Further cycling in East Africa and into Tanzania turned out to be quite an unexpected rigmarole. The Kenyan Police at Namanga had showed much concern and hospitality for me, what with helping me change money at a favourable rate and offering me a woman to keep me warm through the night. This hospitality was continued into the following day as they had refused to let anyone “out” of Kenya until I had sent on my way through No-man’s land. They did this, even though the queue of lorries, matatus, cars and other ramshackle vehicles had become inpatient and long.
Once through the Kenyan passport control, I pedalled toward the Tanzanian border post to be greeted by the Tanzanian police who asked me if there had been an incident worthy of closing the border. They must have been mindful of the border only recently opening, following years of frosty diplomatic relations between the two countries. While they were puzzled at what had happened, I certainly wasn’t going to tell them it was on my account. I wanted a quiet life pedalling around there, not to find I had unwittingly been the source of a diplomatic spat.
“Anything to declare? Fill this form in, passport please” and this was quickly followed by “you have a souvenir for us?”.
I declined. Just stamp the passport. No they wouldn’t.
“Turn your bags out on the counter”.
And so I did. Pannier bags x2. Handlebar bag x1. Tent x1 and sleeping bag x1 and so it went on. One Officer found my Swiss army knife and decided that was a worthy seizure, as an alternative to me offering some kind of bribe. I knew arguing was pointless, after all my biggest fear was the contents of my trainers being discovered. Eventually I got my visa stamped into my passport and eventually I was in!
As I cycled those early few miles, everything seemed so much worse than I expected. The roads were, for the most part, absolutely dreadful. Where there was a decent stretch of smooth tarmac, it wouldn’t last for long and sometimes there were some huge pot roles or dirt from where the road had simply runs out.
What caught my eye a few times as I was weaving all over the road in trying to follow the smoothest path, were boulders of various sizes left in the road. On seeing a truck to a hill start I figured out what this was all about. As trucks would often be horrendously overloaded and struggle to haul themselves up those long inclines, the driver would often need to stop and allow the engine to cool down for a while. By placing a boulder at the very last rear wheel, this would help prevent the truck rolling backwards; they simply drove forward and left it there in the road.
In those first few miles various cars, minibuses and trucks would pass by heading into Tanzania. Some would cheer me along as a white man (a mzunga) on a bicycle was an unusual sight and the source of amusement. Others would jeer instead, having realised I was the reason for their delayed entry into the country.
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