The Lagosa Project

Prepare yourself, this one's long.
There was no road on either of our maps. A small mountain range lay between us and a tiny town named Lagosa, on the eastern shore of Lake Tanganyika, another of Africa's Great Lakes and the second largest after Lake Victoria. Regardless, we had inside information of a small road cutting through the mountains; a Swiss cyclist Mario met in Zimbabwe had come through there seven months before. His stories of a truly off-the-beaten-track experience sparked Mario's lust for adventure, and, in turn, my own.

DAY I

We left Mpanda on a typically sunny Sunday morning. Puny and dusty by our standards, Mpanda was a major stop halfway along western Tanzania's only north – south road, a rough dirt road that traversed one national park and countless villages that didn't figure on our maps.

At the town pump, where we stopped to fill our water bottles and bags, a disgruntled young man circled us, yelling unpleasantries in Swahili and broken English. Apparently, he felt he was eligible to receive handouts from us because of our differing socio-economic backgrounds, or differing skin colors. We ignored him, just as all his town mates did, and cycled out of town without further hassle.

After the population had already thinned to sparse homesteads, we found the turnoff for Lake Tanganyika, and, presumably, Lagosa, with the help of a tough and tiny old woman. She had one good eye and maybe eight good teeth, carried a bucket of fruit on her head and had a wizened look of confidence that surely came from an uneasy life. Although she spoke no English, with hand signals, the name of our destination, and a bit of patience, we were able to get the point across.

A restaurant in a hamlet at the junction made for a convenient break. It was a typical African hamlet restaurant: shack-like and spartan (but for a calendar with large-breasted girls sponsored by either the national beer or Coca Cola), with a dirt floor, a few simple wooden tables and benches, a closet-sized kitchen of wood coals and banged pots, and a grimy counter displaying some deep-fried pastries to eat with tea. A giddy old man was delighted to see us and repeatedly welcomed us, which offset the earlier experience with the disgruntled young man.

Heading down the single – lane track toward Lagosa, we stopped several times for confirmations of the route. Many people eyed us suspiciously or fearfully, no doubt wondering what in the world a couple of mzungus (East Africa's word for “whitey”) were doing cycling through their remote neck of the woods. At the same time, many others greeted us hospitably.

The tiny villages and settlements became less frequent as the road entered increasingly virgin woodland, where trees sprouted from a thick, rough carpet of drying grass. I always half expected, and hoped, to spot a buffalo or zebra peering at me over the chest-high grass, but never did. It was blissfully peaceful: no people for several kilometers at a time, no annoying insects, just the occasional chirping bird, fluttering butterfly, or rustling breeze. It was the first quiet we'd had for days, and I enjoyed it immensely.

From flat, grassy woodland we gradually ascended to lush, hilly forest, and passed through a village that was the largest since the junction. It was nestled on the gentle slope of a hill surrounded by petite mountains wooly with vegetation. We stopped for a drink at the only shop in town. The shopkeeper was a city-educated businessman who'd moved there to start a new life and spoke English well. He was one of two people in the village who spoke decent English, the other being the schoolteacher. The teacher was an older man who'd apparently lived in Michigan for seven years as a kid and even sang me a couple folk tunes - an awkward moment because he sang with heart but still sounded terrible and all I recognized from the tunes was the word Tennessee.

Put at ease by their enthusiasm and effusive hospitality, we chatted with the two for over an hour, while the rest of the village inhabitants, or a large part of them, gathered around and watched. During this time, Mario and I decided to buy a chicken for dinner, so I went with the teacher's son to catch a hen, which he sold to us for 2000 Tanzanian Shillings, or $1.40.
As evening approached, their hospitality, initially comforting, gave us a sense of urgency. We had slept in other small villages under similar circumstances and it was an experience I preferred to avoid; the overt friendliness and curiosity of the villagers translated into a complete loss of privacy. With the hen tied by her feet atop Mario’s rear rack, we cycled out of the village into a small valley winding between unimposing, verdant peaks in search of a campsite. We crossed over streams and passed small banana plantations and homesteads. Children gathering water at a stream vanished into the bushes as we approached; perhaps we were the first mzungus they'd seen.

Ten km from our last stop, we followed a rough-hewn path off the road and through coarse grass to an open, rectangular, thatched-roof shelter. It was made of a mish-mash of sticks, grasses, bamboo and corn leaves, and overlooked a lazily-planted field of some maize and tomatoes being overrun by wild grasses and bushes. A simple fireplace of three stones in the center of the shelter provided us with a place to roast the bird. It was home for the night.

While I gathered firewood and fashioned a wooden spit for the hen, Mario killed and prepared her. Skinny and tough, like all the free-range, semi-wild chickens here, the bird was nonetheless delicious, if only because of all the effort to cook her.

After dinner we took turns playing my pygmy djembe drum, while the faint but clear rhythms of festive drumming from a nearby settlement drifted through the night and commingled with our own. As we prepared for sleep, an obviously perturbed individual walked by, moaning and wailing contorted sounds that faded as he passed down the road. No police around to lock him up and no one who wanted to take care of him, I guess. But, as Mario put it, the village is the police if they decide to burn or stone him. I drifted uneasily to sleep, lying on the ground in my sleeping bag, next to my bike.

DAY II

A late start – 11:30 – and rough road meant we covered little ground today, only 50km, compared with yesterday's 72. The first 15km of the day we passed a lot of people, which was strange considering there were no villages to be seen. Most of them carried loads on their heads or bicycles, so I reasoned they may have been on their way to a market somewhere.

After passing the majority, we stopped for a break under a tree where two young boys had a tray full of miniature bananas for sale. They eyed us with curiosity and caution from behind the tree as we devoured the yellow treats. Mario wanted to get a photo of them, but when he took out his bulky camera, fear overcame them. Both sprung to their feet, the smaller one melted into the wall of grass behind, and the other stood at a distance, poised for flight. Mario put the camera away. Still, the younger boy never reappeared, and the other stood still until after we'd dropped some coins into the tray and left.

For a couple of hours after that, we saw no one. The road became very rocky and climbed sharply up the forested hills; we were forced to push a number of times. All was quiet. A particularly steep and rocky climb had me panting like a dog before rewarding me with several kilometers of level riding. Highlands of tangled, untamed forest stretched out as far as we could see. A tall, slender cattle herder in rubber boots and tattered clothes made space for me to pass through his herd, driving the docile cows apart with whistles and a simple stick. Poor saps, I thought, so easily maneuvered and without a clue of the fate awaiting them.

After descending into another valley, I entered a village where Mario was waiting for me with a diminutive old man. He was dressed sharply in slacks, buttoned shirt, huge spectacles and a Muslim cap. We tried asking him where we could find water and a place to sleep, since it was getting late. He didn't know a word of English, but was more than happy to deliver us an engaging monologue in Swahili, unconcerned by the fact that we had no idea what he was saying.

A little farther on, we found a group of men repairing a bicycle, one of whom knew basic English. He led me to a marshy water hole and walked knee-deep into the murky water to fill up our water bag, not wanting me to get wet. He then drew us a surprisingly detailed map on a scrap of old paper showing the way to the nearby village center. There was only one main road and then a fork just 50m before the center, but, in typical African fashion, he took great care to explain the route to us multiple times, lest we got lost. Funny, but appreciated.

Before reaching the center, we followed a lightly-trodden footpath a short distance off the main road and camped in semi-sheltered shrub land. Peace and privacy were secured once again.

While contingents of fortunately pacifistic ants scouted our belongings and the tent's interior, we ended the day with a delicious dinner of burned spaghetti and over-spicy sauce.

DAY III

Each day was slower and more challenging than the previous. I awoke with sore legs from yesterday's ascents and broke my fast with banana, cardboard-flavored biscuits, and murky marsh water coffee.

The village center was only 3km away and demanded a stop to fill up on bottled water, as well as for Mario to try to replace his pedal, which had broken off the day before and left just a thin, round shaft to pedal on. For twenty minutes, while a group of kids stared with keen interest, we tried, unsuccessfully, to remove the shaft, which had been left untouched for so long it was practically welded on. He was forced to continue pedaling with only one pedal.

Rust-colored adobe homes on the village outskirts stood out sharply against a deep green background of banana palms, and looked as if they had magically sprouted straight out of the reddish earth from which they were made. As they were left behind, the single-lane 4x4 track degraded into an eroded livestock trail. Twice, it dropped steeply to cross easily forded streams, once with a herd of goats and their boy pastor, and then climbed equally steeply away from the water.

After numerous short but demanding climbs, the track began a long, precipitous, and painfully rocky descent from the mountains that made yesterday's rocky stretches seem like light warm ups. From semi-arid scrubland through bamboo forest and into shady jungle, I coaxed the cumbersome bike of burden down the quarry-like track, riding the brakes the whole way, suffering many an uncomfortable jolt, and dropping the poor mule multiple times.

The few guys I passed, pushing their bikes up the mountain, looked weary and less than satisfied with their lots in life. Others were clearing land with flame and machete, most likely for cultivation of banana and cassava, while some gathered bamboo, which grew in 8-10m tall clusters like the leaves of a gargantuan carrot.

By the time the track leveled out on the jungly valley floor, it had turned into a simple path. It cut through the cool, shady forest, periodically over pristine, bubbling creeks, through 1-3m tall grass, and past settlements with humble plantations of banana and cassava. Whenever we passed settlements, some kids would sound the alarm, shrieking, Mzunguuuuuu!! Mzungu! Mzungu! while others darted out of our way and into the vegetation.

Tired and at the end of the afternoon, we entered a village and, right on the main "road," or path, were lucky enough to run into probably the only person there who spoke English. He was 20-25 years old, smaller than me, enthusiastic and always spoke with a beaming, contagious smile. Peter was his name, and he almost instantly became our village guide for the day, though not without a modest fee, it turned out.

He took us to a bush restaurant, as he called it (the village's only one), where we snacked and drank tasty, super-sweet tea, to the fascination of the 20-plus onlookers who stood around us for over an hour. Eventually, after we proved to be quite normal and boring, most left us for more entertaining subjects.

Dinner was served about two hours after we ordered (campfire cooking isn't the most efficient): rice and beans for me, and antelope with chima (see My Bike the Teacher – Good Diet) for Mario. My beans tasted expired but the antelope was tender and savory.

Following dinner, a young man sitting next to me introduced himself to us. He spoke English fairly well (had even read Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe, for those who know) and studied in Kigoma, a relatively large city in the north of Tanzania, and our next major destination. Taking advantage of an opportunity to practice his English, he explained that he was on his way to visit his parents. They lived in the village we had passed through in the morning and he hadn't seen them for over two years. On our road network, the 240km trip would be an easy afternoon in the car, while here it was a three-day journey by ferry and foot over lake and mountains, and apparently, considering he hadn't made the trip for over two years, prohibitively expensive. Or maybe he just didn’t get along with his cattle-herder parents.

That night we camped just behind the bush restaurant. A small group of observers quietly discussed the alien tent and our curious necessities for the night while we unpacked. Our distance after four hours in the saddle: 49km.

DAY IV

The sounds of roosters crowing and the village stirring to life woke us early. Doing our best to ignore the starers, we broke camp and had a simple breakfast of sugar tea, cardboard biscuits, and papaya, which could be seen growing on trees all around. On our way out of the village, we turned down the wrong path. Peter caught us a minute later on a bike and led us to the proper one. It was the first of many wrong turns that day, which turned out to be a long, frustrating battle against the language barrier. It was also a day of varied scenery, ranging from palm forest to hilly jungle to flat, sandy grassland, to tall rainforest and sunken rice paddies before ending in a village on the beach of Lake Tanganyika.

A dangerously steep but short descending path took us clear of the small mountain range we'd been in for three days and down to the level of the expansive lake. There on a plain, an overshadowing wall of grass contained us in a shoulder-wide, twisting corridor fraught with blind turns. Around one such turn, a local came speeding on his bicycle and nearly crashed into me; I hit the brakes and swerved into the forgiving wall of grass.

As the beach grew closer, the path grew sandier and the human presence more pronounced. As a result, a growing network of crisscrossing paths continually complicated our navigation. Several times, we were led by homeowners through their gardens and behind their houses to the correct route.

Like a couple of confused parrots, we repeated our destination to people at every fork in the path, in hopes of directions or confirmations of our route, Lagosa? Lagosa? Oddly, many people didn't seem to have a clue where Lagosa was or that it even existed. Perhaps they didn't know the official name or were too flabbergasted by our sudden appearance to try to communicate with us. Either way, Lagosa appeared to grow more distant with our every query of its whereabouts.

Some streams had to be forded, and one had to be crossed by walking the bikes precariously over two unevenly-laid logs, the larger of which was no more than 15cm/6in thick. The muddy pool 1m below, out of which two boys were fishing catfish with bamboo poles, threatened to engulf us and our belongings in foul sloppiness. Fortunately, it did not, probably disappointing the bystanders who'd gathered on both sides of the crossing.

Upon entering a village, we stopped and asked a guy how far Lagosa was.
"Two – hun – dred," was the answer in broken English.
"Two hundred what? Meters or Kilometers?"
"Kilometers."
"Two hundred kilometers?"
"Oh, no, uhhh…..one thou – sand."
"One thousand kilometers?"
"No, 1000 meters."
"So, one kilometer?"
"Two thou-sand."
"Two thousand kilometers?" we confirmed jokingly, now that it was clear he hadn't any idea what he was saying.

"Oh…don't know," he confessed with resignation and a modest smile.

"OKAY," we chuckled and carried on.

Making a break to eat some oranges we'd bought from a roadside vendor, we attracted the usual crowd.
I sarcastically addressed the group, "Don't know how to eat an orange?"
My only response, from the man at the front of the crowd, was an enthusiastic OK! with a huge smile, nod, and thumbs up. As if in a classroom, Mario held up an orange and histrionically demonstrated how to cut it. Then, just for fun, we moved out of sight behind a tree. Some repositioned to peer around the trunk.

With much-needed help from several folks, we found our way out of the village, through more sand and grass, and between rice paddies to…Lagosa?? No, this was Mgambo, or, who knew? We tried to communicate with hand signals, drawing in the dirt, and Mario's international picture book.

An old lady in the town center, while organizing piles of drying beans on a woven mat, motioned that Lagosa was farther up the lake, nodding apologetically and lamenting, mzungu, mzungu, as if to say, "Poor, poor clueless white child."

Yes, others confirmed, this was Mgambo.

Shucks. But the ferry to Kigoma stops here?

Yes, the ferry stops here, maybe tonight around 21:00.
But no, others interjected, that one is going to Zambia. The one to Kigoma will be tomorrow or the day after.

Weary and frustrated with this uncertain conclusion to a long day, we were at our wit's end about our next move. Then, a student showed up to make sense of it all. Like the last student we met, he spoke English relatively well, studied in Kigoma, and was visiting his parents.

It was true, he reconfirmed after asking some friends, that we were in Mgambo. But, he learned while he translated for us, Mgambo and Lagosa were actually two names for the same place. He also confirmed that the ferry would be leaving for Kigoma the day after tomorrow. Although the information was slightly relieving, we were not relieved to find out we'd have to spend the following two days in this quiet, dull town full of bored people with little to do other than loiter about and catch sightings of the mzungus.

The student led us through the town (relative term) to a place with the uncommon luxury of refrigerated drinks. There we received the bad news that there was no guest house in town, but that we could stay with him in his parents' spacious home. I wanted to pedal away. Staying with his family would lead to the same issues of privacy I've already mentioned, and would no doubt end with a pitch for cash; he was city-educated and therefore wise to the ways of the white world (in large part confirmed by his urging us to visit his sick grandma - a common ploy).

Finally, some good news from a friend of his ended our gloom: there was a guest house in town; they just had to find the man with the keys. It didn't take long before we were each checked into our own white, stained cubicle just large enough to accommodate a single bed and our gear. Each had an open window hole, covered by cardboard in my room and a grain sack in Mario's, locking doors and that most elusive and cherished quality: privacy. We rejoiced and celebrated with a bucket bath (a bucket full of water and a cup to dowse yourself), partially removing four days of bodily filth. It was glorious.

From my bed that night, at nearly 2am, I heard the blasting horn of an approaching ferry. I jumped out of bed and knocked on Mario's door, prepared to throw my things together and rush out to catch the transport. Mario didn't answer, and I decided it wasn't a good idea; we had no idea where on the endless beach we were supposed to catch the boat, nor whether it was going south to Zambia or north to Kigoma. Furthermore, we didn't know how to glean that information, after the locals had proven to be quite uninformed earlier that day. The Lagosa Project was threatening to become a rather drawn-out affair. Music helped ease me back to sleep, distracting me from the ferry's parting horn and the fear that we'd be stuck there for another week.