munched on the inadequate breakfast and then wandered into town in the hope of finding a proper cup of coffee and some edible food.

Lee and Nick spent the day checking out the happening sights of Bukoba while I banged out some more blog, we rendezvoused back at the hotel for a cold one and then made our way to a neighbouring establishment for a slap up meal and more liquid refreshment. Next day I finished the blog post and hooked up again with Lee and Nick late afternoon for some food before our taxi was scheduled to collect us to take us to the ferry. The taxi never showed so we flagged down another and raced to the port and were then deposited in amongst the chaos, a horde of local people crowding before a small gate, waiting to board.

The reason for the change to the published ferry departure time had been that the normal, twin propped ferry was being refurbished and had been replaced with a single propped, much smaller boat, which needed longer to get to Mwanza. This new boat had only two cabins which were booked up months in advance. We had therefore only managed to obtain second class seating tickets. As a veteran of several overnight cross-channel ferries, I was wary, but we had little choice.

We made our way to the front of the queue in classic “stupid tourist” mode in case there was an outside chance we’d get waved aboard before the gates opened, alas no go. We made our way to a waiting area with seats and hung out with a Belgian brother and sister who’d been staying at out hotel, was it us or did they seem just a little too close?

After a while there was a sudden surge of movement and we were waved in the direction of the gates. People were piling through as fast as they could, sprinting towards the boat in a giant scrum of bodies and luggage. We made it aboard and up the stairs to the second class seating area. Naturally, there was not a seat left that wasn’t occupied or which didn’t have a bag or other item reserving it. Three crusty looking girl backpackers with seats laughed at us as we stood about like lemons taking in the hopelessness of our situation.

I wandered through a doorway and up some stairs and soon found a load of vacant seats on the open top deck – I plonked my bag down and raced to get the others. We sat smugly as the deck filled up and people started having to sit on the floor. At 6.00 on the dot the anchors were weighed and we pulled out into Africa’s largest lake whilst being treated to a glorious sunset. A man sold us some beer and we settled down for the ride.

After an hour or so we pulled into another port and the deck was inundated with insects, they swarmed beneath the lights in a solid cloud, even the locals looked a little alarmed.

People started to bed down, the temperatures dropped and the lights were switched off. As Lee dozed, Nick and I watched Team America on my ipod, disturbing the sleeping with our muffled laughter. Later, we just sat quietly, trying to shield ourselves from the icy winds, it was impossible to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time, we were just too cold.

Eventually, around 7am, we pulled into Mwanza, two and a half days later than if we’d opted to get on the bus in Benako. We found the bus station and were promptly informed that we’d missed all the buses to Arusha for the day. We wandered around in the hope of finding a ride, discussing the options – plane, train, hire a car? A particularly insistent bus tout kept hassling us, babbling about the 4am bus, we kept reiterating that we wanted to leave that day, not stay overnight, but he kept persisting.

Finally, the penny dropped, the bus departed at 4am swahili time of course. Nick vaguely remembered reading about it, apparently the swahili clock starts at 6am, and so 4am would equate to 10am our time – simple. We were still deeply suspicious but followed the tout to his office, asked some more questions, pointed to our watches, held up fingers and, still not totally convinced, handed over the cash for the wonderfully named Spiderbus.

We were then herded to a taxi and told we would be taken to the bus, immediately contradicting one of the promises we’d been made. Shortly thereafter we were deposited at another bus station and our bags were loaded onto the Spiderbus, which, unsurprisingly, was red and covered in a spider-web pattern exactly as you’d expect.

We had time to grab a quick coffee and stock up on a silly amount of samosas. Lee and Nick bought some hard boiled eggs which turned out to be rotten. We had a pee and boarded. My heart sank again.

Once more there were five thin, uncomfortable, seats to a row with insufficient legroom – the journey to Arusha was via Nairobi and would take 24 hours. We were all a little tired, a little snappy. Let’s leave it at that.

At about 6am the next morning, after a freezing night as the bus rattled its way out of Tanzania and back in again at lunatic speed, with windows that shook in their frames and wouldn’t close properly, the endless cold draught combining with the boneshaking and bouncing to make sleep impossible for the second night in a row, we were deposited by the side of the road and told we were in Arusha.

We jumped a taxi and made for a nearby swanky hotel to treat ourselves to a slap up breakfast. Feeling slightly more human again, but still more than a little fatigued, we were dropped into town and started to look for somewhere to stay. We were easy prey for a huge man in a short-sleeved beige “pant-suit” ((c) Nick Smith) who promised the facilities we wanted at a price that sounded right, we said we’d take look, he pulled out his phone and, literally, seconds later a minibus screeched to a halt beside us, driven by a man in navy blue pant-suit with some sort of tribal trim who turned out to be the hotel’s owner. Shortly thereafter we were ensconsed in a pleasant rooms in his nice hotel and enjoying the luxury of a bed for the first time in over 48 hours.

We hooked up again in the afternoon and went wandering the streets of Arusha to suss out the safai and Kilimanjaro situation. Eventually, we ended up back at our hotel and the owner’s travel company offered us the best deal in town on a 5 day safari followed by a 7 day Kili trek, taking the “more challenging” Machame route, cos, after all, we didn’t want to make it too easy for ourselves did we? Arrangements sorted, beer, sleep.

We spent a leisurely day in Arusha, a spot of internet, and then found ourselves at the local stadium where a children’s organisation was holding a football competition together with various kids’ groups singing and dancing. We quickly made friends with some kids and were soon being urged to cough up for ice creams and the like as we offered our vocal support for the local team and they were beaten by bigger boys.

As evening approached we decided to have a night on the town, a posh meal and spot of nightclubbing before going our seperate ways the next day. We put on some fancy clothes, well, the fanciest we had, and made for the Flame Tree for some fine continental cuisine. Alas, as Lee and Nick tucked into succulent looking dishes, something disagreed with me and I was violently sick in the toilets. Time for bed.

We bade Nick farewell, he was off to Moshi for a couple of days, and made our rendezvous in town with Thomas, our guide for two days on a “Cultural Tourism” jaunt to a nearby Masai village. Thomas was quite pleasant, although a little odd in demeanour, but surprised us as he revealed himself to be studying at Harvard, home on the holidays, and we were able to join him in banging on about how horrible Americans are. Ah, the one thing travel teaches you is just how similar people are wherever you go.

Thomas took us for a guided tour of his village, explaining to us that the Masai that lived there were mostly women and children who had given up the nomadic life for the benefits of proper schooling and a settled life, the men still herded their cattle and lived the traditional life the majority of the time. We visited an old craftsman in his hut and watched as he made “traditional Masai knives” out of cheap Chinese-made machetes purchased from the market. After a delicious lunch, we spent a couple of hours walking to the market and were soon engulfed amongst crowds of Masai bustling around the hundreds of stalls selling everything from frilly underwear to football shirts, suitcases to traditional knives, clubs and walking sticks. We walked onwards and reached a livestock market where tribesmen had congregated from miles around to trade in goats and cattle. As we walked back to the village, children chased after us shouting “Mzungu”, swahili for “white person”, we seemed to be quite a novelty.

Back at the village, we ate another fine meal and then took a stroll down to the bottom of the village where the local team was playing a rival village at football. It was easy to root for our villages team as the others were dressed in full Chelsea kits. The pitch wasn’t favouring our boys as it was quite steeply sloped and they were playing uphill. At one point the ball caught in the branches of a tall tree which was, apparently, on the pitch. Stones were thrown until the ball fell and play continued immediately, our boys won 3-1. On the way back we had to cross a stream with precarious stepping stones. Lee was nervous, but halfway across turned round to me to tell me it was fine, promptly falling flat on her face in the water. I waited until she confirmed the camera wasn’t broken and then laughed my arse off.

We spent the night sleeping in a traditional Masai boma, or mud hut. All the Masai were in a brick and concrete house next door, but they had a boma they used for cooking which they said we could use if we really wanted and set up a bed for us. When the cock crowed at sunrise it was right outside the door and I nearly had a heart attack. We slept ok but next morning everything smelt of smoke and we discovered a chicken in a crate at the foot of the bed.

We spent the morning hiking up a nearby hill which offered panoramic views of the surrounding country. An old widower lived alone at the top of the hill, we gave him some money because he had to “clear up after all the tourists”. I suggested to Thomas that he should stop letting tourists drop litter on the man’s hill. The old man let us take some photos and we said we’d get some prints done for him. He said we could come and live with him on his hill and he’s leave the land to us when he died as he didn’t have any family. I told him it was too far to the shop.

Walking back through a forest, I mentioned to Thomas that I liked the traditional Masai walking stick, or Omalileek, and wished I’d bought one at the previous day’s market. Soon we passed a man with a particularly good one and Thomas negotiated a price for me. I checked that the man wasn’t being ripped off as I didn’t want to take advantage, Thomas promised me the man was happy, then spent the rest of the walk back telling me what a good deal I’d got as literally every Masai we passed expressed stick envy at my impressive Omalileek.

Back at the boma, we hung out with a 93 year old lady who was bedecked in homemade traditional jewellery. Before long Lee was conducting intense negotiations as the lady attempted to sell everything she was wearing. Lee settled for a necklace and a couple of bracelets and gave the lady a buddhist bracelet from Laos to remember her by. Back in Arusha, we had a quiet evening of pizza and beer and appreciated our bed just a little bit more.

We had one final day to kill in Arusha and did some running around for final bits and pieces of kit for the safari, then I spent the afternoon blogging. Back at the hotel, writing some notes in my book, I snapped to Nick to stop jogging the table then looked up to see that all the tables were shaking, as were the balcony railings and everything else, it was an earthquake, very strange.

Finally, Lee and I piled into a car with Omi, who was to be our safari driver, and motored to Kilimanjario airport to pick up Sarah, a friend from my days at Kingston. All was proceeding well, the flight was on time, but alas Sarah’s bag failed to appear. We hung about as phone calls were made and forms filled in and then spent the hour of the return journey reassuring a tired and emotional Sarah that the bag would materialise and filling her in on the plans.

Back at the hotel Mr Pantsuit took charge and promised to get on the case first thing in the morning, apparently Precision Air (!) were always losing bags, it was practically standard procedure. We settled down for a beer and some food, introduced Nick to Sarah and confirmed the plan that we would leave on safari as planned and lend Sarah whatever she needed until the bag showed up.

Getting up to order a final beer before bedtime, Mr Pantsuit looked at me with a puzzled expression and asked if I’d had any luck arranging the safari. I replied in the affirmative and that I’d arranged it days earlier with him. He apologised and blamed his confusion on the fact that “white people all look the same”.