It’s been a while
since our last blog when we first rolled into the “wildwest” trading centre
town of Singida, after hot-footing it across the plains and plateaus of central
Tanzania. Apologies to those of you who have been waiting for the next
adventure packed update, I hope it is worth waiting for; expect the thrills of
walking with elephants, running out of water, brushes with the law and a
headwinds in the midday heat…
We arrived in
Singida after our longest stretch so far – 4 days covering over 450km. The
carrot on the stick was a place to stay with some nuns who ran a mission
hospital, friends of my family from many years ago. Having made Singida town in
good time on the morning of the 4th day, we ate well (samosa count well into
double figures) and relaxed at the thought of a quick 27 km jaunt out of town
to the Nunnery. We should have know better.“There is no such thing as an easy
cycle” is quickly becoming a trip moto, and that afternoon was no exception, as
the road slowly rose out of town, what looked like a short hill turned into a
steep half hour climb into a headwind. On a full stomach we were mainly glad to
make the top and keep our samosas down.
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| Top of deceptive hill overlooking Singida |
After a couple of
hours of tired cycling we arrived in the town of Makiungo, the base of the
mission hospital and our bed for the night. No sooner had we entered the gates
of the hospital when a man stopped us and said he was calling the Sister. Two
minutes later three bustling ladies appeared and excitedly introduced
themselves as two Sisters and a nurse aneasthetist. From that point on and
until we left 2 nights later we were looked after with the most incredible
warmth, kindness and attention, and its difficult to thank them enough
everything they did.
We were quickly
shipped to the new guest house and given a room (with a bed!) and (warm!)
shower each, and informed that dinner was on the table and we would be
collected in 15 minutes or so. Eating is a big part of our rest, and to give
some idea, by 1pm the next day we had polished off four meals. As we lolled
about our rooms sweating samosa that afternoon we reflected that perhaps this
was slightly gluttonous…
In the sphere of “development”
its easy to an armchair (or saddle) sceptic and find holes in how aid is given
or organised. In Singida we had cycled past the small government hospital and
the part of me pondered the benefits of a well funded mission hospital only
27km out of town, add to this an even better Norwegian funded tertiary referral
hospital at Heidom, 65k away on a dirt road. Surely it would be better to focus
resources on the government hospital in the nearest big town with good
transport links in all directions, and to Mwanza/Dodoma/Arusha?
The visit was a
great chance to put some of these easy skeptical views into perspective.
Although it is a “district hospital” there are only 1½ doctors and almost all
of the clinical and surgical care is done by Assistant Medical Officers (5
years training pre and post graduate), clinical officers and nurses. The
hospital provides a mixture of essential emergency care (especially obstetric)
and basic primary care services, which in Tanzania includes HIV and TB
services. What’s more, the dedication and thoroughness with which the nuns run
the place is incredible. After we had dinner six out of the eight nuns carried
on their work into the night; doing the accounts, writing discharge summaries
and doing C-sections! I left feeling that a district hospital like this,
serving the needs of the immediate community is part of the solution, rather
than an aid mistake. That solution may of course include a well-placed, central
referral hospital but the primary care provided so well here was an asset to be
kept.
Our rest day was
spent in Singida, and having been kindly given a lift by the nuns we found out
that, contrary to what we had been told earlier in our trip by a couple
overlanding in a big 4x4 (“you guys on bikes have it easy on the roads”), that
particular hill is not easier on a bike than in a land cruiser… We were kindly
given a tour of the town by two Irish nuns who had been in Tanzania since 1969
and 1973 respectively! Despite their advancing age, and some steep and rickety
ladders they took it upon themselves to show us the view from the clock tower
of a local mosque. The view of the Singida lake and dotted rocky outcrops was
stunning, however equally as interesting was the beautifully renovated
mechanical clock carefully balanced to keep to time for the town.
The mosque was
the central point for the Ismaili Muslims of the town, and as we walked in
there was a large board detailing the local Immam’s and keepers of the mosque
since the early 1900’s. It was fascinating to read, up until the early 1980’s
names changed yearly with tens of families taking the role, however from mid
1970’s onwards only 4 names had taken charge. Our guide, the son of the most
recent keeper explained: “All of the families left under as businesses were
nationalised, for a long time there were four but now there are only 3 left”.
Wandering around the huge and ornate building you couldn’t help but feel that
it must be a slightly lonely and hollow place, even when filled with all three
families.
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| Road out of Singida, Mt Hanang in background |
The board gives
interesting insights into Tanzanian and the wider East African relationship
with India. As early as the 19th Century Indian families lived on the Swahili
coast and controlled much of the triangular sea trade routes between the Middle
East, Africa and India. Later they moved inland, setting up homes in trading
posts. The majority of migrants came later, during British colonial times
Indian workers or “coolies”, were brought in for large building projects. For
example, the classic story of the Mombasa-Nairobi railway during which hundreds
of Indian workers were attacked and eaten by lions (the book Man Eaters of the
Tsavo, later made into a film, tells the story). Legend has it that at first
the army were sent in but were themselves attacked, then followed the European
hunters who also were repelled by the fierce and wily lions. It was only when
the Masai were asked to help that the problem came under control…
By the end of
WWII, these waves of immigration had created a large and highly successful
Indian population of approximately 320,000 in East Africa. They owned and ran
many of the small and large businesses and control up to 80-90% of trade within
Kenya and Uganda. Around the decades of independence, emerging national
identity and, especially in Uganda and Tanzania, African Socialism these
businesses came under threat and many were seized by the state and
nationalised. In Uganda under the brutal dictaroship of Idi Amin 75,000 Indian
Ugandans were given 90 days to leave the country, leaving their businesses to
be shared amongst his loyal supporters. For many for whom East Africa was very
much home this was a hard option, VS Naipaul’s A Bend in the River describes
the affinity Salim feels for the undefined African country, all of which he has
to give up to the sweeping nationalist tide and the wild leadership of an emerging
dictator. Today things are thankfully more settled and, for example in Uganda,
attempts are being made to welcome back Indian families and open these dormant
business links, but, as the mosque board suggests, few of the numbers that were
once spread throughout East Africa remain. For those that do however it is
home. I talked with one Indian resident whose family has lived here for many
generations, I asked if he would ever chose to move back in India: “Absolutely
not, its far too busy and dirty, this is my home!”.
Still full from
two days gluttony we left Makiungu and the nuns early on Thursday 26th January.
We sped through Singida again, feeling oddly familiar with one place after
three weeks on the road. These next 3 days were planned to be mainly off-road,
something we only had intermittent experience of, and would take us toward the
wild national parks of Northern Tanzania. Like much of the trip, our route was
not yet defined and but we were happy to be on the road again cycling. Our
route slowly climbed toward the 2000m Marbadow Escarpment, and we past
sparkling soda lakes and huge volcanic boulders which Rick flashed and bolted
in his minds eye. We had thought we may well end up either Lake Manyara or
Ngorogoro crater in a few days time, but things started to take a different
form. The lone outline of Mt Hanang had been in view for a couple of days and
as we cycled alongside a particularly pretty lake after a particularly hot and
dusty lunch, we had a look at each other:
“Are you thinking
what I’m thinking?”
“A rouge ascent
of Mt Hanang?”
The deal was
done. After asking a couple of boda-boda drivers we found we were to hang a
right and we’d be there the next morning.
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| Rick looking longingly at Mt Hanang |
The day had been
long and hot one but had one last surprise to throw at us. Bathed in the
streaks of a fiery red sunset we found a lovely campsite to watch the final
throws of its descent over tea and biscuits. That is until a drunken and unruly
Wamburu lad decided whoever owned the lad would have objected to us being
there. Slightly gutted to have missed this opportunity we begrudgingly moved
on. However, a few minutes up the road, an inquisitive middle aged lady sat by
the road with her baby.
“Where are you
going?”
“To Katesh”
“But where
tonight?”
“I don’t know,
wherever we can find to camp!”
“Eh! You must
some and stay with us! There are wild animals out there!”
And so we were to
experience extreme kindness for the second time in as many days, as we set up
camp within the thorny confines of her Boma, sharing the space with cattle,
goats, donkeys, chickens, cats and a happy dog. Her family included 3 young
daughters and a quite elderly, bed-bound husband. After a hearty meal washed
down with milk fresh from the cow, we slept soundly, safe from the now familiar
sound of hyena’s laughing through the night.
As the first few
rays of morning hit the thatched roof, the three cats waited and leapt for joy
as the warmth hit. Feeling much the same and with the prospect of reaching Mt
Hanang in a few short hours, we left our hospitable family and headed up the
remainder of the slow climb up the escarpment. After almost four weeks on the
road we were both starting to feel weary. The one day break which would
normally have refreshed us fully hadn’t quite had the same effect, and after
yesterdays 110k, largely off-road, cycle we felt tired. The arrival of Katesh,
our set off point for climbing Mt Hanang, and the prospect of getting off the
bikes for a short time was a welcome thought. As an old rowing training adage of mine says:
A change is as good as a rest.
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| Wamburu driving cattle home in the evening |
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