Kilimanjaro seemed to watch us from the horizon as we rolled into the city of Arusha, which snapped us back to reality after the dream that was Nairobi. Four Walkman batteries cost the same as one lobster Thermador!
Posted my fabric purchases and nine letters. Shopped for stores with Nikki. Saw some fantastic Maasai carvings with elongated smooth skulls and pendulous ears. I couldn't decide whether to buy now or wait until tomorrow, and when Jim's encouragement to get the one I liked sent me back to the shop it was closed.
While guarding at the truck a beggar boy hassled me, peeing – unhanded – onto the ground and my shoe while standing right in front of me. Wanted to rub his nose in it like a puppy.
We passed Maasai figures in their distinctive red robes and a few thorn-bush villages on the potholed drive to Lake Manyara Hotel. The road deteriorated and the sky clouded as we turned off but, somehow, we drove between walls of rain and grey clouds and a massive dust storm that reddened the sky and blacked out the hills. A steep drive up onto the western escarpment gave us spectacular views over the Rift Valley and the lake, the winding drive seeming to climb into the clouds before we caught sight of the hotel perched on the edge of the escarpment like a bird of prey. A footpath down to the valley floor slashed red across the vertical horseshoe of rock.
We camped overlooking the valley under a threatening sky and rostered ½-hour guard shifts for the Lake Manyara Hotel dinner - the most memorable meal I’ve experienced so far on continental Africa (the hotel still operates and I doubt that it is still the same as reviewed here). Having stumbled from the truck on the escarpment edge by the light of Ann’s torch to the hotel's hallowed halls, we squeezed onto a group table for the feast: a choice of consommé or vegetable soup, chicken, pork or mutton, and chocolate cake. Well, Ann and I were served vegetable soup without being given the option of consommé – our bowls filled with a pale filmy liquid sprinkled with vegetables that resembled our washing up water after a big meal. Butter was at a premium, Bob raiding other tables when the waiters were away; bread rolls were only grudgingly provided, as were serviettes, and only after Markus asked four times and finally told them that if none came he would use the tablecloth. A waiter gave us four serviettes for 12 people. My pork was delicious, but the aggressive staff would not put two meals aside for those on guard duty, instead serving one meal to the table, where it promptly went cold, and taking it back to the kitchen only after four requests. The grand finale was dessert, each plate bearing a minute triangle of cake prettily decorated with a swirl of cream but with the taste and texture of cardboard. What a contrast to the huge slabs of camp-made chocolate cake we ate the night before and for afternoon tea. Then they literally hustled us out of the restaurant as soon as we’d paid our bills, which laughingly included a service charge.
Ejected from the restaurant, we headed to the hotel bar for a half hour show of chanting, singing, drumming, grunting, hip gyrating, buttock rocking, muscle building, foot stomping, whistle blowing, competitive, grinning, enthusiastic fun. A wonderful compromise between tradition – a fun floor show that seemed to be enjoyed ty the dancers as much as by us. The performers' costumes were a mix of peacock blue track suits decorated with paper cutouts and bright patterned cottons, the women’s dresses tightly sashed to emphasise their buttocks, which they thrust from side to side to the rapid drum beats,; the drums were a collection of old oil and gas tins, one bearing the Shell symbol; a wooden xylophone attempted to provide some sense of harmony.
Watching these people's innate rhythm, physical presence and sensuality, I wondered how many other peoples have managed to retain their primitive traditions of dance without being suppressed by religion and “civilization”. I remembered the dance workshop Ray and I went to where dancers performed from many different cultural groups; I remember the delicate beauty and refinement of some of the Asian groups, the suppressed, asexual dances of some of the Eastern and Southern Europeans and the macho, sensual strutting of the Argentinians. I am far more comfortable with the open physicality of the Africans and their obvious joys in that freedom.
This exhilarating barrage of sound and sight made up for the comical meal. And it cost all of $2 black-market money. I feel sorry for those paying the legal rate of $14l. We thanked the dancers and shook outstretched hands before wending our way back to the truck.
Woken by the noisy arrival of Gary and Linda – well lubricated. Ann and I suppressed giggles at Linda’s attempts to ensure Gary didn’t upend the pancake batter or stand in the bowl of water. I remember thinking it must be breakfast time but it was the middle of the night.
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