Into The Unknown

Sitting on the rocks at the top of the waterfall just at the point where the river drops over the top to cascade to the plateau way below, hundreds of square miles of flood plains and sugar plantations stretching out to the horizon, seemed like as good time as any to ask. After all, Hamadi had made it very clear that we could add anything to our itinerary.

“Hamadi, we’d like to see an ordinary African town, if possible”.

“Really?” He was surprised. “To see what?”

“Just to see a different way of life, to learn culture”.

“OK, Johnson will take you. He knows his town well”.

As if on cue, Johnson appeared, fielded the Swahili enquiry from Hamadi, and smiled at us.

“Of course”, he said, “later today I take you to my town. Magulo”.

Despite his youth, Johnson had already shown himself to be extremely knowledgeable as we had climbed to the waterfall on Mount Udzungwa, as he talked us through the medicinal and other properties of trees and plants as we walked, and how the witch doctors bestowed such knowledge on their people, all delivered in an endearing mix of English and Swahili.

“This plant has loot” (meaning “root” – “r” and “l” are interchangeable in Swahinglish) “which helps bad digestion. This tree has sap, you rub on open wound and it heals. And here, you make drink with flowers in boiling water”, he hushed his tone and turned away from Michaela. “This drink helps man who is not very good with…errr…sexual intercourse”. 

By the time we met again and walked into Magulo, shadows were lengthening as the sun dropped behind the baobao trees and bird calls filled the air. Magulo was incredibly different territory and as we followed Johnson through his homeland, we knew that such a place would have been off limits without his company, just too unsettling and too unfamiliar. 

As we walked past the ramshackle dwellings built from corrugated sheets and Coca-Cola signs, past gangs of men huddled beside cooking pots, through cramped market stalls, it was impossible to miss the extreme poverty as so many people sat around with little to do and nothing to fill their time. Our conversation with Johnson exposed the gulfs in our cultures.

“Is it true that in England, you have all tarmac roads?” he asked.

“Yes, it’s true”.

“Wow”, he marvelled, “no dirt roads….”

“And is it true that some people in England eat pig?”

When we confirmed that this too was true, and that we ourselves eat pig, Johnson recoiled at the thought that he was close by someone with such disgusting habits.

Now and again men called out to us, and grinned: Johnson declined to translate, but instead simply said that these guys didn’t see blonde women too often. Probably just as well that he stayed circumspect. As we neared the end of our walk through this oh so different culture, our noses picked up a familiar but unexpected odour: alcohol. Recognising our interest, Johnson led us between dwellings and deeper into the labyrinth of dusty paths to a rickety lean-to building where the smell of alcohol and the sound of laughter filled the air in equal measure.

Beneath the creaking awning, two sisters were brewing something deadly from fermented maize, serving it from the vat in which it fermented and handing it out in plastic buckets to their eager customers. Its consistency was that of a loose porridge, but with the unmistakable fizz of something which is still fermenting and an overwhelming odour of fresh corn, a smell which was a bit too reminiscent of the “home wine” fad in 1970s England. Only infinitely more dangerous.

This was komoni, brewed it seems to different recipes in just about every village in Tanzania. We took small sips from our large bucket, unsure whether the biggest danger was the ferocious alcohol, the unclean water content, or the plastic bucket itself. But the guys drinking with the sisters were hugely amused by the fact that we were there, drinking with them in their den, and, with Johnson as interpreter, we held an amusing exchange of views. 

Self preservation meant that before long it was time to go, and we knew that working out how to pay was not going to be easy. I asked Johnson how much, and held out a note. He smiled with a hint of sadness, and explained that there was no way the sisters would be able to change such a large note, yet the note was a tiny sum, and was the smallest we had. So we did the only thing we could do, we told Johnson to pass on the message that we would leave the money with the guys and the sisters, and they could party till it was gone. And for the next few minutes we knew what it felt like to be everybody’s hero. The goodbyes took a long time.

At our safari camp the next day, the camp owner had arrived on a visit from his native Australia and was chatting with Hamadi as we sat down for our early morning breakfast. We heard him yelp, just before he came over.

“I hear you guys went to Magulo. And they gave you komoni, yeah?”

“Yeah. It was an amazing experience, we’re very grateful to Johnson and Hamadi”

“Never mind grateful”, he shouted, “you drank komoni and you’re still *****ing alive!”