Sneaking a Safari
Tanzania 1984
Arusha — from one large and dirty town I had come to another. I did not intend to stay long.
When we asked for a room at the YMCA I noticed that Tanzania was expensive, even when paying with black-market cash. Our accommodation cost 20 US$ each, according to the official rate. While the street-rate was five times that, tours and safaris had to be paid with money accompanied by official exchange receipts. We had to think of something.
The cheapest option seemed to join an official tour group. Patrick went to the bank, changed 20 £ and altered the receipt to 200 £. Even so the cost would come to about 35 $ each. I decided on a cheaper option and took the bus to Oldeari, close to the Ngorongoro crater, with the intent to catch an unofficial lift with a safari group.
The bus slowly rattled from village to village. On some of the many stops we were joined by Massai, the men wearing loincloths, cotton throws and leather belts festooned with long knives. Many also carried spears. The women were adorned with leather collars stitched with hundreds of tiny beads, bracelets around their wrists and ankles and earrings or long-drawn earlobes.
I sold one of my digital watches to a local businessman who seemed pleased with the 300 sh price (25 $ official rate) because he bought me a meal at a rest stop. He even arranged a lift for me. As we stopped at yet another tiny village he unloaded my rucksack and took me to a pick-up destined straight for a village close to the crater.
We drove on through hills covered with fields of corn and green meadows, once again so reminiscent of home. We even passed a lodge called “Bergfrieden”. We stopped only once to share a meal of Ugali ya Mahindi, the ubiquitous maize meal, with a simple stew. Then we drove on until dark.
The next stop wasn’t planned. I woke up from my doze with a torch shining full into my face. The beam swung away and played across the truck so that could see the man behind it. The driver and I had to get out and I saw that we were in front of the Ngorongoro Park entrance. The man gestured us into his office. My heart was beating faster, I had hoped to sneak across the park boundary unnoticed. If I was asked for my money declaration form I was licked. But all that was happened was that I had to fill in a form and pay a 40 Sh local entrance fee and I was in.
The weather was drizzly and cold. Once again I was reminded of home. I was grateful for my mother’s knitted wool socks which I had carried all this way for sentimental value, never guessing that I would have any use for them once we were past the Alps. I spent the night in a droughty room in the village hostel, intended for local school children and empty at the moment, and as I stepped into the chilly morning air I longed to be somewhere warm. The Ngorongoro Crater Lodge was within walking distance of the village so I put on my tidiest clothes (that was not saying much) and walked over.
I was the first guest to enter the restaurant. A waiter came over to ask if I required breakfast. “That depends what it costs,” I replied. The price was just 50 shillings, under 1 $ at the unofficial rate, but I remembered that in these places it was usual to ask for a money declaration form. Still, I was prepared to take that chance. Dinner had been a single piece of coconut.
The waiter showed me to a table by the picture window overlooking the entire crater which was shrouded in mist. Then he served me toast, refilling the rack uncomplainingly as I ate 6 slices in total, fried eggs, fruit juice and a huge pot of disgusting coffee. At the end he brought me the bill with a wink and a smile, never asking to see the MD form.
Happy and fed I took up my position in the reception area, on the lookout for people with whom I could get a lift into the crater.
While I was waiting I chatted to the receptionist. He asked why I was not staying in the lodge where there was hot water and good food and where I would feel at home. Now out of season the price was down to half the usual rate, at 200 sh it was less than the YMCA in Arusha. Yet, it was still above my budget, even at the black-market rate.
“I’ll move in for a hundred!” I grinned.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
There were very few guests staying at the lodge at the time, but around noon a couple of expats from Birmingham came down to reception. They were both keen birdwatchers. The manager himself approached them and asked whether they could offer me a lift into the crater and they immediately agreed, smiling at me as if it was not a big deal. I was happy and excited. To see the Ngorongoro Crater had been a childhood dream but even though I was there, it had seemed out of my reach. I had not quite dared to hope that I could really “sneak a safari”.
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