Titanic: the end or the other side

On our way to the Indian Ocean we experience for the umpteenth time the aggravation that is caused by the headwind. This aggravation is usually worsened by a very low speed while we are cycling and working like madmen. Today's frustration is caused by the fact that we're descending from an upland plain at about 1.000 metre to sea-level, without for a moment actually feeling that we're descending. And descending can be so wonderful: hearing the sound of the wind soughing around your ears and seeing the counter go past fifty or sixty kilometres without lifting a finger or a toe in this case. That's a party we have to miss this time, taken away by an invisible enemy.
We cycle into the clammy Tanga, Tanzania's third large town, situated at the north-east coast. The 'centre' of town breathes the atmosphere of the German colonial rule at the end of the 19th and the beginning of the 20th century. Some buildings are still standing from this period, but without exception very dilapidated. We wouldn't be surprised if the Swahili-language wouldn't know an equivalent for the word 'maintenance'. Not only the buildings in Tanga are decaying: many hotels got the worst of it, the three internet-cafes have no connection to the server about 90% of the time, streets look shabby and most shops seem to have closed up many years ago. On top of it all the Ramadan is used by most people here to lengthen their usual siesta until it covers the whole day, which makes the town look like a ghost town.

After three days we've had enough of it and get on our loyal two-wheelers. Between Tanga and Bagamoyo there is about 220 kilometre of unpaved road, that partly doesn't even exist on our map. According to the local people there are paths. We will see, some uncertainty never has done us any harm. Without a scratch we reach Pangani the first day, over average gravel-roads passing vast sisal-plantations in a murdering hot Tanzanian steam-bath.

Pangani, situated at the mouth of the river of the same name, used to be an important shipping-port about a hundred years ago. In that time it was the most important transit-port for the slave-trade. The slaves arrived in Pangani after a long march from the interior, to be inspected, traded and transported to Zanzibar and other far-away destinations. We visit the inspection-building: by means of torture the strong and the weak were separated. The cellars were used as storage for the slaves, until there was enough merchandise. Then the slaves were led to the ships on the river by an underground passage. Unfortunately the building can't be entered anymore, because it might collapse any moment now. Near to the market-place where the slaves were sold, you can still see the old prison. Here the disobedient slaves were hung upside down at rafters that were especially fitted for this purpose. This building as well is on the verge of collapsing, so we have to peer through the holes in the walls to catch a glimpse of the interior.

At the river we see two ferries, that are supposed to transport people and cars to the opposite side of the river. Both ferries have broken down. One of them is being repaired by a number of men in dirty overalls, who are taking the engine apart. In the meantime people, bicycles, animals and freight is taken across by small and old wooden motor-boats, which by the owner's standards are full enough when they start making water during the trip. We count forty people aboard, where we think that ten would be enough as well.

Praying that one of the ferries is repaired, we cycle to the quay early the next morning. It didn't help very much. The ferry lies there just as helpless as it did yesterday. Two wooden motor-boats, packed to the brims, cross the (nice and calm) river from one side to the other. Sighing we unload our bicycles and carry our things in the small Titanic. Wisely we refuse all offers to help us, knowing that most of the time - by accident - something is helped to pieces. When the rickety boat, loaded with twenty people, eight bicycles and a lot of cargo, to our opinion has more than enough draught, we press the steersman to leave. To our relief he listens. Are we going to survive this adventure after all?
Without prayers we safely and completely dry reach the other side of the river. This was enough excitement for one day for us.

In hindsight our early departure was a good and wise decision. It's over eighty kilometres to Sadani, a village in the game-park of the same name and our goal of the day. After forty kilometres of stones and hard ground, we are treated to sand-paths. Except for a single local cyclist who seems to be lost there is no traffic at all. We drag the bicycles through the sand, cycle for thirty metres and come to a standstill at the next sandpit, panting and sweating. We don't really get a move on. As usual at the most difficult moments something terrible gets added to our problems: flies. In the endless fields of dry bushes and trees we are the only living creatures and target of the month. Our eyes, ears, noses and mouths are especially popular with these buzzers that crawl with bacteria themselves. I curse at them and get very angry, but they are stickers or they don't understand Dutch.

After twenty kilometres of sweat, dust, flies and large stretches of beach-walking, we suspect to have reached Sadani National Reserve, when we see warthogs, Natal Red duikers, waterbuck and monkeys around us. A Landrover containing three white people gives us the security we seek. The last kilometres are not as difficult, because the subsoil is harder. We cycle through a big, creaky salt-plain and arrive a little while later at our destination, completely ruined.
The four-room guesthouse, a government-property, is situated at the Indian Ocean. We are the only guests, swim naked in the warm sea in the moonlight and look from this heavenly place to millions of stars and the reflection of the moon in our enormous swimming-pool.

Nice, such a journey around the world!