59. Tanzania. Dar es Salaam TANZARA to Zambian border

As with the rest of the trip it would be interesting to retrace this segment of the trip to see how the Tazara ra (Tanzania Zambia Railway) has faired. We did when everything was relatively new, but at the same time we saw a lot efforts at maintenance which we had not seen in many places.

By the time we got to the Zambian border we were not too far from Lake Tanganyika, but Kalemie seemed very far, three countries away: Burundi, Rwanda and Tanzania.

Our route across southern Tanzania.  Yellow indicates road trave and red indicates rail.

 

Dar es Salaam - TAZARA, Wednesday, June 22, 1983

(DAN) We were packed and to the Florida for breakfast by 7:15. From there we walked to the main post office to catch a bus to the TAZARA station. Transportation here is really pretty simple: all of the buses start at either the Posta (post office) or Stesheni (old railroad station) and radiate out to the “suburbs”. Ours is the bus that goes to Buguruni; we go to the end and then walk a km or so.

By 0830 we were beginning to worry. Though several bus lines started from our stand, several had come and gone, and now the crowd was all for Buguruni. About 0845 a bus came by going to the airport, so we took it instead and were dropped right at our huge station. We need not have worried. The train was not even loading yet, and we had an hour’s wait in the lofty waiting room. The station is still new and in good repair. The main part is two levels high, the first at parking lot height with the booking windows, freight, package, and other offices. The second floor is the waiting room including two smaller (but still large) waiting rooms marked “Women and babies”. This level has huge bathrooms, immigration, customs, etc., and is even with the railroad tracks for direct loading. Nearby, connected to the main building by bridges, are several multi-storied buildings that must have been meant for offices and hotels but look pretty empty. One of the more im­pressive features was that on the front of the building was a huge ramp going from parking lot level to waiting room level; however we did not see one taxi drive up there to disgorge passengers, and when I checked, it turned out that all of the doors onto the ramp were locked. We are curious to know whether these grandiose features were designed by the Communist Chinese or the Tanzanians. It is pretty oversized for one train a week.

The officials are to be congratulated on the order with which the train was loaded. All of the third class passengers knew the ropes and had their bags neatly lined up. Suddenly all those people were in line and filing through the gates. First, however, the officials let the lines of women from the “Women and Baby” waiting rooms file through and then the rest of the populace.

Before this we had a little scare; a man came by, looked at our tickets and told us to report to immigration and customs. We had not expected this until the border, and our affairs (ehem) were not in order. Mainly we had 1200 shillings more than we were supposed to. I went into the bathroom to arrange things and one of the irreversible, sad events of the trip happened. I was standing in the stall juggling one of the neck bags, when our purple book dropped right down the hole out of sight. It was of no eco­nomic value, but it contained meticulous financial records of where, when, and at what rate we changed every one of our dollars. Helena has her own ornate, meticulous records, but not with quite the same information. It contained, for example, our expenditures BEFORE we left the U.S.!! That is what we get for dealing unofficially at times.

(HELENA) At first it looked as though the train could not be nearly long enough for all of those passengers, but by the time Dan and I had walked past many cars to our first class appointments (one of two first class cars, so we were second from the front) we realized how very long the train was.

The cars are made in China, and we must compliment them on several counts. The first thing we noticed was that we could fit through the door and through the aisle, packs and all, very easily, whereas on all other African trains of European make we have really had to squeeze to get through. The toilets are also much roomier (one end of the car had low type and the other had the less favored high type) and they have a nice, roomy lavatory where one can wash up very comfortably. The cabins themselves are not nearly so luxurious as even our second class cabins (from Mwanza to Dar es Salaam, especially where we had running water in each compartment) but all the lights worked, the windows and shutters worked, and even the fans worked. I think that is partly because of the more practical Chinese design (even their colors are a bit drab, but serviceable) but also partly because the Tanzanians do a good job at upkeep. There was a man in charge of keeping first class clean, and in 24 hours he came through to sweep four times and mop once. All of these horribly fascinating details have become of paramount importance to the two of us.

Once again Dan was assigned to a men’s cabin and I to one with three other women. I guess because we are in a “higher class”, I was able to communicate well with all three young women, in English, of course. The first one to join me was a young black Tanzanian, probably about my age, who works for the National Institute for Productivity. She and a young man are traveling to Mbeya to inspect their local operations there. She is from Same town in the Kilimanjaro region. That “Same” is pronounced as in Spanish.

Next we were joined by another young black Tanzanian, accompanied by her little sister (rather spoiled and with a bad cold) and a young nephew. It was fun to spend the next 24 hours watching the way she would take care of them. Since both of the children had bad colds, at every meal time the young woman would take out a whole row (I think there were 5) of cough syrups and pills. They must be well off because I am sure medicines here are very expensive.

Our third companion was the most interesting. Smita is a young Indian woman, born in Mbeya, Tanzania, but claiming Indian citizenship, who has just returned from three years of school in India. Her father went to pick her up in Dar es Salaam. She is a very dainty, petite woman of about 18 since she went to India at 15. She was dressed in one of those lovely pants and long tunic outfits that Dan and I think are so neat (Salwar kamis). Even though she was traveling with her father, she spent virtually all of her time in the women’s compartment, and he never came to see her except when he would bring her food. She spent a lot of time tatting, something I have heard of but had never seen done. Also very dainty and pretty.

I shall let Dan comment on his companions, but both of us showed great interest in a group of Chinese that stood around the front first class car. We guess that the 10 or so men and two women, all short and all except one very proletarian-looking in their blue or gray pants and jacket, must work with the railroad. Until the last moment we could not tell who all were traveling, but it turned out that they were all there to send off the round man whose suit was Chinese-looking but rather natty and the one tall one of the whole group who was dressed in a more casual Western style and had very rumpled hair. We were surprised to see how much they were all smoking. The chief smoked one cigarette after another. Shortly before we left (right on time, by the way, 10:55) they got out several cameras and posed with big smiles before the train. They even got a couple of photos with two “native” little boys standing with them.  U. S. tourists are not the only loud, unabashed foreigners around!

So started a most enjoyable journey. It is our longest train journey yet, and our most relaxed and comfortable. (Although that DeLuxe compartment in Zaire was not bad, it did not have lights and was not the cleanest.) I did not want to lose my prize seat, facing forward by the window, so I stayed glued to it for most of the day. Dan and I were just finishing our repast of good brown bread (it reminds of us of what we used to get in Morocco; in fact Dan wondered if it shows Arab influence here), raw peanuts and pears when both of us looked out the window and looked right at three zebras standing with their back ends to us.

For the next half hour to an hour we saw herd after herd of wildebeest, a few giraf­fes, a small elephant at close range, many warthogs, and herds of elephants which were in among the trees.  We had known that our train would be going right through a corner of the large Selous Game Reserve, but I, for one, had not expected anything like this. We also caught glimpses of hartebeest and hyenas. It made me think what it must have been like to ride trains in the “Old West” when they would drive through and by herds of bison. Everybody in our compartment thought it was funny the way I would get so excited when I would spot something. We left the park before long, returning later for a longer period but sighting less game. Our theory is that when the railroad was being constructed, they dug trenches to get the fill to make the roadbed. This in turn has caught water which draws wildlife in the dry season (now). It surely was an unexpected pleasure. (Theory contributed by Dan)

(DAN) The countryside in general was a surprise. We had expected the land to get drier the higher and farther west we went. Instead we followed some river valleys and had almost humid-type vegetation until dusk. Ifakara, where we stopped close to dark, was an area of many rice paddies. We wonder how much of that was grown there before 10,000 hungry Chinese came through building a railroad.

As usual, it was interesting at each stop to see what specialty was brought to the train and sold through the windows.  Right out of Dar es Salaam we started stopping. One place would have beautiful oranges, and everyone would buy. At the next stop would be bananas. Right at lunch time we stopped at a station that had corn on the cob which livened up our meal. At Ifakara everyone piled out with sacks to buy rice. In general we observed that the vendors preferred the stuffed third class cars and left the sparsely populated first and second class cars alone.

We made a rough calculation of the population of our train: 9 third class cars times 96 passengers plus 5 second class cars times 48 plus two first class cars times 32 equals 1168 passengers. (Ed: I believe those would be paying passengers and would not include babies and children.)  We started out with every seat full but soon be­gan to leave passengers off.

My compartment had a young Indian, a young black man and a boy of about 12. Except for the boy, they spoke fluent English and spoke it among themselves, though they also speak Swahili. Unfortunately, they both smoked heavily, even at night.

The Indian spoke reminiscently of the days of the East African Community when the transportation systems were still held in common between Tanzania, Kenya and Uganda.  He did his schooling in Kenya and said that you used to be able to go comfortably from Dar es Salaam to Kampala on fast express trains, etc.  He appears to be on some sort of courier messenger-type trip for a construction company, Ghana Contractors International. He showed me some sort of contract that he was carrying to Mbeya, and then he was heading back to Dar es Salaam on the next train tomorrow afternoon.

The young black man, Joh, was very quiet about what he was doing. He is going as far as Mpika, well into Zambia. He was carrying a “first class free pass,” so even on Tanzanian railroads some people are “more equal”. He helped clear up something for us. I was under the impression that we changed trains at the border and bought new tickets to Lusaka, and I had asked the ticket agent for a ticket “all the way to the border”. Our TAZARA line in fact runs only to Kapiri Mposhi, 200 kms. north of Lusaka; HOWEVER the tickets we had bought turned out to be all the way to Kapiri Mposhi which was like an 800 kms. gift. Our tickets now do not seem SO expensive.

A good night except for the smoke.

TAZARA - Border into Zambia, Thursday, 23 June, 1983

(HELENA) My night was a bit warm because the others did not want the fan or the open window, but I slept well, and it was nice to get up early and wash up and comb my hair in the special lavatory room.  Since we did not know what our food situation would be in Zambia, we decided to save our food and eat the diner’s cheapest meal, breakfast: four thin slices of bread, a boiled egg, and two cups of chai.

By now we were into slightly drier, definitely cooler and somewhat mountainous coun­try. In fact Smita had said that Mbeya is a very cold place. Both Smita and the first young woman got off there, leaving just the second woman with the two children.

Terrain near Mbeya, Tanzania

When we arrived in Mbeya, the visiting Chinese fireman was met by another sizable group of Chinese bearing a big kettle of tea. They all stood around and chat­ted because he apparently was to continue traveling with us.

We were to be on that same railway for 48 hours in all, and it was interesting to see how each station (at least the small ones) was exactly like the next one.  They all had the same sort of approach: double tracks, little shed to house the little homemade-looking service vehicle, etc. Everything very neat and precise.  Most of the railroad ties are cement with Chinese characters stamped on them; we saw a big cement factory and wondered if it had been built originally to supply the ties.

This border crossing was one we had NOT been looking forward to, mainly because Tanzanian officials are supposed to be very strict about currency forms and exporting shilingis and quantities of foreign currency that do not appear on your exchange forms. Even before we got to the border, a man and woman in the light blue uniforms of customs officers came through to see our currency form. We had expected to have our bags searched and to be put through the whole works, but they simply looked at the form, saw that we had exchanged some six times at the bank, kept the form, and left. That was the last we saw of them except at the border when we saw them carrying some bundles of goods they must bring in from Zambia. A man also came through to look at our health cards. Just before we arrived, immigration officials came through, asked us to get out the forms we had been given on entering Tanzania, and before Dan could get them, said they would be back soon to collect them and stamp us out of the country. They then proceeded to vanish.

As Dan said earlier, we had been under the impression that we would have to walk across the border and get on another train. In fact that is what the third class people had to do. There were a LOT of them --all of the women with their high, tied bundles on their heads, and they all pushed and fought their way through a gate. We do not really understand why they were in such a rush except that maybe they had to line up on the other side. By contrast we privileged passengers of first and second class were instructed to sit and wait. There were very few of us left for crossing the border.

This morning both Dan and I talked a little with an older man (about sixty) who is a pastor for the Pentecostal church. He was from Soweto in South Africa but had been living in Swaziland for some time and Tanzania for the last 13 years. Now he is on his way to live in Zimbabwe. It was this man, several young men, and the two of us left to wait.

Before long another train came from the Zambia side and stopped right beside ours. In fact it had the same number of cars, and they were in the same order, so it soon be­came apparent that we were supposed to switch our things to that train. The immigration officials still had not returned to stamp the preacher’s and our passports, but we decided we would rather miss them than miss our train. There were compartments to spare, so Dan and I took one hoping we would not be separated and that we might even have one to our­selves.

Then started the long round with the Zambian officials. The same departments were represented here, but it seemed as though there were about four officials each for customs and immigration. Customs left us a big, long form to fill out including food we were carrying and, most important, money. Nothing else could be done, however, until we had been officially stamped out of Tanzania. So… Dan and a Zambian official (all of them were decked out in flashy dark pants and white shirts with gold-trimmed epaulettes) went in search of the Tanzanians. After some 20 minutes, Dan returned with our stamped pass­ports. He had finally by himself found the officials having a beer or two in the front, first class car. Dan told the pastor where to go, but by the time he had collected his documents and gotten off of our new train, the other train had moved. I guess the pastor eventually got his passport stamped. He carries a passport issued by the United Nations.

Now the Zambian officials rubbed their hands with glee and started in on us. While Dan had been absent looking for the Tanzanian officials, several of the Zambians sat down with me and chatted, oh so “friendly-like”. Dan returned, and they turned serious. We did not have any kwachas (be sure to pronounce that “kwachers”), so we had to pay for our visas in U.S. dollars and get change in kwachas, official rate, of course. He was oh, so careful to give us the right change, even though he had to go find it. But, we had known we would be charged at the border.

Then it was Customs’ turn to deal with us. Four men crowded into our cabin and shut the door, even though our luggage had not been stowed away and there was not much room. We are pretty sure they had been drinking some. They looked at our currency forms, but not too carefully, and then very solemnly asked us if we were SURE that that was all we had. The main man was then interrupted by a second one and almost threateningly told us that we had better be sure we told them the correct amount BEFORE they gave us a complete search. Then the first man interrupted and said solemnly that many travelers try to hide money and change on the black market (do tell) etc., etc. They were not making much sense because they kept interrupting each other in their eagerness to make everything very clear. It was clear all right; they wanted us to change with them. By the end they had taken the fatherly, kind tactic, “It is Thursday; by the time you get to your destination banks would be closed, and we would hate for you to be stuck.”

We finally, after they had been enclosed with us a half hour, changed $20 with them, and they left immediately without even glancing at our bags. Para el colmo another officer showed up 5 minutes later, this one obviously tipsy, and started to take out another customs form and go through the whole thing all over again. We had heard that there is an alcoholism problem in Zambia; we can easily believe it.