Safari finished, we boarded a bus back to Dar es Salaam. The 14 hour public transport trip was to end with another stay at the lovely Petra's place, a new passport and a couple of visas. Landy was, for the third time, left to languish. This time because the buses really do leave us for dead when it comes to covering ground, and we had a lot of ground to cover.
The city started to feel like home as we nailed the public transportation system and navigated our way to all kinds of social events. African bureaucracy came back to bite us hard when we attempted to obtain a Mozambique visa. After much to-ing and fro-ing we were knocked-back and then gave up before insanity struck. We boarded another 14 hour bus to Mto wa Mbu.
We were hell bent on getting out of Tanzania and into Rwanda, but had to take it slow because our visa didn't kick in for a week. Day one we did 'admin'. This is the name we've given the days we do a lot but don't do much of anything. Checking emails, charging gear, washing, tidying, blogging, baking and maintenance kind of stuff. The kind of day that doesn't really require getting dressed. It was a Sunday, so getting dressed was optional anyway.
Day two was the opposite. We were up early, dressed early and ran (yes, ran!) into the village to meet up with a guy called Steve, who took us out on a bike tour. We cruised through Lake Manyara National Park, hit the village market and joined a nice family for lunch. We learnt a lot, including that Mto wa Mbu has members from every Tanzanian tribe (more than 120!) and that they grow many different types of bananas (also more than 100!)
Like all good guides, Steve finished his tour by guiding us into a bunch of craft shops. Unfortunately for Steve, every single craft shop in Tanzania sells exactly the same shit. There's a trillion shops selling the exact same shitty paintings, the exact same shitty carvings and the exact same shitty jewelry. On the off chance that you haven't managed to stumble into one of the shops that sells the exact same shit as the neighbouring shop, you're in luck! There's no shortage of men to follow you up and down every street proffering the exact same shit. Needless to say, we didn't come across anything new, or different, or exciting. There was no commission for Steve. Day three of our week-long wait period, we were back in Landy and back on the road. Folks at home lament the superhighway, because highways and bypasses cause death to little roadside towns. 9 hours spent covering 400k's of endless 50 zones and tiny towns mean guygirlandgoat are in full support of the superhighway. Superhighways don't exist in Tanzania. They should.
At one point we were pulled over by a copper grinning from ear to ear. There's plenty of cops standing around on roads here. Usually they don't bother to get up, but this one stood up AND waved us down. He was brandishing a smartphone image of our car, with a red '72' scrawled across the picture. We think some kid could have scrawled '72' using 'paint' on an old IBM, but apparently this drawing meant we'd been doing 72km/hr in a 50 zone. We tried to explain that people who take 9 hours to get as far as we'd got don't speed, but it didn't matter. The fine cost as much as that nights dinner, drinks and hotel combined. Next time we'll barter!
Day Four and we were inching closer to country number eight. We weren't even out of Igunga, not 300 metres from our hotel when another friendly officer waved us down. He chatted away in Swahili. We explained that we didn't speak Swahili so he asked for our license in Swahili. Another valuable lesson was learnt on our part when we realized that the license was in the same spot as the cash. Do not do this. Reaching into the cash sack to get the license meant that the license was quickly forgotten on the part of Mr Policeman. He changed his tune and motioned for the money instead. Pretending we had no idea what he was on about and offering him the license was like magic. Suddenly his English was restored. He wanted the 'red one'. Tanzania's biggest note.
We had word that the new Mr President is quite brutal when it comes to corruption, so when Mr Policeman realized we weren't playing nice, we were quickly let go. The license now has a special place all of its own, well away from the 'red ones'.
When there was a chance to get off the highway, we jumped for it. Bouncing along a corrugated track, covered in dust and loving every second of it. Back in villages with goats and donkeys and chickens in the way. A woman sat out the front of her house in the dust making vitumbua. The Tanzanian rice-flour equivalent of a poffertje. We loaded a dozen fresh from the fire into the car and smothered them with mulberry jam as we continued along our way. She was thrilled to have served us, her friends thought it was hilarious and we were stoked because they were absolutely delicious!
The last 150 k's before the border town of Rusomo were treacherous. Loaded trucks in a hurry, combined with the worst tar we've ever seen meant lots of ducking, weaving and close calls. Potholes could have swallowed Landy, but we made it to a friendly little guest house without drama. A rest day was definitely in order! We used it to empty every single thing out of the car and send her to be detailed by a young entrepreneur down the street. The layers of dust were unspeakable. While the young man scrubbed the car, we washed every cup, bowl, spoon and container we owned, then strolled through the village to scrounge up some non-plastic carry bags and pretend to revel in the attention we got from fascinated locals (Turns out guy is the spitting image of Jesus!). The traditional food was divine, though we can't tell you what it was other than "Chicken Banana". It was chicken and bananas, but in some incredible stew, known only as "chicken banana". Add a Kilimanjaro beer or two and it was farewell Tanzania.
Amazingly, we think that the border formalities at Rosumo accurately represent both countries. Usual procedure is to check out of one country, move on a few hundred metres and then enter the following country. Here, Japan has generously donated a state-of-the-art insanely impressive, super big, super modern with electricity AND computers border post on the Rwandan side of
the river. It now serves as a 'single stop' border, where both Rwandan and Tanzanian officials work from the same space. We couldn't check out of Tanzania, because the officials weren't there. Friendly and helpful Rwandan staff actually walked out from their booth and told us to visit them while we waited.
By the time we had two visas, visited the bank, exchanged money, paid road taxes and obtained a Temporary Import Permit for Rwanda, a bus had appeared there was a stack of at least 40 passports piled up in a shambles where a Tanzanian official should have been. So, we did what needed to be done. Kept smiling and kept waiting. Two mzungus stand out in these parts. We smiled and waited in the fancy hall long enough for two seperate Rwandan officials to ask if we were ok and a third to go off hunting for the Tanzanian. "Sorry", he came back smiling apologetically. "He is coming".
Eventually Tanzanian customs guy did come, creating a scrum worthy of the best grand final. We weren't interested in taking on truckies and a bus full of men. We stood back and let them at it, only to be ushered forward by our lovely caretakers. A stamp or two later and we were free to go!
Up next: Rwanda!