Mwanza

It did not take me long to be reminded that one cannot put too much stock in making plans in Africa. This is one of the things that most frustrated me when I lived here but at the same time one of the things that made life here an adventure. On the Monday after I arrived in Uganda I went to Port Bell, only a few kilometers from the city on the shore of Lake Victoria, to inquire about taking the ferry to Mwanza, a town on the southern shore of the lake in Tanzania where I would be spending the next few months. Port Bell was once a thriving center of trade. Now it is a sleepy pier with a few old fishing boats with rusted hulls rocking rhythmically on the water and several weathered buildings with broken windows monitoring the goings-on at the port. I was told that there would be a cargo ferry leaving for Mwanza the next Wednesday and that I could catch a ride for about $15. So, on Wednesday I packed up my things and headed for the port...only to arrive and be told that, "The ferry it did not come...you come back tomorrow." And so I returned to Kampala with plans on catching the ferry the next evening. When I arrived the next afternoon I was pleased to see the ferry present and being loaded with coal and banana bunches. However my pleasure was quickly turned to frustration when a sour immigration officer bluntly told me, "The ferry is here but there will be no passengers." After talking to several officials at the dock and calling the ferry manager in Tanzania I was informed that the Tanzanian government had just that day ordered that no passengers could enter Tanzania via ferry from Kenya or Uganda, citing the ebola scare in Uganda and the violence in Kenya as reasons. I had to find another route to Tanzania.

Early the next morning I packed my things and headed downtown to the bus park. The bus park is something you have to experience and cannot accurately describe, but it is like a living organism. Hundreds of buses somehow squeeze into a dirt parking lot which on this rainy day was more like a swamp. Buses traveling to various parts of the country line up in designated areas of the park and coach-line employees call out advertisements of their destinations. The competition to have passengers fill their buses sparks aggressive solicitation. If you are not careful employees may grab your bags off your shoulders and carry them quickly toward their buses. There is no timeline. A bus will leave when it is full. During the wait vendors selling soft drinks, beer, matoke, and hot stew board the bus and squeeze their way up and down the isles seeking customers. You can also buy a nice pair of socks, a shirt, perhaps an iron or any other conceivable good that may very well find its way onto the bus. It is fascinating. It is also uncomfortable and hot and patience is requisite.

Two hours after boarding a bus heading for the Tanzanian border we were finally on the road. After leaving the city limits we made our way speedily over potholed roads through groves of banana trees, then some small areas of jungle growth that have survived being cleared to make farmland, then low-lying swampland and finally, after 7 hours on the bus, to the rolling, cattle covered hills at the Tanzanian border. Here everyone disembarked, grabbed their belongings, and walked across the no-man's land and into Tanzania. Here I caught a local taxi with room for 13 but filled with 20 and spent an extremely uncomfortable 20 minute ride to Bukoba, a town on the shore of Lake Victoria where, I was told, I really could catch a ferry the rest of the way to Mwanza.

The reports were correct. I got to the pier in time to purchase a third class ticket for the 13 hour ferry ride across the lake...and I was overjoyed! I met several very nice Tanzanians who not only gave me good company during the ride but who also gave me pointers about travel on the ferry. We all made our way into the lower hold where we found seats on the rows of old wooden benches with metal luggage racks overhead. The seats were tight, but I was on the ferry and I had no complaints. I knew I was in for a long night, though, seeing as we had 13 hours ahead of us and we were packed in so tightly that there was no way anyone would get any sleep...or so I thought...

Several hours after we left the pier there was some cue that set everyone into a flurry of activity. People began climbing up onto the luggage racks, under the benches, finding space on the floors and spreading out across the benches and settling in for the night's sleep. Before I knew it every inch of space from floor to benches to luggage racks was filled with bodies comfortably prepared for a good nights sleep. The only one, I think, who was not comfortable was me as my sense of personal space kept me sitting upright in my seat for the duration of the journey! Sometime during the night I had slouched in my seat and dozed, and when I awoke someone's head was occupying most of my seat and I was left precariously perched on the forward 5 inches of my seat. The only saving grace was that I was seated next to one of the windows and had a fresh breeze blowing in my face the whole night. As uncomfortable a night as it was...indeed I thought it would never end...I was glad that I had not arrived early enough to have been able to spend the 3 extra dollars to be in a sleeping room as the experience was memorable, and the people I met were a joy to talk to, even through the language barrier.

At about sunrise the next day Mwanza came into view. We slowly made our way past fishermen casting their nets from small canoes, past the unique rock formations that mark the southern shore of Lake Victoria, and finally to the port at Mwanza. Exhausted, I hailed a taxi and made the 5 minute drive up the hill to Bugando Hospital, where I would spend the next month and a half doing...I knew not yet what.