Back to Amarula

Impressions along the road and within...
Sunflowers among the cassava, sunflowers dried out brown, corn; dead standing, millet, sorghum. Baobabs worn and scarred. Bee hives, both modern and the traditional hollowed out logs hanging from the trees. Cattle and goats on the move, some friendly herders, soot blackened landscapes, scorched trees, deep sand in dry river beds, children waving, others; impassive. Gigantic boulders worn smooth clustered on hilltops, trees as far as the eye can see: acacia, miombo, baobab, other acacia, going brown and others blooming as the dry season  begins.
 Returning to a loved place has been enlightening. Overcoming or at least attempting to understand the cultural differences due to language and religion has stretched my comfort zone, tolerance and occasionally patience. Context as I experience it, in  layers of cognition and insight continue to teach me how little I know. And how educated, sophisticated, motivated and inspired by my consciousness and the myriad abundance I am. Juxtaposed to individuals, children and adults, who can spend the day managing a mixed flock of goats, sheep and cows wandering through a landscape with not much forage. They find what they can. My capacity to understand concepts, consequences and a sense of a bigger picture is limited by my exposure, use and access to information. How much of what I or anyone knows or can use is actually useful in any given circumstance, is dependant on situation, environment, ecosystem ….
Technology is seductive, I am so enrolled. I use a phone and camera to take pictures; a laptop to articulate my thoughts, a reading device to do research and entertain myself on long flights and the internet , when I can find it, to share this with you.
My ability to justify my actions in moral and ethical terms is so caught up in complication it goes way beyond complex. And I’ve maintained and believed I was living a simple life all these years.
Meanwhile, back to what’s actually happening here.  I am overlooking a vast plain to the east dotted with relatively short trees, again as far as the eye can see, eventually reaching the Indian Ocean. The two fellows employed by my host have recently returned burdened by loads of firewood ‘kuni’ they hacked out of, hopefully, dead trees, with a machete, out of earshot, down the slope towards the dry river. Wood being the primary source of fuel for cooking, we will be sauna-ing Finnish style again and then sitting (if the wind dies down enough) around a  campfire. Something I would imagine no one around here would consider a useful pastime unless dinner was being cooked.
The landscape here is so compelling, Walking through the surroundings brushing dry basil stalks, crackling leaves,  drinking in the vistas, the familiar and the novelty. The temperature is certainly amenable, although sitting in a moving car with the windows shut against the tsetse flies can sure build up a sweat. Thankfully they restrict their habitat to few places. I'm glad to be here, again.

Arusha and then south

Back with friends at their property staying in their guest house, well off the road. It will be a pleasant place to rest, write and visit among the trees in the heat of the afternoons. After unloading all the luggage that evening we walk out to a local bar for  beers and chipsi mayai (French fried potatoes in an omelette) , a common meal around here.
The pikipiki(motorcycle) drivers open up as they race up and down the road making for difficult conversation. The daladala’s (minibus) choked with passengers returning from town, dropping one or two in front of us, all turning to stare at the sight of wazungu’s (white people) in the neighbourhood. And a constant stream of people walking both ways either side of the road.
Morning comes with the call to prayer and cocks crowing, a bucket ‘shower’ wash-up and discussion of what the day might bring. As it turns out, a lot of bureaucratic negotiations and waiting. Over the next few days things do get sorted out, we visit a few restaurants, buy some supplies  from an amazing store downtown Arusha - Gohils  and separate our luggage for the trip to SwagaSwaga.
Looming above us to the north Mt Meru influences the weather dramatically. Each morning the sky overcast and cool, by noon warming up enough to remove our shukas or sweaters and venture out to explore the neighbourhood.
The main roads are paved but in between there are dirt tracks winding their way through the neighbourhoods. Rutted and narrow they are “shortcuts” and have tiny businesses selling notions, fruit and what the locals might need instead of making their way out to a main road. Our host takes us on a bumpy tour of them in his attempts to avoid the chaos on the paved roads. The daladalas backed up, dropping off and picking up along the roads with pikipikis racing both ways on both sides of the road and in between. Along with taxis, safari vehicles, big beer trucks and delivery trucks.
Most things sorted we head out early one morning to Amarula Camp in Kondoa district. There is now a bypass road avoiding the crazy traffic downtown Arusha which takes us south and west through new development expanding the city. To my right  I spot a hill  with half it’s side being excavated. I imagine in a few months it will cease to exist. Below it there are caves being formed by the removal of soil. And below that large chunks of what appears to be the surface above having fallen once undermined. Not exactly the safest work environment.
These new roads make the journey smooth, we are waved through all but one police check and even that one takes only moments. Along the road, Maasai boys stand at attention as their herds wait to cross to water, women washing clothes, colourfully draped on the surrounding bushes, palm frond rug weavings hung from trees to attract buyers and miles and miles of open plain dotted with acacia. Corn and cassava, sunflowers and pigeon pea beside the shambas and bomas, cement constructions in the towns and metal roofs glinting in the distance.
We stop in Babati for lunch and then  drive up into the hills. The swathe taken away on either side of the road makes for better views as we proceed, black rubber all over the road from tires skidding on descent with warnings of the steep slope and tight corners. I miss the old red road although not the bumping and swerving. Some settlements have not changed much, others have grown although it's hard to say. At one point we leave all the settlements behind and are in a wild forest, densely packed trees climbing up the hillsides on both side of the road. Later we pass women sitting beside their clay pots for sale and frequently bicycles with water jugs slung across both sides.
Coming out of the mountains we have a great view of the valley and then the plains beyond the hills. The descent is steep, lined with candelabra cactus, some in bloom their tips yellow like they’ve been lit up, the road black with skid marks and signs indicating runaway lanes.
At Kolo we turn left onto the red clay road, dusty, familiar. I’m anticipating our destination. To the right  through the trees below the mountain, the river bed, dry of course and we descend  through a switchback that allows a view of the camp still green after the rainy season.
It’s anti-climatic. So familiar, but changed over the last couple of years, the Terminalia trees losing leaves, their seeds a bright red, the acacia dropping green bits in a circle around itself. The cottage comfortable in it’s familiarity but damaged by the weather.

Elke makes us dinner, we sit by a fire and later when our hosts return from visiting in the village I  sauna Finnish style, then sit out under the stars.

Buea to Bamenda

The generosity and friendliness of Cameroonian people is remarkable. Our hostess in Buea, Rose, arrived early to drive us to the bus on Sunday morning herself, dispensing with her driver so she could attend church. Traffic was light and after unloading all our baggage we thanked her for her  kindness promising to stay in touch.
 Busses here are an adventure by themselves. Our 8 o’clock departure  actually left at 10 what with loading everyones' bags, root crops, furniture: a couch and two matching stuffed chairs. (Moving van? whats that? )  on the roof. Passengers getting on and off, buying food and water for the trip and  possibly reselling tickets for already sold seats. Likely the folks who arrived with their complete kitchen cabinets, disassembled but well past the projected departure time, wanting their kitchen pieces piled on top of the now tarped and ready to go pile will be taking a later bus.
We had purchased tickets for front seats assuming, incorrectly there would be more leg room. That seat is beside the passenger door where everyone who enters the back of the bus must rest their arms as they haul themselves over the folding seats between seats where one expects an aisle…. So in the case of a quick exit it might be advised to use a window. However.
When we finally left, behind us a fellow stood in the entrance preaching away until the next stop, (barely 15 minutes) where he collected coins and exited the bus. At first I thought he was giving a safety speech, but he never stopped talking and the frequent insertion of Jesus, Almighty Father and other familiar expressions soon cleared up that misunderstanding.
The moment the bus stops there are women children and young men hawking things at the windows. Squared loaves of white bread mostly, groundnuts, bottles of pop, boiled eggs and occasionally bananas. Further north we were offered tangerines, kola nuts, more white bread and bobolo: thin sausages of cassava  wrapped  in banana leaf. Mostly tasteless, the consistency of rubber,  a translucent worm of starch accompanying most street food here.
As the bus motored on we passed through numerous towns, police checks and some spectacular scenery climbing from a broad valley switch-backing up a bamboo covered mountain. Even on this steep hillside folks are carving out their farms to grow what food they can. Much of the countryside has been transformed by people cutting down the trees to grow corn and cassava.
Sitting up front we had a great view of approaching buses and trucks, like the fuel carrier apparently leaking/spraying (I hope ) diesel on our windscreen. I was surprised the driver, when we finally stopped for a bathroom and food break, didn’t bother cleaning it off.
There were a few scary moments as approaching passing cars and trucks swerved last minute back into there lane and when our driver suddenly swerved off the road as an even bigger bus passed us while another equally large bus approached in the opposite lane the whole busload heaved a sigh of relief.
The last 40 km were the longest. I have never seen a road in such bad shape to a major destination. This is the route,  only way into Bamenda from the south. Every bus, freight truck and I assume any government officials must travel this potholed, bone cracking, jerky excuse for a road. It took us almost two hours to finally reach our destination. Darkness fell and we hauled our bags off to the side as it began to rain which then erupted into a drenching downpour. Welcome to Bamenda!