Back in Njombe, almost seven weeks ago, I met a South African geologist of about 30, just starting up an exploration company here in Tanzania to strike gold. Or iron, he said. I've come to decide that his mannerisms were somewhat typical of his country, after now having met four after this week, all somehow involved with mining. So maybe it's the typical mannerisms of gold-diggers (not through marriage), an ambiguity not solved, though perfectly portrayed, by DiCaprio in the movie, Blood Diamond. "Am I right, bru?"
If you haven't seen the movie, these are real men, with big character and an even bigger appetite for beer. They act like they own everything. It could be seen as quite offensive, but they manage to pull it off. I guess their charm is that while you may be slightly uncomfortable being alone in a completely different country, you get the sense they would be cracking jokes and lighting smokes even with a gun at their heads.
In Njombe, Jan (pronounced Yon) and I spend an afternoon hanging out and shooting the shit. He clearly knew his way around the country, though was quite anxious to get home to some real barbeque sauce, and I was just arriving, trying to suck as much knowledge from him as possible.
His favorite thing to say was that so and so "is the most beautiful place in the world," a phrase he used twice a minute. About the Serengeti: "You look around, and it truly is the most beautiful place in the world. But then in front of the guest house porch, there's a stinkin' outhouse - the most awful thing in the world. If they just planned it right, it would be the most beautiful place in the world."
You get my point.
Jan had never been to Matema, however, let alone without his truck. If he had, his statements would only have been an echo to what was going on in my head.
Izack and I started walking at 4:00 a.m. Thursday morning. It was a walk we knew in the dark; the same one we made that day I got sick, except that this time things went right. I felt great, and not a cloud in the sky to wreck my view and sunrise.
Once we got to Utengule, that last village before the the lake, a friend of ours set us up with some breakfast, and the sun was just peaking over the hills of Bulongwa as we set off on the rest of our trip. It was three hours walking to there, and it would be another three hours, 7000 feet straight down.
The hike was incredible. Super steep, technical terrain, winding down the face of a cliff at times, as it passed from raw, crisp and cold grasslands to damp forest, to almost jungle. Just when I was feeling like a total badass - sweat dripping down my face, sharpened bamboo walking stick in hand (a gift from a friend at the top), rugged hiking boots and bag, and manly, not-so white beater - an old woman appears, clad in full kanga and foam flip-flops with a parcel on her head. Right, it's not hiking, it's commuting.
Descending 7000 feet in 3 hours was no easy feat. It's pretty much like three hours of wall sits, and by the time we got to the bottom, our quads were thankful to be on flat land.
The Rift Valley is amazing; a point not lost on one of the South Africans I would meet in Matema, Timothy, who endlessly repeated that this was the birthplace of life, and paradise. Highland gives way to lowlands in sharp jagged peaks that meet at almost right angles. That is to say, you could pinpoint the exact step where mountain and plain meet.
At the bottom, it's a different Tanzania. It's the land of banana, mango, cocoa, palm, you name it, plantations. It also has a different feel. Unlike Bulongwa's sparse, grassy hills, the dense vegetation and flat surface here are enclosing. The road continues straight and flat, but you never know what's behind the next overhanging palm. Settlements appear and disappear, homes with naked children chasing chickens, dried riverbeds, a washed out bridge; evidence of an almost forgotten rain season.
All this I saw from my perch, standing in the bed of the ghettoist Toyota pick-up that could be. "The body is finished, but the engine is good," I'm told. It started first try. It was our short ride from the bottom of the mountain to Matema beach!
Lake Nyasa is as incredible as they say, if not more. If my pictures turn out half as dramatic as reality, it will still be unbelievable. Rich sandy beaches sprawl across the Northern shore from the faded blue hills of Malawi to the wall that is Livingstonia. Lush, sharp peaks break from the crystal water, whose flat horizon is dotted with fishing dhows. Matema should be a beach resort, but it's really nothing but a starting point for the journey of fish to Mbeya.
It's off the beaten path, but some tourists make it, with effort. I met two girls from England who arrived via Mbeya, and they reported having to take three cars from there - a total of 7 hours. The ride from Bulongwa to Mbeya being six, our exhuasting hike took half the time of driving.
With these girls, I went hiking again on Friday, two hours up to a frigid waterfall. When we finally arrived, we hung out for a while, talking about our experiences and stuff, then one said, "Did you really come over those mountains? There's been a whisper in the village." That helped remove the commuter woman from memory.
I did the hike to the falls barefoot because I stupidly only brought hiking boots, and the way up is to zigzag through the rapids. That was the beginning of my transformation. Our guide commented, "I've never seen Mzungu walk without shoes so fast." That, a few compliments on my Kiswahili, and the effects of the sun, and I was on my way.
When we got back, we met the South Africans I mentioned earlier. Timothy was 40, the other was probably in his early fifties, but looked well beyond that. We called him Old Man, and spent the afternoon and evening - Izack, those two, and the two Brits - hanging out on the beach, drinking local juices and beer, reading, talking, swimming. It was nice and relaxing. The South Africans got a little drunk and rowdy, but it was all in good fun. Timothy continued to rave about the Rift, and may have used Jan's phrase a couple times. For a geo-technician, his science was questionable, and his repetitive statements were all too well characterized by his need to go on and on about what he smoked in Malawi while working a uranium mine. The old one, who had obviously heard this all too often on their road trip to the beach, snored softly against a nearby tree.
As the sun set, we watched Old Man slither his way across the beach to his room.
This morning we were up again early; beating the equatorial sun. When we started climbing again, a path that seemed even steeper, if possible, than in descent, Izack informed me that it would probably take us 6 hours to reach Utengule. Then we had three more hours to Bulongwa; we were in for a long day!
But somehow, after the first hour, we had made good headway, and weren't showing signs of letting up. We took one break to split a papaya, a gift from one of the plantations at the bottom, and managed to race up in 3 and a half hours! We raced up, but on any small downhill sections, we crawled. Our legs were still mush from coming down.
With the steam we built going up, we powerwalked the 20 k to Bulongwa in a little over two hours. We were passing merchants on their way to the market left and right. None of them could believe our speed or that we were coming from the bottom. When we finally collapsed at Lupasso - home - Izack turned to me and said, "Now you're African. Only we can walk fast like that."
So that's the story of how I finally saw my sunrise(s), the lake, and became Afrikan, with a k, in the most beautiful place(s) in the world.
Tutaonana badai,
Gébé (as it is pronounced here)
P.S. I don't think my legs, feet, or back will ever let me walk again. I boast now because that status won't ever again be mine.
