Honestly, I have always thought that bright white beaches, palm trees and turquoise water looked rather nice in brochures but that I could live quite happily without having experienced it myself. Sure it must be unbearably hot and sticky, boring and generally a waste of kerosene and mainly accessible through exclusive resorts. What’s all the hype…
Well, then, when I first arrived in Tanga, a sleepy port on the east coast of TZ I immediately fell in love. It might have been helped by the fact that it finally gave me the chance to get out of the coach from Moshi. Simba Video Lines have neither the strength of a lion (simba – lion in Swahili) nor does it have a video. Of course it doesn’t. You wouldn’t be able to watch it anyway because you have a hip or a bum or an arm or any other body part right up against you at anyone time of the 5 hr journey. Not like European coaches where no-one is allowed to stand during the journey. No, here, the buses are crammed to the extend that no-one actually can fall over in the event of an emergency break. You can’t move your little finger, let alone lose balance. Ok, I admit, I exaggerate slightly but it is chaos, that’s for sure. And then the stops – as soon as the coach slows down enough to approach a stop, vendors will run alongside the bus and stick their boxes full of goods up onto window level so that all you see is boxes full of water, peanuts or trays with boiled eggs floating next to the coach. But of course you can hear the shouting of the guys trying to attract your attention, hoping you buy their goods at three times the usual price. Ha, but I had brought provisions, so, no luck with me…. On arrival you have to fight your way through a wall of taxi drivers to get to a safe place where you try to get your bearings. But Carmen and I cracked after 3 attempts to find the way to the chosen hotel, swallowing dust in the humid heat and overpaid only a little bit. The hotel was totally deserted but clean and the girl working there was so happy to have us as guests that she kept embracing us every two minutes. We found her later on the kitchen floor, passed out, having incense wafted around her head for a quick recovery. Ok, African first aid….
So, Tanga… it used to be a hot spot for slave trade and until 1898 it was the capital for the German colonialists. You can still spot some of the former splendour but due to the salty and humid air things decay rapidly. And the locals are not overly concerned with the upkeep of the intruder’s history. Throw in a couple of marvelously carved wooden doors from the Portuguese and Islamic period, holding up the otherwise collapsing buildings, great light from an ocean reflected sun, mosques, slowly passing cyclists and shambly grid of busy roads and you may get the picture. I really loved it. Carmen thought it was a shithole…. Well, different folks and so on.
After one night and a gloriously uneventful morning we moved on to Pangani. A tiny town on the coast, again, a slave trading hotspot, and one of the few spots along the coast that’s not covered in mangroves and has accessible beach. The bus ride there was even worse than the one to Tanga but thankfully shorter. The coach looked like a happy beast with not a care in the world, not minding detours, obstacles, time in general or even death. It lurched along the dirt road, roughly controlled by the driver and encouraged to stop at every other palm tree to spit out a few passengers and to drop off some cargo. Well, ok, it was man-operated, also the loading and unloading was but it didn’t feel like that. Not knowing the language and not being au-fait with the rules of getting the bus to stop didn’t help. But I thought it quite an adventure.
And then we reached Pangani to be greeted by Mr Hot-Hot ( so called because he talks so much that his mouth runs hot) who is the official tourism officer for the region. He directed us to the only bar/restaurant in town (Bar Central, apt) where we had the usual rice and beans and beef. As our camp site was south of the river we had to cross the mangrove lined river Panrani to meet our pick-up. The ferry – a wooden boat a bit bigger than a fishing boat and with a see-through floor. No, not glass, just wood not totally joined together. Water splashing through, of course. And you access it via a narrow plank. Praying you won’t slip and make a total prat of yourself. I managed. And then you get squashed again. Because that boat is capable to handle around three times the amount of people you had envisaged. All good fun. At the other side awaited Alex to stow us in his 1768 VW Camper to take us to the resort. And that’s where I became a believer! A tented resort under coco nut palms, mango trees, along a white sand beach with the Pacific gently lapping the shore. You can go into the water almost anytime of the day, it’s always warm, no jelly fish and only a few sea weeds. And you just walk along the beach in a gentle breeze for hours on end, stumbling across fishing villages where you can get the boys to climb a palm tree to get you a coco nut, open it for you and cut a spoon from the shell. Then you hop into the sea again to cool down, then you stroll back, looking for shells, to arrive at the resort in time for another swim and to get ready for a 3 course meal on the beach, listening to the waves. And then you hit the bed to get up to see an amazing sun rise. And I was totally relaxed. Just slowed down. Being there is enough. I surprised myself with being so enchanted, enjoying it so much and finding everything just fine.
Well, I’m back now, getting back into my project, tying up lose ends today, doing more painting and chasing up people. And I am enjoying that as well. But, quite honestly, I am thinking of how I can throw in a few more days at the beach…
