Adventures in East African Road Travel - Part 2

We did make it to Mwanza that day, but almost an hour after dark, and in the rain. It’s quite an experience rolling into a fairly large African town in the dark and rain having never been there before. We were planning to stay at a Catholic guest house, but I had left the name of it at home in Kigoma and didn’t know where it was. I called Nathan, another missionary from Kigoma whom I knew was travelling in or near Mwanza, to ask him for directions. He gave me the number of his brother Steve, who lives in Mwanza, and It turned out I had just passed the place! By God’s grace we finally found the correct entrance and got checked in around 8pm that night. They even had their own kitchen where we bought our dinner of cold fish and rice. That was our first real “meal” of the day (all of the others being PBJ sandwiches, banana bread, and potato crisps that we brought with us).

My plan was to get the car checked out and repaired the next day so that we could leave Mwanza early Monday morning and be into Nairobi before dark on Monday night. Remember what I said before about our plans and God laughing? Yeah… round two.

(Part of Mwanza as seen from a point accross the water)

Because Kigoma has a very high percentage of Muslims, I’m accustomed to many places being opened on Sundays and thought it would be no problem to get the car taken care of. Well, not only does Mwanza have a lot less Muslims than Kigoma, but I hit a triple whammy as far as timing goes. Being Sunday, all of the businesses that were Christian owned were closed. Being the second day of the end of Ramadan, most of the Muslim-owned businesses were closed for celebration. And to top it all off, that Sunday just happened to be the anniversary of the death of President Nyerere, the father of the nation, which is a national holiday! So… there was no getting the car fixed that day!

We decided to drive around and see a bit of Mwanza to get our bearings. We also tried to scout out a place to get the car worked on first thing Monday morning. We even took the kids swimming for a couple of hours in a pool at a local hotel. Later in the afternoon I sent a text to Nathan to see when he would be back into Mwanza. He said that he and his family were already there and they invited us over to Steve’s house for fellowship and popcorn that evening. Not only did we have a nice time meeting his brother’s family and fellowshipping, but Steve and Nathan helped me look at the car and we discovered some of the damage that would need to be repaired the next morning. They also told me of the best garage in town to get the work done at. So the day turned out to be fruitful and quite relaxing, and we all really needed it after our (mis)adventures the preceding day.

(Jon and Jada in the pool in Mwanza)

Monday morning I dropped off the family somewhere where they could eat breakfast while I dealt with the car. It turns out that I had blown a couple of shocks, and the two shocks that weren’t blown were actually the wrong ones for my car anyway (too weak). So I had the garage put on all new heavy duty shocks, balance the tires, and do an alignment. I was hoping that would fix all my problems, especially the wobbling wheel, but it didn’t. The previous night Nathan guessed that the wobbling was due to radial ply separation and suggested that I buy new tires because they were typically cheaper in Mwanza than in Nairobi. But I was hoping not to have to spend the money (that’s my Scottish blood speaking), so I decided to leave them be and see what would happen. Bad decision.

(Lake Victoria in Mwanza, Tanzania)

The road from Mwanza up to the border with Kenya was decent. There were some potholes to avoid for the first hour, but then it got better. We were driving with the windows down to stay cool and save fuel by not using the a/c. Every time we hit a small bump or went over one of the MANY speed bumps along the highway, I would here a hiss. I figured it was either an innate feature of the type of shock they used, or the shocks that I just paid nearly $400 for were no good. As I found out about 20 minutes later IT WAS NEITHER. What I was hearing was the sound of the sidewall slowly failing on the best of the five tires. Eventually it completely disintegrated and I was back into Dukes of Hazard mode. Oh… and you’ll never guess which tire it was! That’s right… the right rear.

There was no real shoulder to pull over onto and the best and most flat spot I could find within the 5 seconds that I had to decide was once again on the wrong side of the road (which is actually the right side here). On top of that it was on a blind corner! The fun just never ends. I had the family evacuate the vehicle for safety’s sake, then I got busy with the tire changing routine. We were honked at a few times by bus and taxi drivers who didn’t agree with our choice of real estate for changing the tire. At one point there was a pack of bicyclists coming around the corner towards us that needed to swerve out into the road around us but were blind to the bus coming the other way. That was a lot of fun… NOT! Thankfully they’re accustomed to the most insane of roadside situations on this continent and everybody made it by safely. Within 10 minutes we were done and one the road again headed for Kenya – only now without a spare tire.

Eventually we actually made it to the rainy border with Kenya, and began the tedious process of leaving Tanzania and entering Kenya. Whenever leaving or entering an East African country, it’s best to stop and check in with every single office and every single official in that office just to make them feel like they have a purpose for being there. There are really only two people that need to see, say, or do anything in regards to our crossing, but “when in Rome…”.
First stop was the police station. “Habari za leo?” I said. Blah blah blah… and then on to the next office. Second was the actual immigration office. First you stand in line and wait. Then you get to the counter and they tell you what form to fill out before getting back into the same line again to stand and wait. Filling out the same form six times for my family is always a blast too. So after making small talk in my limited Swahili, the officer stamped us all out and we were finished. Kind of.

I knew I was supposed to go to the TRA office (Tanzania Revenue Authority) to get my “Temporary Export of Vehicle” form stamped. This is a form I filled out and had signed at the TRA office in Kigoma where I left my Registration Card. When I return to Kigoma I give them the form back with all of the correct signatures and they give me back my registration card – in theory. Anyhow, I didn’t see the office and so I almost proceeding without visiting. A short, crippled man came to my open window and started telling me in broken English that I needed to visit such and such a place to get my car papers signed. Of course I thought that he must work for them and was doing me a kind favor so I thanked him and told him how I almost forgot. He took the paper from my hand and walked me over to the official who signs such forms. I sat down and the official started looking for the right log book (about 5 minutes or so) and then filled out the two lines and signed it (another 5 minutes). I noticed that he treated the man who had “helped” me to find the office with a bit of disdain. That’s when it hit me… this guy doesn’t work for the TRA office but “works” the border helping people for money or something similar. When I was done he once again grabbed the paper from me and said I had to show it to someone else when I officially crossed the border. I snatched it back and told him politely that I could handle it myself. I got in the car, backed out of the parking space, and proceeded towards the official border gate.

A couple of feet before I crossed, the crippled man reappeared in my window unnoticed, giving me quite a start. He said I needed to show the paper to another official and tried to take it from me. I refused until I saw the official sitting there under the shade of a tree by the gate. When I saw him I started to put the car in park so I could walk it over to him myself but the “worker” grabbed it and started to take it for me. The official just nodded and waved his hand at the guy so he’d give me the paper back. I was clear to cross.

I crossed quickly and began looking for the Kenyan version of everything I had just gone through so that I could reverse the whole process. You’ll never guess who popped up out of thin air next to my car with his face practically in my window! That’s right. Same guy, different country! This time when I was very adamant that I could handle it myself he finally “showed his hand” and asked if I wanted to buy Kenyan Auto Insurance for my visit. Aha! I finally figured out who this “helpful” guy was. He’s the reason I bought insurance in Kigoma for our trip. They charge triple or more at the border.

Between the car and the immigration office there must have been a half a dozen salespeople trying to “help” me and then asking if I needed insurance or to exchange for Kenyan Shillings. I managed to work my way through them and get into the immigration office so I could pay the exorbitant visa fees for my family to visit Kenya for a week or so. After that, I went next door to the KRA (you guessed it… the Kenyan Revenue Authority) so I could “temporarily import” my vehicle from Tanzania. The official there gave me the form and watched me fill it out, and then he told me I had to go to a different office to get it signed. This office was, of course, a hundred and fifty meters away, around a corner, and behind another building that is itself being hidden by the large trucks they are weighing. So another salesperson helped me find it while trying to sell me auto insurance for the twenty-seventh time.

I found the office, showed the official there the form I had filled out at the first office, and was told the exorbitant fee to “temporarily import” my vehicle for a week or so. He wrote down the price on my form, signed it, and gave me a copy. Then he told me to go back to the first office I was in where I had filled out the form (T.I.A. – this is Africa). I found my way back just before they closed the office for the day (thank you Lord) and showed him my form. He commented on the fact that I could have paid nothing if I was staying only a week, a fact that the other man failed to mention, and that this man attributed to the other man’s greed (TIA). I paid and got the change and a receipt (a speedy 15 minutes) and we were FINALLY on our way to Kisii, Kenya, our stop for the night. Part 3 to follow...