Tanzania: Shakedowns and Breakdowns

(This is the sixteenth installment in an ongoing series about our self-drive safari to Tanzania. To start at the beginning, click here.)

March 20th was International Day of Happiness. I love the image of the whole world stopping for 24 hours to smile, but I hold no illusions that it actually happened. Although I don't remember specifically, I must have been fairly happy that day. It was a Friday after all...

So what makes us happy? Wide open spaces, the sound of palm trees in the desert, a whale breaching just off the coast, getting a photo that perfectly captures what we're seeing.

What makes us unhappy? Being stuck in a large city for more than 2 hours, being harassed for money and vehicle breakdowns.

What happened to us on our 11th day in Tanzania? Everything listed in that second category.

We hated to leave Lake Natron but it was time to move on. We packed up and headed south, skirting the base of Ol Doinyo Lengai on the rutted road to Mto wa Mbu. We waved goodbye to the two giraffe that seemed to always be browsing on the same tree near the village. We took one last picture of the smoking, almost comically perfect cone-shaped volcano. We stopped on a rise and looked back towards the lake, the thousands of flamingos making a pink haze in the distance. Another perfect morning in Africa.

Only a few kilometers down the road we spotted a small shack by the side of the road. A yellow-painted tree branch was laid across two home made sawhorses blocking the way. Ah. We'd reached the first of the checkpoints we'd been warned about.

A man dressed in olive drab stepped out of the shack to greet us when we pulled up. After the usual pleasantries he told us we owed him $10.00 US each for passage. Sounded pretty reasonable so we handed him $20, which he took inside and carefully filled out a receipt, noting our license plate number in his log book along with the date and time. We asked him about the road condition and he said it was good. We were hopeful that his "good" matched our somewhat modified impression of good, and went on our way.

We were traveling across the plains of Engaresero, an ancient volcanic area with sparse vegetation and consequently a sparse population. It was beautiful in the way deserts are beautiful; the emptiness making it easy to see the stark lines of the rocks and mountains. We were glad we had left early in the morning, the colors were soft and what few animals were around were out grabbing breakfast before it got too hot.

The rocky road across the Engaresero plains.

The road turned out to be fairly decent, the washboard ruts not as deep as in Serengeti, actually smoothing out in a few places. Mark was emboldened by this and pushed the car a little faster than our normal 40 kph. The moment we hit a bump (almost immediately, this was Tanzania after all) the steering wheel almost ripped out of his hands, jerking back and forth. We slowed to a stop and started easing forward again, the steering wheel holding steady. What the hell?

After experimenting with speeds it seemed every time we exceeded 35 kph the car would go into it's wobble mode. The slight problem we were having with the steering between Serengeti and Lake Natron had become a major one. We pulled over and tried to call Shaw Safari to let them know.

No bars. We drove a few more kilometers and came to the top of a rise. No bars.

A lone zebra wonders what's up with our steering.

We have that kind of luck; the kind that guarantees no problems right up to the point where we can't get help if we need it. Paul at Shaw had told us he knew exactly what was needed to fix the car (on a call we made to him when we originally started noticing the wiggle) and to give him a ring when we got close to Mto wa Mbu. Now we couldn't get through and the problem was a hundred times worse. What could we do?

We went on. At 34 kph, one mile shy of wiggle speed. For those of you unfamiliar with the metric system, that translates to 21 mph. We had 75 miles to go; good thing we weren't in a hurry.

About an hour into this journey, we spotted another little shack in the distance. Hmmmm. Someone either chose to build a house right on the road, or we were going to be "tolled" again. Sure enough as we got closer a guy stepped out of the shack and waved us over.

"Jambo!" The Toll Taker looked decidedly less official than the last one. He was wearing a pair of acid washed jeans and a ripped sweatshirt with a soccer team logo on the back. "You must pay a toll to pass. It is fifteen United States dollars."

We pulled out $15 and handed it to him. "No! EACH!" he motioned toward each of us and pointed to the money. Geez, things seemed to be getting more expensive. We gave him another $15 and he waved us forward. No receipt? we asked. "No. Not needed. I remember you." We could only hope.

Blazing down the road at 21 miles per hour, not surprisingly I had a little time to look ahead in our guide book for any interesting roadside attractions. Up ahead somewhere were ruins of an ancient set of villages that had been supported by a complex system of irrigation, an amazing feat considering the lack of rainfall and distant water sources they had to deal with. We spotted a greenish blotch in the valley below and figured that must be it: Engaruka.

A Kori Bustard eyes us suspiciously from the grass.

Maasai have taken over the area once thought to be the home of other tribes (Iraqw and Sonjo) that built the original villages. We passed a few herds of cattle with their keepers on the way down into the valley, waving as we went. We had become accustomed to the stares as we passed by, being in one of the few private vehicles to pass through this area.

There was a wide, shallow river running through the middle of the village, around which it seemed all the local cattle were gathered along with their keepers. The road clearly crossed the river and continued on the other side of the crowds, so we turned into the water and slowly made our way across, waiting patiently for the cattle to part.

A young man ran out into the river yelling at us. "No no no no! This way! The road goes this way!"

We were looking at the road, just 20 feet from us. We pointed to it "Mto wa Mbu?" we asked.

"No, no, no! You must go this way for Mto wa Mbu!"

Ok. We turned around and went back up the bank, turning into a cluster of huts and cattle enclosures. This sure didn't seem like the main road, but it's best to keep your mouth closed until you figure out the lay of the land and the temperament of your host. (Yet another life lesson that extends to pretty much every situation anywhere.)

We slowly followed along behind the young guy as he motioned us through the parting cattle and staring kids. We rounded a corner and saw the now-familiar tree trunk on sawhorses and realized the source of his indignance; we had unwittingly tried to bypass another toll gate.

Our guide ducked inside the toll booth and stood behind the counter. We idled up to the window and he sternly told us we needed to pay for passage through the village. "How much do we owe you?" Mark asked. "Twenty dollars United States." he replied, flipping his log book open and jotting down our license plate number. I pulled a $20 out from our dwindling supply of American money and handed it to Mark.

Our toll keeper made a disgusted noise when Mark tried to hand him the $20. "Each. EACH!"

This is when things started to go a little lopsided. We were both stressed about the steering problem and lack of cell coverage. We didn't mind paying to travel through an area that was obviously economically disadvantaged, but at this point we had already paid $50 to travel 35 miles. Now they wanted $40 for the privilege of beating our car up for another 35? Quite literally highway robbery.

We decided it was worth the risk to try and talk him down. On our first attempt, we willfully misunderstood him and tried to force him to take the $20.

"Twenty each! Twenty each!"

"Yes, here is twenty. For you!"

"No! Each! Must be each!"

In the meantime, an old woman approached with a fist full of necklaces. She stuck her arm in my window and smiled a mostly toothless smile. "Pretty? You like?" she held up a large tooth strung with wooden beads. "Simba! Is simba (lion) tooth!" To illustrate this she clawed at the air and made roaring sounds, menacing me with her gums.

What followed was a confusing mash up of haggling for goods and services. Mark and the toll guy were going thirty rounds. "Twenty?" "Each!" "How about twenty-five for both?" "Each!" while the saleslady and I were bargaining "Simba! You like?" "No, very nice. But no money." "Five dollar. Only five for you." "No. Sorry" "Four dollar. Good price!"

It was hilarious. The toll was going up almost as fast as the necklace price was coming down. I had no interest in another necklace, even if I was allowed to carry the thing onto the plane (which I wouldn't be) and the toll guy was just getting irritated. A small crowd was starting to gather that included some strong young men that didn't look any happier than our toll guy. We decided to cut our losses and pay him his original price. Some things aren't worth the risk.

The unhappy toll guy finally raised the tree trunk and we moved through, crossing the river thirty feet east of our first crossing, joining the road at the exact point we had almost reached ten minutes ago, forty United States dollars lighter. We wondered out loud what would have happened if we had just kept driving and ignored the toll man's yells. Would they have pursued us? How? There didn't seem to be any vehicles anywhere in the village. On second thought, if they did have a motorcycle tucked in there somewhere it wouldn't have been much of a challenge to catch us. Land Rovers aren't really built for high speed chases, especially ones with bad steering bushings.

We spent another two hours bumping along, trying to baby the car and checking for reception on every rise in the road. Finally, about 15 miles from town, we were able to get through to Shaw. We made arrangements to meet the mechanics in Mto wa Mbu. All we had to do was get there in one piece.

We finally reached the pavement, immensely relieved. As crazy as the traffic can be in town, at least the road was smooth. Mark goosed the car along and got it up to 60 kph. Just as we started to celebrate this incredible speed we hit a bump and the steering wheel ripped out of Mark's hands, front wheels slamming back and forth until the car came to a halt. Back to 34 kph it is then.

Our instructions were to call the mechanic when we arrived in town. We found a nice spot in the shade of a banana plantation and parked the car. I dialed the number and as I listened to it ring a young man walked up to Mark's window holding—wait for it—a fist full of necklaces.

This was Emanuel, a charismatic, opinionated salesman in a virtual sea of salesmen. Like flies on elephant dung, sales guys (or flycatchers as they're referred to there, somewhat ironically) swarmed around us the moment we stopped moving. It's as annoying and maddening as you'd imagine. And we had no choice but to play along.

He started with the standard sales pitch. After wearing us down for ten minutes, Mark gave in and bought two necklaces figuring once the sale was made he would leave us alone. No such luck. Two of his buddies came along and tried to get us to buy but Mark held firm. Nope, don't need any more jewelry of any kind. No.

For my part I had hit the limit of good natured haggling back in Engaruka. I've never been one to enjoy bargaining and after the long slow drive from Natron I was tired and sweaty and hungry, not a good combination for pleasant conversation, at least from me. I stayed on the phone a full five minutes beyond the time the mechanic's answering machine picked up, listening to the dial tone to save myself from the sales pitch. I'm not above such behavior, I'll admit.

Eventually Emanuel stopped trying to sell things and just chatted. His friends drifted away, but he leaned his arms on Mark's window and grilled us about America. Who did we vote for? Did we like Obama? Did we know Obama visited Africa and did not visit Tanzania? Why not? Why didn't he come here? He called us out for not knowing who the president of Tanzania is. "I know Obama, why do you not know my president?" he asked. A good point. (It's Jakaya Kikwete by the way, we looked it up when we got home.)

Wasim, on the right, checks his phone while his mechanic replaces our bad steering parts. Roadside, Mtu wa Mbu.

At last our mechanic arrived, Wasim's Auto Repair. They pulled up in a beat up Toyota truck, Wasim himself along with a guy in coveralls and a helper. The Coveralls Guy pulled a new steering arm assembly out of the truck, threw a rubber floor mat under our car and slid under. After about ten minutes of clanking and hammering the old one was off, the new one on, right there on the side of the road. Tuktuks, safari vehicles, motorcycles and trucks flew by within a few feet of  our makeshift auto shop as Wasim told us how common this problem was. "Every time one of these vehicles goes out for two weeks they need a new bushing. They just can't take these roads. And Serengeti? Two days in Serengeti and you will need to change the bushing. I'm surprised you made it as far as you did!"

Meanwhile Emanuel was still hanging out, watching the repair and commenting with a gathering crowd on the merits of different makes of safari vehicles. Apparently we were providing entertainment.

Once the repair was complete, Wasim told us to drive on and give him a call in five minutes to let him know how the ride was. He was on his way to another roadside repair but could circle back if something went awry. We started the car up and got settled but Emanuel wasn't ready to let us go.

"I will take you on a tour of the town. I will show you Mto wa Mbu, no charge." I think he was getting desperate.

"No, we have to go. We've got reservations at Lake Manyara and have to be there today." Mark told him.

"Come back after. On your way back I will give you the tour. Take my picture, then you will recognize me." Emanuel stood back and struck a pose. Mark felt obligated to take his picture.

Sorry to leave you Emanuel. I hope you sold lots of necklaces that day.

Emanuel: Salesman, Tour Guide, Political Commentator

Tanzania: Lake Natron Stories | Luxury by the Lake

(This is the thirteenth installment in an ongoing series about our self-drive safari to Tanzania. To start at the beginning, click here.)

The lone giraffe we saw while in the
Lake Natron area.

When we arrived at Lake Natron, we checked into the campground with high hopes. The Moivaro Lake Natron Tented Camp was purported to have both a restaurant and a swimming pool, two luxuries that had not been present at any of our other stopovers on this trip. We had learned to lower our expectations when it came to amenity listings, but hope springs eternal: At this point in the trip, crocodile-free water and food that was cooked by someone else would be 5 stars in our book.

Once we finally found the campground (there were at least two other campgrounds that went by the name "Lake Natron Tented Camp" one of which we mistakenly pulled into before realizing our error) we were met by our Maasai host, who hopped onto the running board of the Land Rover and guided us to a spot on the grassy campground, ducking as we drove under the thorny acacia trees. Once parked, we spilled out the doors in what I can only assume was a shocking amount of dust and sweat, exhausted from the eight hour drive from the Serengeti.

Mbiraru, our host, signed us in and gave us the tour. A nice garden area surrounded the luxury tents where the more posh guests were staying. In the middle of the tents (which were in reality closer to cabins, equipped with full bathrooms, running water and king size beds) was a thatch roofed open air restaurant and bar, a heavenly sight. Off to the side, a small natural swimming pool fed by water piped in from the nearby river. One of the guests was swimming laps as Mbiraru walked us by. "The pool comes with hippo." he said with a sly grin.

One of the "tents" of the Lake Natron Tented Camp.

We were the only ones in the campground. Lake Natron is not nearly as popular as the other parks in Tanzania, and camping is not nearly as popular as traveling with an organized resort tour. The attractions there are the flamingos that gather on the lake and climbing Ol Doinyo Lengai, the active volcano on the southern edge of the lake. It's remote country, eight hours of rough road from Serengeti, and seven hours from the nearest town, Mto wa Mbu, to the south. In between is a whole lot of dry plains and rocky mountains, not the romantic big game areas for which Tanzania is better known.

The pool at Lake Natron Tented Camp. Looks a lot more luxurious than it was,
yet felt much more luxurious than it looks. 
(photo credit: Moivaro.com)

Mark did a quick change and we headed back to the pool. I sat on the edge and stuck my legs in, watching Mark swim laps with the other guest we had seen earlier. We found out he was visiting from China and was here to climb the volcano, having already climbed Kilimanjaro earlier that week. He was here with a group peak bagging in Tanzania and Kenya and, as far as we could figure, completely ignoring the animals and other attractions Africa had to offer. To each his own I guess.

Birds were everywhere in the trees over camp.

A colorful kingfisher looks down at us.

After the swim we walked back to camp and took a shower, more luxury than we had thought possible on this trip. The showers were dark rooms made of rough wood poles with a thatched roof, a small window cut into the back for ventilation. The water came from large black tanks warming in the sun on the roof. There was no temperature adjustment, just on and off, but the weather here was so hot and we were so sweaty and dusty it felt magnificent. I stood under the water much longer than necessary just enjoying the smell of soap; when soap smells so intoxicating, you know you've gone too long without it.

Back at camp we dug through our suitcase looking for something presentable to wear to dinner. We were still the only campers there, but we had plenty of company. A herd of goats grazed all around us, escapees from the Maasai herds that lived in the area. Periodically one of the staff would walk through, shooing them out of the campground.

Mark relaxes before dinner, watching the goats eat theirs.

It seemed to take forever for six o'clock to come. We gussied up as best we could and walked over, trying not to be the first to arrive (but of course we were). Mbiraru met us and sat us down at a table for two, a white tablecloth and actual ceramic plates and silverware. Luxury! He brought us some bottled water and drinks, then returned holding a gigantic leather-bound menu from which he read the evening's fare. "Tonight, we have a four course meal planned for you: Tuna salad, pumpkin soup, beef over potatoes and vegetable, and chocolate almond for dessert." Sounded good to us!

The restaurant. Notice the lights hanging from the rafters: bat heaven!

Other guests started filtering in, mostly in large groups that were obviously traveling together. As it got darker, large orange-colored bats flew in and flitted in between the rafters, attracted by the bugs that were gathering around the lights. We thought they were fascinating, not to mention helpful as they scooped up moths fluttering overhead. A mother and daughter sitting near the bar were not as fascinated. Closer to petrified. Possibly horrified. They kept insisting the staff get rid of the bats, to which the waiters smiled and tried to assure the ladies they were harmless. The two were not satisfied with that answer and insisted on sitting outside the building, where unbeknownst to them the bats were flying even closer to their heads in the darkness, snapping up bugs that were swarming there. We watched this from our table and snickered into our napkins. (We later learned these were Yellow-winged bats, one of five species of false vampire bats, something I'm sure would have driven the two ladies into a full on panic attack.)

It was a pleasant dining experience. The pumpkin soup in particular was excellent, seasoned with unfamiliar and wonderful spices. Every member of the staff was Maasai, dressed in the traditional robes and jewelry, which we thought was a refreshing change from the polo-shirt-and-khakis-wearing lodge workers we had seen in other parks. A boisterous group of Australians (is there any other type of Australian group?) were sitting at a long table behind us, ordering rounds of drinks and shouting about their upcoming hike on the volcano the next morning. The place was filling up.

The bar, with it's hand-carved tree trunk with custom liquor bottle holders, scotch on the far left.

Since there was no electricity in this area, a generator hummed in the distance from over by the kitchen. It supplied power for the lights and the big chest refrigerator that held the beer, water and sodas. As the guests filed in we noticed they each gave their cell phones to the barman, who plugged the phones into an impressive array of power strips that bristled with charger cords and splitters. It reminded me of the scene in Christmas Story where Ralphie's father plugged the tree lights into the wall. I was waiting for giant sparks to fly out and the whole place to go dark (it never did).

All good things must come to an end though, so after Mark finished his glass of scotch (which he had been planning since spying the Glenfiddich bottle behind the bar on arrival) we paid up and walked back to camp, our stomachs ready to burst from the four courses, three more than we had been accustomed to lately. Back at camp the goats had gone home, but the bats were happy to keep us company.

One of the curious Yellow-winged bats hanging out above our camp.

The next day we spoke to Mbiraru while we sat at the bar slurping Cokes. He was the assistant manager there and was doing the books while he doubled as bartender. He told us the camp was built by an Englishman, but later sold to a local Maasai man who employed workers from the surrounding villages and trained them on the job. It was nice to know the locals were profiting from the place; most if not all of the lodges we had seen in the parks were foreign owned. Mbiraru told us he learned English in school, but picked up many more languages while working with the tourists. He said he probably knew fifty ways to say hello and goodbye, using english as a default. We asked him how he knew we were American right off the bat, before we even spoke to him. He said after awhile you just know (although he admitted he thought we might be Canadian at first but went with American at the last minute). As we sat there we noticed he switched effortlessly between languages when other groups approached him. It seemed mind boggling to me, but he said he'd been at the job for several years and it came naturally now.

Ol Doinyo Lengai rises up on the southern edge of Lake Natron, where groups of hardy tourists are guided to the top by groups of patient and long suffering guides.

A group of angry sounding Chinese tourists were sitting in the restaurant behind us, talking with their tour guides through the group's interpreter. We got the scoop in a hushed tone from Mbiraru: Apparently the group had hired a company to take them to the volcano. Halfway up, one of the group decided it was too hard and turned back. That woman was accompanied down the mountain by one of the guides, where the two of them waited at the car until the rest of the group returned, leaving the rest of the group on the mountain with only one guide. The woman had wanted the guide to drive her back to camp—a 10 kilometer drive—then return and hike back up the mountain to help the others on the descent. The guides argued (in the most diplomatic way possible) that it was not part of the contract to drive the route twice. In addition, it was a lot to ask a guide to hike the arduous trail twice, considering the difficult terrain (slippery pumice and ash) and it was not safe to do so alone in the dark. The Chinese interpreter insisted they would not pay the bill, that they were unsatisfied with the tour.

It seemed they were at an impasse. The guides sat with tired looks, swiping the sweat off their foreheads, unsure what else to say to convince the group. This all took place at two in the afternoon. The volcano hiking trip had started at 2:00am to avoid the heat of the day on the black, treeless volcano. Everyone was exhausted, with the exception of the Chinese interpreter. She seemed to revel in the conflict, sure that she would win this round. Finally a driver showed up with a printed copy of the release forms, where it clearly stated the tour guides were in the right.

I felt sorry for the poor guys. The tour company got paid, but I highly doubt the guides themselves were tipped for their services. We wanted to buy them a drink, but they disappeared as soon as they settled up, probably strait to their beds since no doubt they had another group of prickly tourists to ferry up the mountain in the morning. What a way to make a living.

Goats surround us at breakfast, Lake Natron Tented Camp.

I think Lake Natron was my favorite stop of the trip. It was a beautiful place to rest up for a bit before taking on the next round of corrugated roads. Even better, we had time to get to know the local people and get a sense of what it's like to live in Tanzania.

Rattling around in our Land Rover on game drives? Thrilling.

Finding out the Maasai actually have pockets sewn into their robes to hold their cell phones?

Priceless.