We spent the last few days driving on remote and very bad dirt back roads in the highlands of Tanzania. We passed a few local buses and very heavily overloaded trucks- some broken down in the road with flat tires or cracked axels from the rough roads, but not one other tourist car. The villages we went through rarely see foreigners and some folks simply stared at us open mouthed. We passed many Maasai herd boys with their purple shawls angled over one shoulder and a stick in their hands to herd their beautiful cattle. The women we passed all had amazing loads balanced on their heads. We passed a group of women carrying firewood and one had a bundle of sticks and the other had half a tree trunk just balanced perfectly on her head. The log was thicker than my thigh, about 8 feet long and curved and twisted yet she balanced it perfectly and swiveled her head to watch us go by.
Very astonishing is the sheer number of people walking everywhere on the roads in Africa. One can be 50 kilometers from any town or village and see people walking – the women most always have a huge and awkward load on their heads. Many of the men have very rickety single speed bikes with 100 lb. loads of charcoal or supplies. They push the bikes up the hill, then try to coast down and every time a car or bus goes by they have to dive for the edge of the narrow track to safety while trying not to tip over the huge awkward loads on the bike. Each vehicle covers them with dust from the dry rough dirt road – and we assume they do this for the 50 kilometers to the next town.
It is amazing how many people are simply carrying water- again for miles. Imagine a life where every drop you consume you had to first carry a mile on your head. Here in Masai country the locals are a bit stunned by us and don’t talk much but when we greet them they respond by welcoming us to their country.
A few other interesting cultural notes:
When we were sailing and stopped in a remote foreign port only accessible by water the locals would just greet me by calling me captain. It was sort of their default name for any foreign man- If you were there and you were a foreigner you must be a ships captain, so the name made sense. In Zimbabwe and more remote parts of So. Africa all the kids selling stuff would simply call me, or any white man they saw “boss.” It was a very discoursing reminder of colonialism.
In Zimbabwe when I pulled off a road and got out of the car to to take a picture of one village a man quickly rushed over to the car. I thought I was going to get hassled for taking the picture or he would want money for the picture. Instead he just smiled and asked me where I was from and why I was there. I said, “I’m from America.”
He asked, “here for gold?”
“No,” I replied.
“Here for church?”
“No, I just came to see your beautiful country and meet the Zimbabwean people.”
He grinned in astonishment.
“Your village is so pretty I just stopped to take a picture of it”
He smiled and told me the name of the village and how many people lived there.
We spoke for a few more minutes then drove on, but I was left to ponder the legacy previous foreigner’s had left behind- he figured I could only be there to steal either his gold or his religion.
Rob
HI Rob,
Great post! Continued success with your most excellent adventure!
Thanks Brenda– looks like your bike ride was fun!
Rob
Rob – You two have such an excellent way of looking at the world. We love to hear your point of view.
We are unappreciative of how easy water and heat come to us in developed countries. Thanks, Rob, for the reminder. And that certainly is quite the poignant exchange about the lasting effects of colonialism and proselytizing. Ouch!