Strangely, I felt I had encountered one of Tanzania’s successes, the ferry Umoja, which had been faithfully crossing and recrossing the lake for the same four decades, in war and peace, carrying citizens and soldiers, cows, cash crops, the necessities for Uganda to function and for Tanzania to make money. The ferry had been a steady earner, and it was staffed by serious and dedicated crew, one of whom was still below decks in his undershorts, boosting up his academic qualifications.
In the southeast corner of the lake, we passed a chain of islands. I went to the bridge to use the captain’s binoculars and check the names of them. The largest one was Ukerewe and the land distantly behind it was the shoreline of Tanzania.
Ukerewe was the name by which the entire lake had been known by the Arabs whom Burton and Speke had met on their 1858 expedition. At Kazeh (Tabora), the widely traveled Arab slaver Snay bin Amir said it was ‘fifteen or sixteen marches’ to Ukerewe, but dangerous because of the unfriendly people. If the folks were unfriendly it might have been because of their unwillingness to become enslaved and marched in chains to the coastal slave port with the melancholy name Bagamoyo, ‘I Leave My Heart Behind.’
Arab traders from Zanzibar and Aden had been in this area for more than a century before Europeans had penetrated it. The Arabs trafficked in slaves, but also in ivory and honey, as they did farther south on the Zambezi. They plundered, of course, but they never controlled this distant savanna. They had made themselves unwelcome through their slave-trading and so they had to stick to the safest routes, in many cases counting on Africans themselves to supply them with slaves or ivory, in return for trade goods.
The most startling sign of this old occupation by Arabs and coastal people were the many dhows I saw on the lake — dhows of considerable size, thirty feet and more, most of them under sail, others with the rigging down, carrying fishermen. This slow but stable boat with its lateen sail, the very emblem of Arab seamanship, was still nodding across the lake, which was the heart of Africa.
In the late afternoon I could see Mwanza clearly, and the coast around it, the headlands and little islands. Every feature of land was composed of smooth tumbled boulders, many of them huge, two- and three-story boulders that dwarfed the huts and made every other dwelling look like a doll house. At first glance the shore looked like Stonington, Maine, with palms instead of spruce trees: piled rocks, a rocky shore, rounded boulders and small low wooden houses set close to the ground.
I was at the rail with Alex, the first engineer, and, watching the shore, I saw a speedboat go by, a white plastic noisy one, bow upraised, going fast.
‘Mzungu,’ Alex said.
Another speedboat followed.
‘Mzungu,’ Alex said.
Maybe missionaries, maybe traders, maybe farmers, maybe doctors or agents of virtue: no one knew. They were just white men in loud white boats.
Pointing to the headland, Alex said, ‘Those rocks we call Bismarck Rocks. After the Englishman who found them.’
Or maybe Otto von Bismarck, who once ruled this distant outpost of Teutonism, along with Samoa and New Guinea and the Cameroons.
Not long after drawing near the port of Mwanza, we circled a while and then hovered, making little forward progress. A Kenyan ferry, the MV Uhuru, was unloading freight cars and loose cargo. This work was proceeding very slowly.
Most of the crew, including Alex, were at their posts — in the engine room, on deck, at the lines. So I went to the galley and found the captain eating.
‘Don’t worry, mzee,’ the captain said. ‘We will be docking soon.’
I joined him in the usual Umoja meaclass="underline" rice, vegetables, a withered chicken part, the whole of it reddened with gouts of pili-pili sauce.
‘Thanks so much for having me as a passenger,’ I said. ‘I like this ferry. Everyone is helpful and very friendly.’
‘They are good,’ the captain said.
‘And friendly,’ I repeated, wishing to stress my gratitude.
I was alone, the only alien, a nonpaying passenger, the idlest person on board, they had no idea who I was or where I was going, and I was being treated like an esteemed guest. How could I not be grateful?
‘They are friendly,’ the captain said carefully. ‘But I am not too friendly with them.’
He was still eating but I could see he was making a subtle point, one that he wanted me to understand, a sort of leadership issue.
‘For me, too friendly is harmful,’ the captain said.
We did not dock, we did not anchor, we hovered. The Uhuru kept unloading. The shoreline was littered with wrecked and scuttled boats. I went to the aft deck, found a barrel to sit on and listened to my radio. I found the BBC, a program about an Azerbaijani novel called Ali and Nino. I had written an introduction to this novel, and had contributed to the program — my two cents’ worth had been recorded, but so long before that I had forgotten about it. So I listened to snippets of my own voice coming from London and another hour passed on Lake Victoria.
‘Don’t worry, mzee,’ the captain said.
‘I am not worried,’ I said, wanting to add, And I am not a mzee either.
What did I care if this ferry docked now or tonight, or tomorrow, or next week? The only plan I had was to find the railway station in Mwanza and take a train to the coast, Dar es Salaam, where no one was expecting me. In the meantime, I was happy here on the Umoja. I did not seriously want to leave this vessel.
As darkness fell, many things happened quickly. The Kenyan ferry swung away from the pier and the Umoja took its place, the captain and Alex working together, one on the bridge, the other in the engine room, a tricky maneuver. Just as we docked, the temperature went up, for without the lake breeze, the air was sultry.
I was in no hurry to leave. But the rest of the crew were scurrying — they were in their home port and eager to get to their villages and wives and children. They could not go ashore until the ferry was unloaded and so they saw me off.
‘Kwaheri, mzee!’ they called out as I stepped off the loading flap on to Tanzanian soil. Farewell, old man.
12. The Bush Train to Dar es Salaam
‘Any guns?’ the Tanzanian customs inspector asked me in the little shed in Mwanza, poking my bag. Never mind his dirty clothes, you guessed he was an official from all the ballpoints leaking ink in his shirt pocket.
Though there was a pie slice of Tanzania lying in Lake Victoria, the southern shore of the lake was the enforceable border.
‘No guns.’
‘You can go.’
I walked through the crowd of people who were welcoming the ferry — the ferry’s irregular arrival being one of the highlights of life in Mwanza. Walking towards town I could understand why. The place was derelict, just ruined and empty shops and an unpaved main street that was almost impassable because of its terrible condition. Old buses swayed, almost toppling as their wheels descended into deep potholes. This was another haunted border post, a dismal and interesting one, that the safari-going tourists who flew into the international airport at Arusha would never see, though they would see some wild animals and colorful natives.
In Mwanza, the natives were not colorful, just numerous and ragged, and so many of them had attached themselves to me that when a taxi came by I flagged it down and got in.
‘What day does the train go to Dar es Salaam?’ I asked.
‘Today night,’ the driver said.