29. Bonking and Bigotry in Tanzania.
09.06.24 – 14.06.24 : Dar Es Salam – Korogwe
Like any intense relationship, it improved with a bit of distance. And no, I’m not talking about Ellie. It was refreshing to put some distance between me and Madonna, both physically and emotionally. I’d left her in Stone Town while Ellie and I retreated to another corner of the island, Jambiani, where we occupied ourselves with high-tide swims, barefoot runs along the beach, and, of course, more than a few veg curries. I was relieved to rid my body of the physical strain, and my mind of the constant mechanical anxiety that always accompanied Madonna. But by the time it came for us to reunite, there was a renewed energy between man and machine. A distinct feeling that the game was, once again, afoot.
But this reunion brought with it a corresponding farewell. Reuniting with the other love of my life, Ellie, for our island round had been the perfect antidote to West Africa’s tricky conclusion. It hurt to see her disappear through the departure gate at Julius Nyerere International Airport; not just because this marked the beginning of our longest separation so far, but because I knew that in only a few hours, I’d have the relief of company, while she’d be left alone to adjust once again to her solo reality.
I drank strong coffee in the fluorescent atrium of the arrivals lounge and paced the hall restlessly while I waited for my relief to materialise. The hours slipped by as I latched onto drip-fed information. 4.16am: flight landed. 4.43am: baggage in hall. Through the terminal’s clear facade, the horizon hinted at dawn. I peered through the thick glass separating the arriving from the arrived, and tried to spot bike-shaped boxes on the luggage carousels. Then, suddenly, there they were. I watched as the trio herded their flock of boxes through the no-mans-land of airport arrivals and into Tanzania.
Things didn’t get off to a flying start. Clearly, crossing into the Southern Hemisphere had skewed Tom’s internal gyroscope; after an hour of bike building, he stepped back from his handiwork only to discover that both his front tire and his forks were mounted back to front. Still, this was easily solved. There was a less simple solution to the second problem: that of Seamus’ helmet. This particularly essential bit of kit had slipped through his meticulous pre-flight checks meaning we had the task of sourcing a replacement in a country famous for its disregard of road safety. Difficult, but not impossible. Then there was the issue of footwear.
Somehow, despite our best efforts, three of our four pairs of cycling shoes didn’t fit their owner. Like a scene from some polyamorous Cinderella fan-fiction, not one, but four pairs of shoes fit one lucky person perfectly, despite the fact that between us we cover a range of two whole sizes. It calls into question the bizarre equation that determines shoe size when a UK 10, 9, 8.5 and 8 all fit identically. For those of you who feel tempted to joke that trying on your shoes sits directly below test-riding your bike in the hierarchy of sensible trip preparation, you’d be right. Still, Seamus and Tom are somewhat absolved from this ridicule thanks to the alarming extent to which your extremities swell in the heat; and I believe I can avoid some blame given that it’s rather difficult to try on shoes with a continent between them and your feet. Still, after some reshuffling – where three of the pairs found new owners, and I resigned myself to a few weeks in Crocs – our third problem was solved. With that, we were off.
The cycle out of the centre of Dar was nothing short of chaotic. African cities are the perfect illustration of complexity as simplicity compounded. Despite their heaving populations, many of these cities operate as an agglomeration of villages. The roads, for instance, are governed not by the cool apathy of infrastructure – speed cameras, traffic lights, zebra crossings – but by the hot spirits of their users. More often than not, a loose translation of said spirits is: if my vehicle’s bigger than yours, get the f*ck out of my way. Not such good news for lowly cyclists. We rode in tight formation. The stakes were all the higher given that we’d failed on our mission to source Seamus a helmet. Somehow, in the stretching sprawl of the city, this key piece of equipment eluded us.
Still, we managed to escape the capital unscathed and, after a brief stint on a busy highway, we followed ever quieter roads north until we landed on the quietest of them all: the hard sand of Bagamoyo beach at low tide. This would be my last glimpse of the sea until South Africa’s Western Cape, so we took our time, pausing for a swim, a cold beer and some food cooked on the glowing coals of a beach barbecue. Chipsi Mayai is a dish unique to Tanzania, and one that has such a fierce fan-club, that whole corners of the internet are dedicated to its praise. It’s a simple combination of chips cooked in eggs – a chip omelette, if you like – and, as bike food, it’s nothing short of perfect. No wonder it has fast become our staple stodge.
While we ate, a local man joined us. He sipped hard spirits but remained coherent enough for us not to be immediately dismissive. We shared food, language and conversation, but things started to take a turn on the subject of women. He was baffled by the fact that there were three men and one woman in our group, maintaining, with utter conviction, that men were in the global minority. He pedalled a possessive and regressive philosophy of gender roles, and, as we got up to leave, he made a threatening remark to Nadia. After my weeks in Zanzibar with Ellie and now, mere days into a four month tour with Nadia, it has been made painfully obvious just how difficult it is to exist as a woman in this part of the world. It’s a perspective I missed almost entirely on my solo tour through West Africa, and it’s one that so many men out there will miss simply by landing on one side of the genetic coin toss. There are so many things that are beautiful about these countries and cultures, and so much I’m grateful for the privilege of experiencing. This isn’t one of them.
After our hasty retreat, we turned our attention to pitching camp. Hoping for an ocean view, we jumped at a spot mere metres from the shore. As if waiting for the moment we’d unpacked the last of our bags, and driven the last of our pegs into the hard earth, a local man appeared claiming ownership of the land where we were camping. We’d clearly landed on Mayfair. He demanded a hefty fee for our pitches which, despite our various attempts to convince him otherwise, wasn’t up for negotiation. Conceding defeat, we bundled up our belongings and pedalled into the dark in search of an alternative home for the night. By now, the tide had crept up the shoreline and the water lapped gently at our wheels as we churned through the sodden sand.
Our eviction turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Our new campsite, a kilometre back along the beach, was recessed from the busier shoreline and nestled in the treeline of a forest, granting us cover from passers by and a far more peaceful night’s sleep. Or so we thought. While Nadia and I drifted into a deep and dreamless slumber, Tom and Seamus – who share a tent – fretted the night away. With each snap of a twig, they felt sure to spot the hungry, yellow eyes of East Africa’s promised Big Game glowing through the darkness. Perhaps they worried they offered multipack value, versus our single serve. Much to our amusement, Tom’s anxious early hours googling had left a comprehensive digital footprint. His search history made for excellent reading, and we cackled gleefully over our coffee.
As we readied ourselves to head into inland Tanzania, away from the tourist comforts of the coast, we treated ourselves to one last big breakfast. Seamus, if you recall, is still finding his feet in the world of cycling. One of the early lessons for any budding cyclist is the simple input/output equation of fuelling. Put simply, the more substantial your meals, the better. Especially at breakfast. If you were to rank potential inputs based on their substance, while Chipsi Mayai might represent an upper bound, you can be pretty sure that Seamus’ breakfast would mark the lowest. His fish soup – a delicious, but anaemic broth served beside a small fish – did little to sustain him on the day’s ride.
By midday, he was staring down the barrel of the dreaded bonk. Think: blood-sugar crash. Luckily, when I say fuelling is a simple equation, I mean it. Mere minutes after sprawling under the shade of a papaya tree, thanks to the hit of some sugary drinks and calorie-dense biscuits, Lazarus rose, ready to tackle the afternoon’s riding. But he wasn’t out of the woods just yet. The heavy heat that hung over the low-lying coastal plains meant that while we’d been busy plying him with food, he’d been cruelly drained of the last of his water. By his own admission, Seamus has a predisposition to perspiration. Despite consuming nearly eight litres of water that morning, not to mention a whole bowl of broth, he’d not stopped once for a bathroom break. Instead, the water had served only to give his clothes a salty soak.
A few kilometres further down the road, the dehydration caught up with him. Seamus found himself stuck between the rock and the hard place of quad and hamstring cramps. Each was the enemy of the other. While kicking his leg back to stretch his quad, his hamstring would seize and he’d be forced to straighten it again, only for the quad to lock up in the process. Luckily, we have both a doctor and a personal trainer among our ranks. As Nadia, the doctor, prescribed a swift course of oral rehydration salts, Tom, the trainer, set to work easing Seamus’ cramping legs. It was quite the operation. But before long, we were back underway, reeling in the afternoon kilometres to a late lunch. For Seamus, lunch – on doctor’s orders – was the satiating stodge of a Chipsi Mayai seasoned so liberally that its surface resembled a South American salt flat.
That night, our camping fortunes changed. A local corn farmer with a warm, toothy grin offered us use of his house and pointed out the best place to watch the sun rise. It was a welcome change from the extractive interaction we’d had on the beach the night before. I felt glad for the trio that the opportunism had only left its mark in the sand and was washed away with the next tide. It wasn’t representative of the Africa I’d come to know.
In the morning, after enjoying the sunrise from our local vantage point, we divided a papaya and hit the road. As we moved inland, the road began to climb. The elevation gain was deceptive and came in endless undulations, the ascents claiming marginally more ground than the descents relinquished. Our speed oscillated predictably and we set into a steady rhythm, speeding down hair-raising hills and crawling up their corresponding climbs. By the time we’d stopped for lunch, a quick glance at our odometer showed us that we’d knocked off 50 miles. This was – quite literally – a milestone. Before this trip, Seamus’ furthest ride had been closer to 40. We were now well into unchartered territory.
And the day wasn’t over yet. Over yet another Chipsi – complete with crystalline crust – we took stock. 50 kilometres further down the road lay a larger town that promised accommodation for the night if we could reach it. Though we’d be jumping the gun on the planned 4+1 of rest days, it felt important to ease into the riding. After all, with the heat, the weight of the bikes, and the sleepless nights (for some), we needed to rest or we’d risk burning out.
It took a village, and a steady stream of stodgy carbs, but all four of us made it under our own steam. With that, it was time to negotiate our first night with a roof over our heads. This presented a unique challenge, and one that I’d hadn’t encountered so far as a solo traveller. In these strictly conservative countries, intolerance is enshrined in law. Homosexuality is punishable by life in prison, so it’s unsurprising that this bigotry works its way into the social laws that govern people in their day to day. In Tanzania – like in many countries on this continent – it’s forbidden for two men to share a bedroom with just one bed. Despite my patient attempts to persuade him, the hotelier held firm. Seamus and Tom would have to upgrade to a suite, or stay in separate rooms.
Just like the prejudicial attitudes towards women that have become so apparent in the company of Ellie and Nadia, it’s a terrible and terrifying reality that such baseless intolerance remains rampant in so many cultures worldwide. I can understand cultural differences, and appreciate their preservation in many circumstances. But again, this isn’t one of them. Discrimination against anyone based on sexuality or gender – whether for religious or cultural reasons, or simply as the result of fear or small-mindedness – is wrong. As the queer community across the world celebrate pride month, and continue to campaign for recognition, acceptance and integration, it feels alarming to see first hand just what a long way we humans have to go to reach a point of basic respect for one another. Of course, countries in the West aren’t free of such discrimination; as a member of a society which still harbours subversive prejudices, I can’t wash my hands of it. But what makes these views so stark here is their institutionalisation; the way in which they’re laminated by law, trapping them in the social script of society.
After my passionate protests against the intolerant bedroom rule, our host became deeply suspicious of our party, which clearly didn’t fit his conservative worldview as an upstanding member of Tanzanian society. We received a far frostier reception thereafter. On the morning of our departure, we sat down for our included breakfast. Seamus had learned the lessons of his fish soup, and was looking forward to loading up a substantial plateful of eggs and chapati. Unlike our first morning, where we were given liberal access to the breakfast buffet, this time, our host presided over the portions. We were given a strict one-egg rule, which we duly ignored, prompting a barrage of tuts from the master of ceremonies. Little did he know, had his stringent buffet rules been followed, he may have contributed to his worst nightmare: a group of suspected homosexuals bonking down the road from his doorstep.
Get those Chipsis in! And my thoughts are with Seamus: I hope he knows what he’s signed up for!
Always such a good read. So glad you are writing, Jake.