Little Treasures Lighting Up Our Lives

I don't altogether agree with Robert Louis Stevenson that "to travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive", although in my experience months of research, planning and anticipation adds tremendously to the overall enjoyment of a longed for adventure or experience. To the point, in fact, that on the morning of departure I am often physically sick, clutching grimly to the porcelain toilet bowl as the enormity of achieving a dream and the realisation that the day has actually arrived slaps me on the chops with nauseating force. Carried away in blissful planning and preparation, somewhere along the path I forgot that there was actually a point to it all and usually discover at Zero Hour that I am terrified by the entire thing.

Not, of course, that any of the amazing adventures have ever disappointed, far from it, but the mental engagement and emotional investment is a huge part of actualising the dream process and is at least as much fun as the adventure itself.

But not all treasured experiences are the result of lengthy budgeting and preparation. The shiniest pinprick stars in my firmament arrived unexpectedly, thanks, perhaps, to a malfunction of some type, or being in the wrong place at the right time, adding immense awe and wonder at the sheer happenstance of it all.

Thursday last delivered one such joy to Him Outdoors and I. Late afternoon began with the regular, hum drum supermarket visit which, in our case, most often ends with a drink on the way home. Deciding to share the love and forgo our usual, wonderful, Italian haunt at The Hub and not overly excited by the other possibilities HO came up with a doozy - Asmara, the Eritrean restaurant midway between the supermarket and home and the closest restaurant to where we live which we've been planning to visit come payday. One day. Why not drop in for a beer and a G n T and see what's what?

If you've read any of these blogs, you'll know by now that HO and I are extremely, well, diverse in so many things and our arrival at Asmara opened that crack again. HO, in the driver's seat, pulled up to the front door, glanced in and announced that this wasn't his sort of place nor what he had in mind for sundowners. Moi, in a post shopping state of heightened irritability, was having none of it, especially as we were obviously the only customers and James, bless his waiter heart, had rushed through the portals to welcome us and proudly show off the extensive menu. Insisting that we were here, this was a recce, all experiences count, I hopped out leaving HO to find parking and followed James for his offered tour of the establishment.

By the time HO stomped in, James and I had explored the upper level, checked out the private dining room and surveyed the wall of wines. HO joined us in time for the tour of the bar, lower level, outside dining and grounds. We settled upstairs and sat back to gratefully slurp at a Tusker baridi and an icy G n T. 

Delighted to have patrons, James, with his impish chuckle and dancing eyes, popped upstairs with the regularity of an efficient metronome, upsold us on a rather pricey bottle of Australian Shiraz, delivered a charcoal burner and insisted that 'it is very cold in Karen at night. You need to be warm.' No suffering on his watch, then. Try as he might, and he did try very hard in the most charming way, none of the dishes he described swayed us to stay on for dinner. Not that night, anyway.

Leaving HO to settle up and drawn by an enticing aroma in the foyer, I found myself intrigued by the little tableau. A beautiful woman in white was sitting in front of a well-dressed table while one of the waiters sat on a stool alongside rattling who knew what in a small pan over a jiko (tiny charcoal burning stove). Sensing my curiosity, they waved me over and invited me to try my hand at coffee bean roasting because that was what they were up to. Needing no arm twisting, I sat down and began to gently shake and toss the aromatic beans while simultaneously giving Marta the 3rd degree, quickly discovering that:

- she was from Ethiopia, living in Nairobi and working in reception for her uncle, Asmara's owner

- the gorgeous little jiko, square instead of the usual round, was from Ethiopia

- Ethiopians ALWAYS have a cookie or popcorn (?!) with their coffee, and drink about 10 cups a day

- all Ethiopian women have to learn how to roast beans, cook chicken stew and make perfect njera. Not only to avoid shaming their husbands and in laws, but for their own pride and self respect too.

- Every household, no matter how rural, will make each cup of coffee from scratch, roasting sufficient beans at a time for the required number of cups

- her pride in her culture is such that she volunteered to sit in the Asmara foyer every night, sharing her traditions with anyone interested enough.

-Marta was impressively patient with my endless and ignorant questions; she insisted that our experience be as authentic as possible. Right down to setting a small burner on the tray with coals from the jiko which she sprinkled with frankincense, wafting the fumes over the coffee to add to the overall indulgence.

HO, who had resigned himself to a long wait, sat patiently across the room catching up on his news feed, until the dinky little coffee servings tempted him to find his own cow-hide stool and join us. James, in the meantime, was delighted that we were still there and did his bit too, fetching samples of njera from the kitchen for us to try and saying that when we came for dinner he'd walk us right through the perfect Eritrean dining experience.

We left walking on air, completely taken with what we'd learnt and experienced - the people and the ceremony of drinking our favourite beverage with respect and honour. Hearts light with joy and awe, we vowed then and there that dinner at Asmara is on the cards sooner rather than later and as Marta has assured us that we'll find her there any evening, we'll pause a while to enjoy her gentle company and simply wonderful coffee. Life is full of little treasures, it's important to take a moment and embrace them.

The Green(er) Grass of Home?

Saffers (South Africans to the rest of the world) have been flying the home nest to points north, south, east and west since the 1980's and those of us left behind got used to the plaintive cries and pleas to visitors from home to bring with them items such as biltong (beef jerky), rusks (hard, dry lumps of biscuit), boerwors (a coarsely ground spicy sausage), Mrs Ball's chutney... blah blah fishcakes. Letters back to the nest resounded with longing for milktart and lemon meringue pie and complaints about unfamiliar supermarket merchandising which had the immigrants walking aimlessly up and down the aisles because margarine, for instance, wasn't in the dairy section of the fridge but filled the shelves in the tea and coffee aisle. Fabric softener or liquid detergent - who could tell, the blurb on the bottle wasn't revealing the secret and the brand meant nothing to the new resident.

Some of the more unique requests to take with me on visits over the water included Bovril, Smarties, Marula Cream Liqueur and Prestik which I happily slipped into my luggage.

The letters of joy when these migrants discovered South African shops was rather sweet, although I couldn't relate to cravings for any of the above except, of course, Smarties and who can live without Prestik? (Like Blu Tack but much, much better!) Fancy living in a new country with all the many local things to discover, and craving boerie? 

Oh, yes, how the mighty have fallen now we ourselves are exploring new territory. As delighted as we were to hear that some friends were coming to visit within 2 months of our relocation, the pleasure heightened when I sent the list to them for packing:
- salt crystals for the grinder
- vegetable stock
- Betadine antiseptic cream
- Jacobs coffee
- perforated clingwrap
- wood screws (not my list, that was on HO's!)

At home, a roll of clingwrap lives in the pantry for years, barely touched, but without my lidded Corningware dishes I am pushed to cover food with film and the clingwrap available here is diabolical. And no-one here has ever heard of it being perforated, what a wonderous thing that would be. Err, yeah, right, cutting edge stuff! Salt a'plenty here, but no refills for the grinder it's all fine salt. Stock cubes abound in all the usual meat flavours but no vegetable in, well, stock. Finally, considering that Kenya is a huge producer and exporter of coffee, and the ground coffees available are absolutely wonderful, the instant coffee here is dreadful and sometimes, one just wants a quick pick me up without going the extra mile.

About all I can say regarding our list is that it is at least original, if rather pathetic! Chastened, I'll stop rolling my eyes when a migrant sends an SOS over the airwaves for some basic Saffer stuff and will immediately see what I can do to help!

Sump'tings wrong with Henry - Episode 2

Henry was swamped with curious villagers by the time I reached him. My appearance brought even more people out to stare. Hoards of kids crept closer, giggling and jostling each other. A bevy of men encircled the van, loudly discussing we know not what. The problem? The solution? Or the crazy mzungus driving it!

A gentle tug on my elbow introduced Pastor David, enquiring solicitously as to whether I was frightened or disturbed by the noisy, chaotic crowds. I was delighted to assure him not at all, I quite understood the curiosity value of the situation which would doubtless become village talk for months to come. Pastor David said he'd called for a mechanic he knew, a reliable local and soon the fundi arrived and disappeared under Henry.

Pastor David in the suit and pink shirt

Overwhelmed by the attention and stares, Him Outdoors and I retired to a little pub, hoping to find a bit of quiet. No such luck - the No Under 18's sign kept the kids out, but the over 18's poured in to stare and take photos. Defeated, we left to walk around the village, trailed by about 60 kids like some modern day Pied Pipers. Over walls and under gates, they arrived to add to the throng.

The crumpled sump emerged looking rather sad but Pastor David had it all in hand. He'd summoned a colleague with a car to take us, the mechanic and himself to the closest small town, about 30 kms away on a winding gravel road. The small Toyota stoically bore all 5 of us and in due course we arrived at the welder in Miharati. The welder took charge of the sump while HO and I were taken to the little motor spares shop, open (as everything else 
in the town was) at 7pm on a Sunday evening. Purchasing the required diesel oil and some special silicon type stuff, we meandered around until we found a supermarket and tried to buy something to eat. The worst potato crisps we've ever eaten and some sugar biscuits turned into both Sunday supper and Monday breakfast. One does what one can with what is at hand!

Having said that, Pastor Jimmy messaged to ask if we were overcoming our challenge and offered to deliver blankets and a meal. Bowled over by this kindness we declined, not wanting to be more of a nuisance that we already were. The willing kindness continued to flow in - the welder, operating by the light of a mobile phone torch, did a wonderful job for the measly sum of $15!

That job, which took over an hour on a Sunday night, was absolutely perfect. Not only that, but repairing the thing saved a huge expense and big job of replacing the sump, which would surely have been the city option. The mechanic asked us to buy him a torch, which would enable him to fit the sump cover on our return. But it was already after 8.30pm and the poor man had been working since 5pm; we didn't feel it was a fair option, kind as it was and said we'd sleep in Henry and begin again in the morning.

About an hour later HO and I were opening a bottle of red wine and chomping crisps and biscuits in the romantic orange light given off by the lamp shining through a kikoy we'd used to cover a window. It was pretty romantic, I must say. 

Early Monday we arose and set up our coffee brewing station on the pavement. We can't face the day without a cup of Jacobs! While we polished off the last of the biscuit and inhaled the magic aroma, the fundi arrived with an assistant and men on their way to milk their cows or graze their sheep stopped for a chat and to offer advice.

Within 30 minutes Henry roared to life and we began our farewells. He purred like a cheetah, galloping up the miles to Nairobi and is once again in magnificent shape. Yup, we paid every man and his dog - truck hire, manpower, mechanic, taxi, tow drivers, welder and so on but it worked out a fraction of what it would have cost in SA to get a tow from the middle of nowhere, store the car overnight and find accommodation and then, for sure, the sump would have been replaced. Repair is something we don't do much of in sophisticated societies.

Life is a wonderful thing. Not once during the entire experience did HO or I feel threatened or concerned. We had water, coffee makings, a good bed, money in our Mpesa account (a fabulous Kenyan invention, mobile money). I was tense with worry about getting Henry up those hills but the magnificent villagers did the job. We met people eager to hear about us and where we were from, keen to show us Alice's grave (we declined, being ready for showers and rather anxious about Henry being able to cover the distance home.) 

It also gave us a marvellous opportunity to be grilled and to grill in return the culture differences between 'you people' (meaning us, in Pastor David's words!) and our saviours and hosts. It was refreshing to have an open, exploratory conversation and discussion about the pros and cons of each side. We especially enjoyed the horrified response to the number of children we had - they genuinely pitied us and couldn't understand WHY we'd had so few. At least 4 appears to be the consensus, we are somewhat short.

The most amazing feature of all of this for me was the casual, relaxed, accepting way in which HO and I shrugged off a calamity. In return, our African Angels delivered a bush miracle. Trusting in people and that a solution will be delivered paid off.

There is no end to the marvel of this incredible continent, which continues to disprove popular, Western opinion. Africa is as far from being a "shithole country"(?! - continent, President Trump!) as America is from truly understanding the complexities and marvels of this very special part of our planet. 

Sump'tings Wrong with Henry - Episode 1

Poor Henry the Campervan. He survived nearly 5000 kilometres of occasionally rather dire roads, trundling along contentedly on safari to Kenya. But this weekend it took just 12kms of gravel from Kipipiri to who knows where to stump him.

We were on an exploration, hunting down the grave and house of Happy Valley socialite Alice de Janzé. The road was really rural with only the buzz of a few boda boda motorbikes. Four wheeled transport appeared to rarely use this route, suiting us down to the ground.

Endless hedgerows of blackberry brambles alternated with shrubs showering spikes of purple skywards or proffering clusters of pink petals to passersby. Over the tops of the hedges could be seen the gentle waves of the Aberdares range, slumbering over the Wanjohi valley. Patchworked with little green fields of crops, tin roofed farmhouses, voluptuously woolly sheep and contentedly grazing cows, the valley, an idyllic, tranquil setting, cast a spell over our busy minds, quietening all thought and slowing our breath to a steady rhythm. Therapy!

'Clutter, bing, clatter, screech'. Expletives from Him Outdoors, "is that us?" from me as the brakes were slammed on. Out we popped to see oil pumping gelatinously down the hill - of course, we were a few metres from the crest. An excellent spot for a 3 tonne vehicle to blow up. The culprit couldn't hide it's guilt - a rock the size of  small football lay to the side, it's sole sharp point oil-drenched.
                                 

"With the bad front shocks we bottomed out as we went over that little rock and smashed the sump," HO gloomily pronounced. We were miles from the nearest village, let alone any kind of vehicle help. A desperate SOS call to a friend in Nairobi (3 hours away) proved fruitless - he was on safari for the next 2 days. 

What to do, what to do?

This is Africa, it took less than 5 minutes for people to appear from nowhere and begin inspecting the vehicle, prod the rock, examine the black slick sliding downhill. Then a boda boda roared up. The driver, seeing richer pickings, turfed his 2 passengers and their 50kg bag of maize off the back and offered to take HO to the next village in search of a vehicle that might be able to tow Henry. Off they zoomed while Henry and I became the focal point of a growing crowd of people enthralled by this excitement. Mzungus. A weird vehicle with a bed inside it! They called a friend. The crowd began to amass soccer stadium proportions. HO returned.

"We've found a tow, for what it's worth," he announced. "Pastor Jimmy has a short wheel based Landcruiser, cute as a button. Not sure if it can pull Henry though."

Pastor Jimmy pulled up and many willing hands attached the vehicles. But, oh dear. Henry 1, Cruiser Nil. Nothing doing. After lots of consultation, the crowd, women included, put their shoulders behind both cars and shoved. Barely able to breathe, it finally worked and Henry was up the hill. I led the multitude on foot to the next bit, a steep downhill. Now, Henry was to be disconnected and to freewheel down until the next hill.  

                                    
And so it went, until an incline bigger than Pastor Jimmy's positive spirit brought everything to a halt. "Looks like we'll camp here for the night," HO declared. "We can walk to the village for a beer then bed down."

                                   

Before we could secure Henry, three 'helpers' returned from the village. They'd persuaded an ancient Mitsubishi truck to pull us up. Yay.  

Not so fast, honey. Tired of the crowd, I'd marched up the hill to wait. Followed by about 30 giggling children growing every more daring as they reached out to touch my skin and hair, novelties to them. Nothing happened for a long while and then, a mass group of men, laughing and dancing, headed towards us from the village. They'd got the call to come and push - the Mitsubishi wasn't up to the task either.

I hurried after them to find the vehicles halfway up the first steep bit and HO surrounded by an excited mob negotiating the best price for their labour. The important things sorted out, a tow rope was hitched to the front of the Mitsubishi and taken up by a group of men. The majority of guys swarmed along the sides and rear of both trucks, heaving and chanting. The kids and I walked rapidly ahead, jumping off the track as the entourage came past. With the additional horsepower, I soon lost sight of Henry and had to climb faster to see where everyone had disappeared to.


 




And that is where I'll leave today's episode. Tune in tomorrow for the conclusion of this tale - will we find a doctor for Henry? Will we be stranded in a village called Kiambogo, so far off any map of Kenya we were lost forever? 

All shall be revealed!

  

Prudence, Where Art Thou?

Live local. Simplify. Rid ourselves of excess stuff. Ha!

Here we are in Nairobi, having pared our lifestyle down to Lego proportions. Which is kinda funny because we are pretty large ourselves and barely able to squeeze into Hobbit House, the darling little cottage we currently live in.

We left it all behind - my car, a large house chock a block full of everything that opens, closes, whirrs or whizzes at the touch of a button. Two of everything, except when there are eight. Elegant tableware, beautiful artwork, treasured trinkets and treats. We will live simply, exactly to our needs, no hoarding. Most certainly no Nairobi replacement of what we already have in storage back in South Africa, which is everything. Except the vacuum cleaner, our camping gear, a little bar fridge and our super comfy king sized mattress with a selection of bed linen. A good night's sleep and all that.

Let it be known that, other than a washing machine which simply wouldn't fit into bulging Henry the Campervan, we do have everything we need. I'm embarrassed by how many clothes I have, considering I seem to rotate the same 4 pairs of capris and 5 or 6 tops. My Fitflops will have to be cut off my feet soon, they are too comfy not to wear daily. Why bother with the shoe rack of high heels and loafers? And, (voice drops to a whisper), there are another 3 large boxes of clothes in the container that didn't make the cut. It's embarrassing to unpack one's house and take stock of what you own - far, far too much.

In the interests of both budget and low key living, I've taken on an unaccustomed household role as well - replacing Prudence, our much appreciated domestic genie. Overall, it's not too bad. Firstly because we've dropped about 8 rooms and 200m2 of house. Secondly, there is something extraordinarily satisfying about standing back to survey the results of a few minutes swabbing and scrubbing. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, they say, so it is fitting that this Goddess is so chuffed with her labour.

Except - ironing. Specifically bed linen. How the devil does one fold a fitted sheet, let alone iron it? I hear you chortling and wondering what idiot irons a fitted sheet? Well, Prudence, for one. Every week a freshly washed and ironed fitted sheet was put into the linen cupboard and that night I slid into a cocoon of crisp, scented linen. Heaven.

Now, I'm confronting ironing a king-sized linen duvet cover. L-I-N-E-N, in reality, actually spells C-R-E-A-S-E. I defy anyone to achieve dear Prudence's results - a neatly folded, smooth as glass enormous piece of linen. Especially as my ironing board now is the kitchen counter. In a word - impossible. I can't get the crinkles out and just know that slipping under this later isn't going to be the same, without Prudence's magic ministrations. 

Prudence has The Knowledge. How to iron and fold a fitted sheet, and how to tame unruly linen. This is information I have to know, because if I can't conquer a sheet, what hope for the world?

Cats on Safari – Safari Ngema to Nairobi

Princess Anushka refused to re-pose her Pride Rock appearance for the camera, remaining about half way up that mountainous rock

Another pre-dawn start, today’s target is Babati about 400kms away. On the slow Tanzania roads, that’s bound to take 8 to 10 hours. The rain wore itself out last night and for the first time, we are rewarded with an exquisite sunrise rather than gloom. A treat worthy of a photo moment!

There was a second surprise in store – the new highway has been completed and the road is excellent, clearly marked with lines, speed limits and delimitations and for the first time we can rest our hawk eyes and follow the law in peace. We fairly roared along making excellent time, Dodoma flashed past and the first of 3 possible campsites (couldn’t find anything on the internet, were going by our 10 year old African Adventure Atlas) loomed. Well, it would have if it still existed, there was simply no trace of it Kondoa, nor the second site in Kola. We did see a sign for some rock paintings, apparently a Tanzanian Heritage Site but after tracking that down, it appeared the officials granting access were not available, so we pressed on to Babati.

The afternoon was getting darker and gloomier by the kilometer and HO suggested, as we passed a local ‘lodge’ that perhaps we should consider that for the night. One U-turn later, we parked at Faraja Super Self Contained Guest House, complete with a gnome of a host, super excited himself to have mzungu guests.

The Tuskers had barely exited the fridge when the heavens opened and we were stranded in the bar. An overnight in this establishment it shall be, then. No food, apparently, we’ll have to eat in the village. May we see our room (Tembu, meaning Elephant, as we had the luxury suite)? Shown to a spacious room with two couches, a coffee table, kingsize bed with mozzie net, tv in a cage and two tiny rooms (choo and bafu) we agreed to the price of Tsh 10 000 (about ZAR 180) and retired back to the bar for more Tusker and some photographic experimenting capturing rain.

What a difference 10 minutes makes! Eventually the bike's tyres were underwater

It was only later, much later, that we realised the choo was Asian (yes, hole in the floor) and the bafu was a telephone booth with a large bucket of water and a jug for pouring same over your head. There was only one lightbulb in the room and HO began to grumble. “It’s New Year’s Eve, lets go into the village for some local food” I brightly suggest. Donning mud proof shoes, we lock the reluctant cats in the room. Of all the places we’d stayed and the changing enivronments they’ve endured, this was one step too deep into the far side for them and they were on an unflinching mission to escape.

The village extended about a kilometre along the main road but restaurants, there were none. Seeing some activity next to a shop, we pulled over and asked what they sold there. Books and pens, but yes, we could buy food from the vendor just in front of the shop, busily frying chips and grilling ‘cow meat’ kebabs over charcoal. We watched in fascination as the roomful of potatoes was steadily reduced to peeled and cut chips, then fried in oil and put in a plastic bowl, stored for the next order. The ‘chip’ part of our chips and cow meat kebab order turned out to be a chip omelet – simply crack 2 eggs into a bowl, beat, add into the mini frying pan with the chips, allow to set then dish up. Delicious, I might add, but hardly the  stuff of New Year’s Eve dreams. However, as a memory, this is one for the books.

Unsurprisingly, we were early risers on New Year’s Day and followed the cats escape bid into Henry, bidding what we thought to be Babati farewell. At the hamlet’s edge, we saw the delimitation sign, bidding Bonga adieu. We’d fallen short of the much larger Babati town by 15kms!!

Keen for hot showers and to reach Hobbit House, when we realised we were in easy striking distance of Nairobi we carried on through Arusha straight to the border. This part of the journey was an emotional one for me, as Arusha was the gateway to my Serengeti dream of 5 years ago. At that stage, I had no idea when I left Tanzania after a fabulous safari that we’d ever return, let alone be living, in East Africa. Travelling past Lake Manyara, Arusha airport, the Tanzanite shop and where we’d bought our load of Tuskers for the journey to the Serengeti caused a tumult of happy, almost disbelieving emotions. How strange and wonderful life is, how lucky are we to be able to dip our toes into unknown adventures and, so far, emerge from various challenges a little battered but unscathed.

Our roadtrip came to an end far too soon, and we can’t wait to do another. It was amazing, though, to immediately feel at home as soon as we’d crossed into Kenya. This African jewel has become our nest very quickly, in no small part because of the unfettered welcome from every Kenyan we meet. Karibu Kenya.

Cats on Safari Part 7 - Zambia to Tanzania

The 4h30 peeping of the alarm is by now familiar but we didn’t hop as quickly out of bed this morning. Fatigue and a diet high in carbs and low in fresh veggies is beginning to make itself felt. Once we slow the mad dash to get to Tanzania, hopefully we’ll spend a few days in one spot and visit a market.

Well named lodge, the mango tree was groaning

Local East African hotels usually provide a pair of 'shower slops', in odd colours. I guess to prevent greedy guests?

As our time in Mpika is limited and we are still 373kms from the Tanzania border, we’re unable to go hunting for Shiwa Ngandu, Stuart Gore-Brown’s grand old house which is apparently in the area. Him Outdoors, now in a headlock, has no choice but to faithfully pinkie promise to return on this route. We are passing too much without stopping, this is not at all what a roadtrip should be.

Zambia is mile after mile of tarred roads with little traffic except heavy transport trucks by the hundred. We have seen two of them twisted on the road this morning, overturned onto their sides. The drivers have set up tarpaulin tents under the trees and are guarding their vehicles, awaiting rescue.

Today for the first time in Zambia we see PV panels on huts and shops. Roadside provisions along the way include giant mushrooms, mangoes, live goats and chickens and bag after bag of charcoal, which explains why the bush is much thinner along this stretch.

We made excellent time, the roads in Zambia are very good and despite the regular roadblocks (police, army, immigration, local council) we don’t run into any delays so decide to push through the border. George, owner of Kings Highway accommodation in Nakonde, where we’d thought we’d spend the night, recommended a campsite on a coffee farm near Mbeya, Tanzania, saying we had plenty of time to cross the border and cover the 90kms so on we cracked.

The Zam/Tan border wasn’t as frustrating as the Bots/Zam one, but still, an inspector had to check that Henry WAS a camper, not a panel van (Him Outdoors raced ahead of said Inspector to give me a few seconds warning to hide the cats.) Fortunately, Speckle had repaired to her hiding place in the narrow gap beneath the bed and a large plastic container and Anushka, who’d entertained the crowds by standing on the driver’s seat, pressing her nose to the window and watching the border activity with intense interest, had settled on my lap so a cardigan and a towel were hastily draped over her and a very smiley passenger popped her head out of the window and used her best Swahili on the gloomy Inspector.

That hurdle past, we still had to clear the police barrier and, curious about the house in the van, the cops were hell bent on checking the interior out. Not what we needed, especially as I’d just shooed A into the back and I had no idea whether she was undercover or not. Fortunately, she was, as spending another 2 hours clearing livestock through the Agricultural Department in the rapidly heating day had no appeal for us.

Roads in Tananzia – the speedlimit is 50km/h. Every few hundred metres in the endless towns along the route had pedestrian crossings, which EVERY vehicle had to stop at, regardless of whether anyone was crossing or not. Slow trucks, weighstations overflowing back onto the narrow road, snarling all traffic and more police road blocks proved what we’d been told – travel in Tanzania is WAY slower than you could possibly imagine.

Tanzania road scenes

 

We missed the turn off to Utengule Coffee Farm (apparently, they had to take their sign down as the main road is to be widened, sometime in the next 10 years or so!) and ended up in Mbeya town itself. We stopped at a beer garden and offloaded the cats for a paw stretch. Anushka needed no invitation and a passerby was so amused he called the owner of the beer garden out to see this cat on a leash. 

Speckle had to be forcibly removed from her hidey hole and lay in HO’s lap for some time, trembling like a leaf. No amount of persuasion could get either of them to drink the water provided but Madame A gave the garden a thorough inspection, greeted the guests and generally entertained the patrons. We’d been very surprised by the positive reaction to cats the Zambians had – whenever they showed themselves, even at road blocks or toll gates, let alone when out of the van, we were asked if we could give one or the other away. Anushka blossomed under the attention, taking it as her due homage. Speckle turned herself inside out to avoid people. Such is life!

Fortunately, one of the patrons knew the coffee farm and directed us back 11kms, with a further 9 kilometres on a challenging, muddy road but Utengule was well worth the search. The coffee farm has been growing Arabica beans for over 100 years and has a delightful guesthouse. On a lower terrace, complete with a helipad, is the campsite. We, along with Christel and Ruan from Stellenbosch, are the only occupants. Ruan has been working in Mombasa for a year and is returning home via a lengthy road trip. Christel flew up from Cape Town to drive home with him. They gave us really helpful info re our next overnight stop at Iringa, and the acceptable ‘fine’ to pay to local cops, and were looking forward to driving their Toyota double cab at a speed higher than 50km/h. Going somewhere slowly seems to be the rule of the road here.

We’re spending 2 nights here and taking a rest day today, enjoying the chance to clean up and repack Henry, do some washing, read our books, blog, sleep late and prepare for another long day tomorrow. It’s 400kms to Iringa at 50km/h, so it’ll take a while. After Iringa we’ll pass through Dodoma and get as far as we can for another night’s camp, then it’ll be Arusha for a longer stop. If Riverside Campsite is as lovely as Ruan and Christel have vouched, we may stay 2 nights there.

Anushka, trailing her reflective leash, has inspected most of the grounds and spent some time checking out the interior of Ruan’s doublecab. She then curled up on a camp chair to catch up on her beauty sleep, accepted the strokes and worship of two little girls who HO swore to secrecy (no pets at this lodge!) A while later, the girls’ father arrived, announcing himself as the cat inspector! Speckle removed herself early when we began emptying Henry and hasn’t been seen since but she will definitely not sleep outside so we expect her to reappear at bedtime.

Therefore, in a few minutes we’ll be enjoying the swimming pool and in due course relish an icy sundowner on the terrace with a magnificent view of the mountains and sunset.

Kwaheri for now from Tanzania.