My traveling companions are fighting violent food poisoning, which is what they deserve for losing at street food roulette. Seriously, sticking with the Zanzibar pizzas (a bunch of things--and in Zanzibar proper the things include cheese and mayonnaise!--and an egg rolled up in dough and deep-fried) means the only thing to fear is the grease, but no, they had to attempt the tempting piles of seafood. I will leave my own fondness for street octopus unmentioned. While I wait on them recovering, which I will do for a space before abandoning them for the beach, I have their computer with which to spin harrowing tales of adventure.
February has been a long and weary month for certain members of the Peace Corps, because our overlords cried unto us to stop drinking for a month. I ignored the directive and declared my house a speakeasy which may only be entered with a password and a fedora. Fleeing the prohibitive clutches of our overlords, two volunteers from Njombe, Rambunctious Ron and Katie the Barbaric, arrived at my house for a night of bucket wine and 20's films, followed by escape across the country at dawn, to eventually seek safety in the neighboring and kinda sorta but not really separate nation of Zanzibar. Of course, being the train of Tanzania, the train was 13 hours late. Fortunately, the Peace Corps goons failed to apprehend us despite the opportunity and we made good our escape across picturesque landscape in a first-class compartment, which meant a room with sleepable couches all to ourselves.
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| Apparently, the railway was laid by the Chinese. |
Upon our long journey we encountered many people with whom we brushed our teeth in the corridors, spitting out the windows, because in developing countries tooth-brushing is surprisingly communal. We were also offered libations by our neighbor who claimed that his wine was chai, which had we joined him in the drinking of might have helped with repose, since sleeping on the sleepable couches proved difficult given the tendency of the trains cars to run into each other with bone-jarring thuds whenever the train hit its brakes. Faith in the train was heightened when we drove through the Selous national park in bright moonlight, regarding with curiosity the wrecked remains of former trains intermingled with elephant bones. Sleep was nigh impossible, but after the first night, the staff took away our blankets anyway. I remember customer service. This is a lie; I actually don't.
Into Dar es Salaam! Showers! Will we survive the ferry to the island kingdom of Zanzibar? Will Zanzibar survive our depredations? Will the Peace Corps goons apprehend us and throw us to the lions? Stay tuned.
When I was a child, my mother used to transport my siblings & me to my grandparents house by train. I always found the first hour on the train to be exciting and interesting. After that it was tedious - but, hey, I was 5 years old. When you're 5 anything is tedious after an hour.
ReplyDeleteThere is something intensely mechanical about trains and train travel that makes it more compelling than auto or bus travel. Although, I recall a bus trip with one of my high school groups in which we locked a traveling drunk in the bus rest room and he had to call out the rest room window for rescue once we reached Atlanta.
But I digress...where was I anyway? Oh yes - steam punk! I have a sentimental and no doubt totally incorrect recollection of the romance of the rails in spite of reading Paul Theroux.