BootsnAll Travel Network



Third class travel to Dar

Tanzania, June 1984
Dodoma is Tanzania’s wine country. Here the sickly red wine which is served in every bar in Tanzania is produced. That morning on the market I tried the tiny blue grapes and found to my surprise that they are mouth-puckeringly sour.

Because tickets were difficult to get I spent most of the morning at the station until the ticket counter finally opened around noon. I had heard in Arusha that the trains in Tanzania are targeted by thieves who mainly operate in third class compartments (as always, the punishment for stealing from the rich is disproportionately greater). While I was waiting I was accosted by a smooth operator who repeated these warnings and whom I suspected of selling inflated tickets for first and second class. However, a few people working on the tracks repeated the warnings. I decided to ignore them; I had already purchased my ticket.

The train to Dar, expected to leave at six, was announced for eleven. I half expected to wait as long as in Kasese but the train arrived at midnight. Any thought of catching a nap during the journey was brushed aside when all hell broke loose as soon as it pulled into the station. The third class carriages were right at the back and the small space between the train and the station walls was heaving with people. With trepidation I looked at the throngs crowding the doors and people climbing in and out of the carriage windows.

A galant young man fought a way through for me to get to the first of the carriages. People were trying to run down the carriage doors and being pushed back by three police officers. When the doors finally opened, I was swept away in the maelstrom and wedged, along with my rucksack, against the carriage wall. On the way in, the damn thing caught in the door. Finally, I plopped into the compartment like a cork from a champagne bottle and found that there was barely standing room. People gestured to me and I passed my rucksack over the heads of the crowds where it disappeared from sight on one of the luggage racks. My consolation was that the thieves were no more likely to get at it than I was.

It was hot and humid. The ceiling fans did not work. Thankfully, most of the windows panes were missing, so when the train was moving we would be able to breathe. I was one of the lucky few who found a place to lean against and everything looked to be OK, but as soon as the train started to move I became nauseous.

I was covered with cold sweat. My hands were shaking. I leaned my pale face against the glass of the only window on the entire train that was intact and would not open, and prayed. When that failed, I ruthlessly fought my way to the opposite door and stuck out my head between two of the policemen who asked me where the devil I wanted to get to now. The fresh air dissipated my nausea almost immediately and someone found a seat for me on a wooden box.

We democratically took turns with the few available seats. After a while, an old Massai waved to me to sit with him in the open door. The train rattled and shook like a ship in a storm and the wind whipped our hair. I marveled that the old man did not get seasick but he soon slept like a baby. I had thought that I could stay awake the night but in the end I fell asleep standing up where I was.

A golden morning dawned and one of my neighbours gave me two bananas. Somehow, most people had found space during the night and I managed to sit cross-legged in the corridor and smoke a pipe until I found that the carriage next to us was the restaurant which offered tea for 3 sh. The policemen and six other people already there vied to buy me breakfeast while I was still considering the options. We ended up sharing fresh bread with wild honey. It may have been third class, but it was one of my best train journeys on this trip.

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