down to dartraversing central africa by train

First and therefore most importantly, this trip wouldn’t have been possible without the assistance of former bookkeeper and long–time friend, Patricia Stark.

Single–handedly, she wrestled the slumbering giant of Zambia Railways to the ground and forced our sleeper tickets from them. And, as though that weren’t sufficient, she also loaned us a vehicle and driver to transport us to Kapiri. Perhaps she guessed that as we wandered the streets of the capital, we’d catch a glimpse of the local bus station in Lusaka and lose our resolve to proceed.

She was right, but you’ll have to read on to find out why.

Thanks go to Di – the best of wives – for letting me go play anorak again, my most excellent travelling companion Mike and his wife Ingrid for letting him play too.

Thanks also to Annette Miller for making us so wholeheartedly welcome at Lilayi and to Chris Miller for assisting with our transport plans.

Extra thanks to Mike; this time for his photographs – I accidently deleted an entire day’s worth of photographs while making what I thought were back–ups. He offered his own pics in their stead.

It was a great trip as you are about to see.

I’m not sure what I was hiding from: despite being on the other side of the camera for many years, I still don’t much like being the subject

Mike however, is not similarly challenged and has gone into stork mode for this pic

Sunday 12 July – It’s been quite a while in the planning, this adventure into the unknown.

Things finally get underway as the alarm wakes us at 03:00 in good time for coffee, a shower, the hour–long drive and the obligatory hour–early arrival at the airport.

I bid Di farewell and wander into the airport. Surprisingly, at 05:00 the airport is heaving with would–be passengers and yet only a few of the many check–in desks are manned. I shuffle slowly forward, sleep still a warm companion. My carefully packed luggage an essential to be dealt with and slid along the tiled concourse, always within reach. Finally, realisation dawns on someone in authority and there is a call for the passengers queueing to check–in for the 06:00 Johannesburg flight to now muster at a separate desk.

Everywhere there are reminders of the 2010 World Cup and as the queue inches agonisingly forward, I can’t help but wonder whether as a nation, we haven’t bitten off more than we can chew. The stadium and infrastructure builders are on strike, the trades unions are rampant on everything from economic policy to the judicial system, the state–owned TV broadcaster is shambolic and seemingly beyond repair, crime is far from under control and we don’t even seem able to understand that passengers wanting to fly, need to be checked–in by more than one sullen employee.

That notwithstanding and perhaps miraculously, the Cape Town to Jozi flight does take off and arrive on time. I meet my travelling companion and good friend Mike at the check–in counter for the second flight of the day to Lusaka. This flight lands on time too and suddenly, I’m beginning to feel a bit more confident about the next few days.

Early morning at Lilayi

These two flights have brought us to Zambia’s capital, but our destination is actually Kapiri Mposhi, the railhead of the Tazara railway, almost 200km to the north. I’ve often wondered why the Chinese who built the Tanzam Railway (now called Tazara) back in the early seventies, to link Zambia’s copper belt with the ocean at Dar es Salaam, did this. I’m to find out tomorrow.

For the moment, it is passports, customs, paying a US$–only tax to enter the country and finding Stanley, the man with the car. He awaits us in the terminal, helps with our luggage. Our chariot? An Isuzu 4x4 Mystic Intrepid. It is old, but it swallows our kit and starts; we head for Lilayi, on the city’s outskirts.

We are staying with the widowed parent of a good friend in Johannesburg. She lives with two of her four sons on a farm/game lodge at Lilayi, which we find at the end of a hellishly pot holed road. En route, we travel through the city itself and at first glance, it is dry, dusty, rubbish–strewn and fairly typical of most African cities. We will see more first–hand tomorrow as we have set aside a day to wander and sightsee.

The morning sun catches a boungainvillea and casts an intruiging dappled shadow

This evening, Mike and I have arranged to buy dinner for my former bookkeeper and assister–with–train–tickets Patricia, who has lived in the city for some years. Without her assistance with Zambia Railways this trip would not be happening; we owe her big time. Pats and I have not seen or spoken to each other for at least a decade and much catching–up is on the cards.

There may be things amiss in Zambia, but the quality of its meat is not one of them. We feast on the finest of steaks and chat for a long time. All too soon, my 03:00 start catches–up with me and it is necessary to bid Pats and Chris, the new man in her life, a regrettably early farewell. Over dinner Pats has offered us the services of one of her company vehicles and a driver to get us to Kapiri on Tuesday morning. I know both Mike and I have both heaved a huge sigh of relief at not having to use public transport. Unbeknownst to us, our relief will get a massive uptick in the morning, but for now, bed beckons.

Our hostess and her sons run a very successful commercial farming and game lodge operation, which dates back almost ninety years. The farmhouse is Edwardian in every detail, with immaculately manicured gardens and swathes of sweet peas. Inside, the walls are hung with hunting trophies, mementoes of lives past, paintings and most surprisingly, several of David Shepherd’s game oils and steam railway prints from the UK. I ask of and hear stories of Shepherd’s visit to Lilayi decades ago and the enduring friendship between his and our hostess’ family. It is impossible not to form a distinct impression that Lilayi is an increasingly rare place and that in this small corner of Zambia, a few last vestiges of the colonial lifestyle linger on.

The farm not only supplies most of the nation’s cabbage, it also grows a number of different grain crops and cattle roam many of the open spaces. Breakfast on Tuesday shows this; with wonderful artery–clogging fresh–from–the–cow full cream milk and butter churned the previous afternoon. The food police would have a field day here.

Breakfast done, we head into the city for our planned sightseeing. Traversing the Lilayi Road’s potholes, Mike and I decide to see a little more of Zambia and head in the opposite direction to Lusaka and make for Kafoe.

Now, I’d be lying if I said it was a worthwhile diversion. Kafoe is a roadside town with some industry. There are potholes in the side roads which threaten to eat up our little Isuzu and we quickly agree to turn round and head once more for the big city.

We are in a strange land and I am following the cars in front at what I assume to be regulation speed. But no. A sweaty half–dressed policeman runs across the road and stops me, immediately demanding money as a speeding fine. Both of us understand that our ability to protest at what is clearly a stitch–up is limited. We protest our tourist status as Mike unfolds his small stash of Kwatchas – I haven’t been able to draw cash at all since arriving – and realise how close this might end up being.

The policeman is as jolly as he is venal, leaning in through the window and sorting through Mike’s banknotes. Eventually all are in his hands, save one pitifully small note that is probably worth less than it’s face value. K275,000 gone.

We drive on and do some mental arithmetic. Despite the noughts, it turns out to be very little in Rand and cents, just the bulk of our ready cash and massively inconvenient. Stinging, we drive on.

Harry’s Bar and Restaurant, downtown Kafoe (photo by Mike)

Lusaka’s traffic at a standstill (photo by Mike) Kapiri Mposhi; the world at your feet?

The traffic is shocking; thousands of used right hand drive cars, buses, minibuses and trucks are imported from Japan annually. There is no market for used vehicles in Japan and some enterprising individuals have seen a major gap for these (in the main) good quality vehicles in Central Africa. In countries like Zambia, Tanzania and Zimbabwe they can now be had for as little as US$1000, encouraging more and more drivers on to the nation’s already overcrowded and under maintained roads. The corollary is that new vehicle sales have plummeted, but that’s the manufacturers’ fault; new cars are ludicrously expensive on this continent and the voice of the marketplace couldn’t be being heard any louder.

After more than an hour inching Lusaka’s downtown streets, we pass the bus station and realise just how much Pat’s offer really means; it is a heaving mass of humanity, with touts and street sellers jostling and pushing passengers this way and that in the race to make a sale. The buses look fairly new, but the idea of six hours on board with as many bodies as can be squeezed into the limited space available and the inevitable African Wind*... on reflection, I’m not altogether sure I wouldn’t have chickened–out at that point.

Still, I’ve been there now and my experience of the city’s streets wasn’t great. I don’t think I’ll be racing back to sightsee Lusaka again any time soon.

* African Wind; a polite term for the reeking perfume of the unwashed, which permeates Africa from Cairo to Cape Town.

We return to the farm, a fine family dinner and an explanation of why the railhead was built at Kapiri Mposhi. Over a most excellent roast chicken, roast potatoes and (of course) cabbage, one of our hosts tells us that until as late as the 1960s, Zambia was uncertain as to where its capital might be located. There was a lot of support for Broken Hill, in the heart of the country’s Copper Belt, but as with many things on this confusing continent, Lusaka got the nod. Broken Hill became Kapiri Mposhi, the railway was started there and what was probably unbridled corruption won the day.

Tuesday morning and as we leave Lusaka, the last instruction to Austin our driver, is a shouted “Make sure you stop at Fringella for them to get some meat pies.” A joke? I am curious, as are both Mike and Austin. Zambia is not a place where life’s luxuries are immediately apparent and fripperies like meat pies halfway between capital and railhead are more than I can easily compute.

Nonetheless, tens of kilometres from what we imagine is civilisation, we find the farm at the roadside. The signs are easy to follow and there’s the pie shop under a large shade tree. Greedily, we order and are delivered small brown paper bags each containing a single, flat(–tish) pastry case and nestled within, a huge amount of wonderfully stewed, high quality beef. We each scarf down a pie and I am tempted to go for more, but my breakfast wasn’t so long ago and I content myself with a second pie for padkos.

Close to the heart of Lusaka; cars, cell phones and rubbish everywhere (photo by Mike)

New Kapiri Mposhi – I’m not sure what happened to the old one

Built in the deep and dark days of apartheid with Chinese money, engineering, know–how and a great deal of local labour, the railway stretches 1680 kilometres from Kapiri Mposhi to the Indian Ocean city of Dar es Salaam in Tanzania. It’s sole purpose was to avoid using and paying for South Africa’s railways and ports and to that extent, it has been hugely successful. Curiously, because of its geographic location and ease of delivery, South Africa’s steel maker ISCOR won a world–wide tender to roll the track, so it was all a bit moot anyway. Today, Tazara carries freight, oil and petroleum products inland from Dar and yet more freight and most of Zambia’s copper output down. I imagine that the income from its passengers are a bonus.

Looking at it now, I don’t think Tazara was ever intended to be used so heavily. It was designed and built as a single track system, with passing places for trains in different directions all along the route. This has proved quite workable, but must have also been hugely restrictive, as a breakdown between passing places could effectively close the entire line. And, this being Africa, it goes without saying that maintenance has been minimal as we are soon to witness.

The station at Kapiri is a giant monument to Chinese architecture and unsurprisingly, isn’t altogether unlike the main station in central Beijing. The many stations along the way will similarly reveal a consistent and uniform design – as though someone has passed by with a cement loaded rubber stamp, making identical stops every thirty kilometres or so.

Kapiri Mposhi; two of our travelling companions await departure in the first class lounge

Back on the road, which finally enters Kapiri and I am reminded of western movies, where settlements grow around a railhead in the wild, wild west. The bus terminus, a considerable and inconvenient two kilometres from the station is heaving with passengers and the obligatory sellers of every and anything. We buy water and some fruit for our journey and climb back aboard for the final drive to the station where we unload our kit, water and fruit from Pat’s Terios, thank and pay Austin the driver and enter the grand concourse.

A sign says that we are required to produce our tickets and check in; our names and ticket details are labouriously manually entered into a grand looking journal. On enquiring, we are told that the up train from Dar has arrived and is being cleaned for it’s journey eastwards. We can board at 15:30. Departure is to be on time at 16:00. In the interim, please use the first class lounge; a mezzanine level in the station boasting a few ancient velour covered sofas and armchairs. These sad foam–leakers were doubtless previously prized posessions in some VIP’s home, but now, threadbare and broken, provide little comfort for waiting passengers.

At the appointed time, a throng forms at the ticket barrier and joyously, we queue along with several hundred other passengers to board.

Top: Coach 2 waits

Below: KP’s luxurious waiting area. That’s me on the furthest foam–leaker (photo by Mike)

Top: KP’s booking office – closed

Below: Essential travel fare. The scotch is in my bag

We quickly locate cabin 2 in coach 2, our designated home for as long as the train takes to reach Dar. There is great uncertainty about this; depending on who you ask. Sometimes the train takes the scheduled three days, others four, or even five, depending on breakdowns. A recent rail user told us that he finally arrived two days and twenty hours behind schedule and we hope that our journey is a little less eventful. In planning our trip, we’ve allowed four days. Our wives are flying up and we plan to meet at our hotel in Dar. If the train journey takes more than that, we will have to miss Dar and head straight for the ferry to Zanzibar, to catch up with our spouses there.

At exactly 16:00, the train pulls out; is this a good omen? We are uncertain; our compartment is equipped with clean sheets and blankets, but the little exploring we’ve been able to do thus far has revealed a shower room of awe–inspiring decrepitude and grubbiness and a toilet of such exquisite filth, that it is hard to believe. The stall is a stainless steel pan attached to the floor. There is no seat and footprints are clearly visible on its rim, where people have stood on it to relieve themselves. As if that weren’t enough, there is also a large plastic bin wedged into the compartment. Filled with water and with half of a plastic bottle floating on its filmy surface, we imagine it is to be used for “flushing”. This does not bode well as we soon discover.

The (very) long train rounds a bend, hauled by an American–built diesel locomotive

Like most of Southern Africa’s railways, the Tanzam was built on a 3’6” or narrow gauge track. This enables the train to navigate much tighter bends than the 30% wider international standard.

Over more than a century, this gauge has proved ideal for the highlands, where the railway threads around hills and valleys and avoids the huge alternative cost of bridges and tunnels. The technology has served Africa very well but has distinct speed limitations, as the stability of rolling stock on such a narrow track is quite severely restricted. Not that you would notice, as the driver constantly pushes the very long (19 coach) train on at what feels like increasingly reckless speeds.

We’re on our way. It’s winter here in Central Africa, but daytime temperatures still hover around 300C. Every window is wide open and the noise of the wheels clattering over the joints in the track make conversation quite difficult. On the Tanzania side, we are to discover that much of the original short, jointed rail sections have been replaced with continuously welded track, which is both quieter and more stable, but for now the clattering and rocking/rolling of the carriage is a constant companion. Still, right now, that doesn’t matter; we’re moving and on time.

Our first stop is in the late afternoon and even before the wheels have finished turning, the train is mobbed by vendors offering anything and everything; oranges, bananas, fried chicken, peanuts and even dried beans. Meanwhile grubby children, with dusty skin yell at the passengers for hand outs; “Give me something,” yells one. “Give me anything,” another. It is to be a constant chorus all 1680km and very tiring. At Makasa, it gets quite aggressive, with dried mielie cobs and rail bed gravel being thrown through our window to encourage our spirit of giving.

“Give me something.”“Give me anything.”

Two of the less enchanting kids we encountered

Eating in. Zambia Railways transmogrifies food into a challenge The train had been cleaned before we boarded. This is the shower cubicle –imagine what it was like before their Herculean efforts

As night draws in, a Tazara steward in an Manchester United shirt comes and proffers a menu for dinner. We are shocked at such luxury and decide to eat in our compartment; the train is full and there is no way to close and lock our compartment to protect our luggage from the eyes and fingers of our fellow passengers. So, we will sit tight and eat at home. The evening’s surprising chill soon makes us close the windows and before long my fried chicken and Mike’s fish arrive, accompanied by soggy, lukewarm chips and lots of grins from the steward. Judged by the yardstick of the rest of the train, it is a true cordon bleu masterpiece.

Before turning–in, I shower under the roseless water spigot. Don’t imagine that the water was anything other than icy cold. The constant lurching of the train makes washing my feet very risky. Bed time.

Throughout the night, the train rattles north eastwards. We pass and stop at countless little towns and villages and at one point, I wake to peer out of the window at the stately Rovos Rail rolling stock, parked–up in a siding, it’s R60k passengers doubtless sleeping off the last cognac and anticipating a wonderful breakfast in a few hours. What awaits us is an intruiging mystery.

Wednesday morning dawns to more of the same (as yesterday). The jolly steward re–appears in his footie shirt and we order the full breakfast; two eggs, vienna sausages, coleslaw, two slices of bread and tea/coffee. We also get a heads–up that we would be going through the Zambia/Tanzania border before noon.

Meanwhile, the windows are again open and Africa clatters past.

Breakfast arrives and we are both astonished at just how unattractive eggs, bright red viennas and bread can look. But hey! We are the daring travellers, afraid of nothing, especially breakfast. We steel ourselves and dig in regardless. The train is stationery as we eat and Mike hands his two slices of bread and butter through the window to the children baying outside. They don’t look very impressed and I suspect were on the verge of giving it back as the train lurches and re–starts, effectively preventing this obvious slight. I’m hungry this morning and wolf mine down.

A little later we quarter the last Fringella pie and with great ceremony, chew it’s wonderful beefy goodness and tasty pastry. An early Tusker beer from the bar washes it down.

A recurring theme and one increasingly visible as we move away from Lusaka, is abandoned equipment by the side of the line. It is a real indication of the many, many breakdowns and derailments that have happened since the ‘70s when the line was first opened. If you have visited, or lived in Africa and travelled its roads, you will know that there is an obsessive drive for speed and overtaking matched only by a recklessness and disregard for life and limb amongst local drivers. Given the narrow gauge of the line and this bewildering lack of self–preservation, you can easily understand why derailment is such a frequent occurence.

So, it isn’t such a surprise to see that all along the length of the line, lie bent and crumpled box cars, freight wagons, the occasional passenger carriage and hundreds of cast steel wheels, still on their axles. The detritus of derailment. I comment to Mike about this and wonder why this bounty has simply been discarded and not collected and sold off as scrap. There is so much here that it would surely pay for several new sets of carriages for the company’s fare paying passengers. In our hearts, we know why; as in most of Africa, management is poor, non–existent, or neutralised by corruption. Flunkies, or as we know them in South Africa, (loyal to the ANC) cadres are rewarded with key posts, irrespective of their invariably absent abilities for the job.

No wonder this continent is such a basket case.

Wrecked rolling stock litters the entire line

T for time out; given the motion of the train and the potential for derailment, you can imagine the difficulty of using the WC as the train rocks and rolls along. Fortunately, we have both pre–planned our sanitary needs and packed many wet–wipes and sprays of various germ–killing strengths. But nothing in our luggage could counter the movement of the train. Squatting on a vile steel pan and at the same time, trying to avoid the awful water sploshing around in that damned plastic bin is a curious dance. St Vitus would be impressed by our gyrations.

Officials; the lifeblood of African government, appear in our compartment. Our passports are requested and stamped as we leave Zambia and again as the train edges across the border and into Tanzania. These transactions leave scads of filled forms, yet more paper, all to be collected and stored, never to be seen again, in some distant state warehouse.

The train moves on and perceptibly, the landscape changes. Soil erosion is everywhere. We are still crossing the mountain range that divides the two countries, but even here, the landscape is flatter and the trees less tall and majestic.

The terrain this side of the border is so different that the train is forced to travel slowly, negotiating bend after bend after bend. Hours pass and the unmistakable smell of Africa’s favourite smoking herb seeps in from the next compartment – the one used by the Tazara staff. I can hardly blame them.

The WC and that bloody plastic bin

The one thing that doesn’t change are the throngs at every station, as this vital artery delivers relatives and friends, commercial opportunity, money, contact, supplies and unbelievably in this day and age, post. At every stop, the yelling throngs of kids seem much the same and their demands for just about any hand–out remain shrill and irrationally irritating.

In an idle moment, we discuss the Tanzanian shillings we have swapped with a money changer for our now unnecessary Zambian Kwatchas and agree that there’s nothing wrong with Africa’s ability to make a buck. The bank notes are ancient, filthy and I ponder why there is no coinage. The answer, of course is simple; the metal would be worth considerably more than the coin itself, so valueless are these currencies of the New World.

It is late afternoon on our second day and while there is no information forthcoming from the staff, it is clear that the train is still pretty much on time and everything in our little wheeled world remains well.

At every stop, the platform is thronged with family, friends and vendors selling just about anything This lady has fried chicken on offer

Tanzanian sunset

Stopped alongside the “up” train, a glimpse of third class travel

The “up” train

Third class dining

Well, it was, until I mention to Mike the reek of hot brake linings coming through the window and sure enough, the train grinds to a halt and several people get out to assess the problem. My guess is that the brake mechanism has not been maintained in years and that after the last stop, the lever that presses the brake shoe against the rim of the wheel has become jammed in place. The workers seem to agree with my unspoken diagnosis and within seconds a large rock is used to hammer the mechanism free and the train re–starts.

We had witnessed a similar incident at an earlier stop; a generator to provide electricity is mounted under each carriage and driven from the nearest axle by five “V” belts. The unit in the coach in front of ours had clearly ceased to function and had been treated similarly; beaten into operation with a rock. It’s single (!) remaining drive belt replaced and on we went.

Night falls and I cannot complete my showering as the water runs out. Initially, I wet and lather, but on wanting to rinse, I discover that the pipe now delivers nothing but a fine mist of compressed air and at best, a moist spray. I fear that I am condemned to arrive in Dar with soapy hair, but it proves to be enough. Just.

Mike decides that he doesn’t want fish for supper again and settles for beef stew and ntshima (a round, flat cake of cooked mealie meal). I opt for the known; chicken and chips again. Mike is a real African and thrives on corn meal but for me, it’s something I’ve never managed to work up any enthusiasm for. I settle for dunking my chips in his beefy gravy, which is very tasty and doubtless 95% Aromat (MSG). We agree that this is the best meal so far and with only breakfast to come, unlikely to be bettered.

Motive power; a General Electric “U” class diesel hauling the “up” train. I learned later that these locomotives are slangily called “U–Boats” and not much liked by their US operators. It is interesting to speculate how the left hand side of the window frame might have got so damaged...

The train doesn’t suit everyone

Vwawa –one of many (almost) identical stations along the 1680km route

Thursday morning and we are looking for game; we know the line runs through the Selous Nature Reserve (claimed to be Africa’s largest) and one of the staff has been kind enough to tell us that we are approaching its boundary. Suddenly, there are giraffe, elephant and buck almost everywhere.

Large herds of wildebeest chew cud and watch us pass. Clots of impala likewise masticate and observe. The train’s speed isn’t great, but fast enough for our game viewing to be fleeting at best.

Impassive impala in the Selous Reserve

The word is out! We are due to arrive at 16:00 – almost on time. It’s as though there’s electricity in the compartment, but after two nights of single bare lamp gloom, we both know that’s just not possible.

Dar’s outskirts appear and suddenly, our journey nears an end. We’ve done it – all 1680 kilometres – without too many lumps and bruises, poisioning or infectious diseases. Perhaps the after effects of Tazara’s catering and complete lack of hygiene will get us tomorrow, but that’s for later. For now, we’ve made it.

We push through the huge crowd at the station and hire a taxi to take us to our hotel. Our wives are only due to arrive later this evening and in the intervening hours, we revel in not being bounced from side to side, a working shower, hot water and somewhere to sit and contemplate while the important jobs of the day get done.

Dar – amidst the meleé, we had to produce our tickets in order to leave the station

Hakuna matata

Thank you – press Esc to exit