Early start, with Kel changing the tyres over again but still unable to pinpoint the leak in the tube.
Few minor April Fools' jokes but nothing spectacular. Myrta cried “spider” to a slumbering Markus and Nikki told Kel one of the tyres on the other side was leaking. Travelled in the truck cab to Dodoma, driving on bad roads with little to see above the roadside infestations of thorns, seemingly the most successful “crop” in this area.
Dodoma was designated the new capital of Tanzania in 1973 - the relocation process stalled many times and Dar es Salaam is still viewed as the capital by many - but it's no shining city. Rundown stores and bright new brick constructions line its rutted roads, everything covered in a fine layer of dust lifting off the streets. Samosa boys and men and women laden with food, one woman bearing a huge sack of dried beans (product of USA) fill the streets and we found a musical quartet playing on a grassed area, drummers accompanying a wall-eyed man working a large wooden bow across a long-necked stringed instrument creating a weird melodious and almost wailing sound.
We "did" Dodoma in short time, with no souvenirs or materials to delay us. We did, though, find a fabulous fruit and vegetable market hung with pineapples and bananas. And Kelvin found a mechanic who fixed the tyre, jack and springs. He also found black market petrol (70 gallons for $US21), his activity fuelled by a Lion Bar, one of the essentials - biscuits, local wine, chocolate, cheese, butter - that Nikki found in a local minimarket.
We needed water but the pipes were "down" in Dodoma, even though we saw a street vehicle sprinkling clear fluid on the road to settle the dust. So we departed the bustling metropolis of Dodoma unsure how much we've got left in the truck tank, but the truck sloshing with local red wine and our pockets emptied of all but our last Tanzanian shillings.
Long bumpy afternoon with occasional flat road and a shimmer of sunlight reflected off a thin strip of water far out on our right that was Mtera Dam. Green hills gently curving the horizon offered the only relief from thorn country.
We came upon a tiny market in the middle of nowhere and baking in the hot sun. It was a glimpse of tribal rural Africa we have missed over the last weeks: an explosion of noise and colour against the reds of the soil. In the central eating area were huge pots of beans, vegetables and rice that fed two rows of eaters. Here too were stalls selling strings of plastic beads, a kaleidoscope of yellows, blues, greens; bright Kanga fabrics; nylon women's underwear in garish shades edged with not quite matching lace; mangoes and a few vegetables; piles of grey/white rocks that tasted salty; leaf-wrapped packages of pressed tobacco; a mountain of shoes made out of tyres, footwear that many of the marketers wore and which gave them a strange inflexible, almost stiff, gate. At the very back was a fenced cattle compound containing agitated animals and a ring of stick wielding men trying to steer individual animals out of the corral by beating them. Several roped animals were so frisky they towed their handlers through the crowd and rather violently in our direction. The rest of the beasts were visible as a mass of horns between raised arms and packed bodies.
This is the first time I’ve seen Maasai in a community setting other than their own villages. Maasai warriors towered above the other market goers, taller, more regal and almost beautiful. One figure robed in red wore his own hair twisted and joined to long braided ochre wool forming tresses. His walk was a swinging prance, his body erect. Others of similar stature wore brown robes and short hair, some with distended ear lobes, and others still wore navy and red togas. Their tribal origins were unclear to us but their pride and arrogance perfectly partnered their lean muscled bodies and long limbs. I can see why these people consider themselves superior to the other tribes, they are handsome, even beautiful, strong and tall.
We camped on a pathway between trees, near two majestic baobab trees. Markus bombarded Myrta with cow dung as predinner entertainment, and our post-dinner evening was well lubricated by Dodoma wine, a noisy revelry of songs, laughter and antics that went well into the night.
I was not in the mood to join in, finding myself thinking more and more about people and things in Britain and home and not interacting as much with those on the truck. Somehow managed to fall asleep, waking to put up a mossie net and climb into my sleeping sheet.
Caption: Maasai by wirestock on Freepik
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