Backpacker
Had my first “backpacker” experience on Tuesday night, the kind of experience that they write about in all the guidebooks, but never seems to happen to me. I decided after a tough day of fighting a one-woman battle against cretins and low-lifes to retreat to my room, where I spent the afternoon reading my journal – trying to remind myself why this was such a good idea in the first place – and writing a story I am planning to file for the Star. By the time I was finished it was 7.30 and my stomach was rumbling, so I decided to eat dinner. (I have given up dinner since Emily left and reverted to my old ways of eating something snack-y in the morning, having a big lunch around 1.30 or 2 p.m. and then going to bed early, as this entire continent seems to rise at the crack of dawn.)
Anyway, there was an English woman named Kate who’d stayed at the dorm with us in Kendwa and by the time my dinner arrived, a German girl named Marie and an American guy named Dave had joined us. Kate had come up from Jo’burg via Mozambique and Zimbabwe and was looping through Tanzania and meeting up with her mom, where she is volunteering in Malawi. She made me feel much better about the route overall, as she said people were amazingly friendly and she had no problems at all, but warned me that crossing into Zimbabwe takes hours and hours as they check each bag individually. Marie had just left 15 friends who’d traveled to Tanzania to celebrate two birthdays. They’d left on Sunday and the next day she freaked out about traveling alone and changed her flight from three weeks hence to Thursday. By the time we were finished with her, she’d been convinced to spend the $65 and change the ticket back. Dave spent New Year’s on top of Kilimanjaro, summiting as the first sun of 2006 rose. He was still on the mountain when three Americans asleep in their tents were killed by falling rocks. He said the whole mountain has the atmosphere of a cakewalk, even though parts of it can be quite arduous and dangerous. The fees are outrageous and the safari companies seem to justify the cost by promising things like luxury tents and candle light dinners, so at times Dave said he was passed by a porter carrying one dinner chair, another carrying 10kg of meat, another carrying a kg of salt, a kg of ketchup and on and on. All that foot traffic cannot be good for the environment.
Anyway, we swapped stories while commiserating about Dar’s serious lack of beer. I left the next morning on the bus, slightly sad that just when I’d met people I’d like to travel with – who were actually heading in some interesting directions – I was heading back.
I’m now in Arusha, safari capital of Tanzania, where the number of touts outnumbers the number of tourists three to one. I spent my first night at the Meru House Inn, where a couple of French girls Emily and I met on our first trip here were staying. What a dive. When I checked in the guy kept stressing that I needed to lock up my valuables. In the safe. Behind the counter. It was on signs on every floor, behind the door, on hand-outs they gave you at check-in. (It’s fairly common to see signs and things, but I thought this was a bit excessive.) Anyway, I went out in search of Internet and decided I better figure out where the Rwanda war crimes tribunal was being held, as this was my main purpose for being in Arusha. The guy behind the counter assured me I could walk, but after 45 minutes I gave up, as I was just in view of the sign. I ordered dinner (I was on the bus all day and had no lunch) and had to ask the waiter to keep the guys drinking three tables over from bothering me. One went so far as following me to the stairs, calling “Excuse me! Excuse me!” as I left. The hotel is about three blocks from the bus station, but there must have been a dalla dalla stop right outside because all I could hear for the first few hours was the call of what must have been the routes and the sounds of horns. Clearly the drivers think that whoever honks longest and loudest has the right of way. And whoever invented that car horn that goes “be-be-be-be-be-be-be-be-be-beep” should really be rewarded with a looping soundtrack of that to listen to each and every single night. Thankfully it started pouring around 8 p.m. – and I mean pouring, I had earplugs in and a pillow over my head and I could still hear it bouncing off the metal roof – so the streets cleared out pretty quickly. It rained once in the day and twice during the night, so I hope this means the rains have finally arrived.
I got up in the morning, dropped my key at the front desk and slunk out the front door. (I’d told them I was staying at least five days – before realizing how crappy the place was.) I started trudging in the direction of the tribunal, figuring I could pick out a hotel nearby. Luckily – and I do mean that in a serendipitous sort of way – a taxi driver stopped and I quite happily paid the buck and a half to be driven to the Lutheran centre, where the driver is well known and helped me convince the guy with the keys to come in on his day off and give me a room. For five bucks! It’s just like Obruni House, but cleaner and with more God and less Auntie C. Of course, I can only stay until Tuesday. Then the guy told me I have to move to the Roman Catholic guesthouse, as the Lutherans are having a conference. God bless Missionaries.
In fact, there were 33 Ugandan kids at the tribunal this morning, all of them missionaries in training and all of them super-friendly and sweet. Orla told me Ugandans were amazing and it turns out she was right. They were about the highlight of a very boring day, although getting to know some of the other journalists has been pretty interesting too. Finally! Colleagues!
The backpacker trend continued through the tribunal; in the morning I met Matt, an American who had been traveling for four months, starting in Moscow and overlanding it to Indian, then flying to Jo’burg. He’d spent the past seven weeks blazing through most of the countries I intend to hit on my way to Cape Town and he made me feel so much better about my perception of Tanzania, since he compared the touts and annoyances to what he experienced in India.
In the afternoon I went for lunch at a cafÈ and met with an Austrian woman who was traveling with a friend through her old stomping grounds. She worked for almost a decade in Uganda, Tanzania and northern Kenya as a physician. We met up later that night for a drink and she and her friend proved to be really interesting company.
Then back at the tribunal, I met Suzanne, a fellow Canadian who was traveling from Zambia through Tanzania and down through Rwanda and Burundi, and Leslie, a defense attorney from Alaska on a four-month break. They both made great company, which was fortunate, since all but an hour of the day’s testimony was spent waiting out in the hallway for the lawyers to break from closed session.
Anyway, there was an English woman named Kate who’d stayed at the dorm with us in Kendwa and by the time my dinner arrived, a German girl named Marie and an American guy named Dave had joined us. Kate had come up from Jo’burg via Mozambique and Zimbabwe and was looping through Tanzania and meeting up with her mom, where she is volunteering in Malawi. She made me feel much better about the route overall, as she said people were amazingly friendly and she had no problems at all, but warned me that crossing into Zimbabwe takes hours and hours as they check each bag individually. Marie had just left 15 friends who’d traveled to Tanzania to celebrate two birthdays. They’d left on Sunday and the next day she freaked out about traveling alone and changed her flight from three weeks hence to Thursday. By the time we were finished with her, she’d been convinced to spend the $65 and change the ticket back. Dave spent New Year’s on top of Kilimanjaro, summiting as the first sun of 2006 rose. He was still on the mountain when three Americans asleep in their tents were killed by falling rocks. He said the whole mountain has the atmosphere of a cakewalk, even though parts of it can be quite arduous and dangerous. The fees are outrageous and the safari companies seem to justify the cost by promising things like luxury tents and candle light dinners, so at times Dave said he was passed by a porter carrying one dinner chair, another carrying 10kg of meat, another carrying a kg of salt, a kg of ketchup and on and on. All that foot traffic cannot be good for the environment.
Anyway, we swapped stories while commiserating about Dar’s serious lack of beer. I left the next morning on the bus, slightly sad that just when I’d met people I’d like to travel with – who were actually heading in some interesting directions – I was heading back.
I’m now in Arusha, safari capital of Tanzania, where the number of touts outnumbers the number of tourists three to one. I spent my first night at the Meru House Inn, where a couple of French girls Emily and I met on our first trip here were staying. What a dive. When I checked in the guy kept stressing that I needed to lock up my valuables. In the safe. Behind the counter. It was on signs on every floor, behind the door, on hand-outs they gave you at check-in. (It’s fairly common to see signs and things, but I thought this was a bit excessive.) Anyway, I went out in search of Internet and decided I better figure out where the Rwanda war crimes tribunal was being held, as this was my main purpose for being in Arusha. The guy behind the counter assured me I could walk, but after 45 minutes I gave up, as I was just in view of the sign. I ordered dinner (I was on the bus all day and had no lunch) and had to ask the waiter to keep the guys drinking three tables over from bothering me. One went so far as following me to the stairs, calling “Excuse me! Excuse me!” as I left. The hotel is about three blocks from the bus station, but there must have been a dalla dalla stop right outside because all I could hear for the first few hours was the call of what must have been the routes and the sounds of horns. Clearly the drivers think that whoever honks longest and loudest has the right of way. And whoever invented that car horn that goes “be-be-be-be-be-be-be-be-be-beep” should really be rewarded with a looping soundtrack of that to listen to each and every single night. Thankfully it started pouring around 8 p.m. – and I mean pouring, I had earplugs in and a pillow over my head and I could still hear it bouncing off the metal roof – so the streets cleared out pretty quickly. It rained once in the day and twice during the night, so I hope this means the rains have finally arrived.
I got up in the morning, dropped my key at the front desk and slunk out the front door. (I’d told them I was staying at least five days – before realizing how crappy the place was.) I started trudging in the direction of the tribunal, figuring I could pick out a hotel nearby. Luckily – and I do mean that in a serendipitous sort of way – a taxi driver stopped and I quite happily paid the buck and a half to be driven to the Lutheran centre, where the driver is well known and helped me convince the guy with the keys to come in on his day off and give me a room. For five bucks! It’s just like Obruni House, but cleaner and with more God and less Auntie C. Of course, I can only stay until Tuesday. Then the guy told me I have to move to the Roman Catholic guesthouse, as the Lutherans are having a conference. God bless Missionaries.
In fact, there were 33 Ugandan kids at the tribunal this morning, all of them missionaries in training and all of them super-friendly and sweet. Orla told me Ugandans were amazing and it turns out she was right. They were about the highlight of a very boring day, although getting to know some of the other journalists has been pretty interesting too. Finally! Colleagues!
The backpacker trend continued through the tribunal; in the morning I met Matt, an American who had been traveling for four months, starting in Moscow and overlanding it to Indian, then flying to Jo’burg. He’d spent the past seven weeks blazing through most of the countries I intend to hit on my way to Cape Town and he made me feel so much better about my perception of Tanzania, since he compared the touts and annoyances to what he experienced in India.
In the afternoon I went for lunch at a cafÈ and met with an Austrian woman who was traveling with a friend through her old stomping grounds. She worked for almost a decade in Uganda, Tanzania and northern Kenya as a physician. We met up later that night for a drink and she and her friend proved to be really interesting company.
Then back at the tribunal, I met Suzanne, a fellow Canadian who was traveling from Zambia through Tanzania and down through Rwanda and Burundi, and Leslie, a defense attorney from Alaska on a four-month break. They both made great company, which was fortunate, since all but an hour of the day’s testimony was spent waiting out in the hallway for the lawyers to break from closed session.
posted by Palmer in Africa at 4:13 AM
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