Five dogs, two cats, two parrots and a horse and let’s not forget Pam and Eric and their two children Francesca and Jack (our hosts) welcomed us into their home and gave us a beautiful cottage to chill out in. I know what you’re thinking, I should already be chilled out. I had just spent six weeks on Zanzibar Island with my Dad. However this was different, being away from all the tourist riff raff made all the difference. I could make my life seem normal for at least a short time. I could enjoy the simple things in life, like cooking, cleaning the toilet and working to a regular schedule.

It might seem strange that I am now wishing I had a semi normal life after I packed it all in a year and a half ago, but I somehow know this feeling is only temporary. In a week or two I am going to get itchy feet once again. So, while I have this temporary home maker feeling, I will settle down on the couch with my laptop resting in my lap, one hand constantly patting George (the fat orange sausage dog who became our vacuum cleaner) and I will attempt to catch up with all my blog writing, drawings and other sideline projects I have.

I actually wanted to take a boat from Nungwi on Zanzibar Island to Tanga. Every week on Zanzibar, I would watch people loading and unloading themselves, mattresses, huge ‘chilly bins’ (To translate that’s ‘Eskies’ for the Australian readers and ‘cool boxes’ for the rest of the world) and huge amount of fresh produce onto a large Dhow. I often wondered where they were going. I had an idea it might be fun to take the Dhow to the main land, until Dad kindly pointed out that sometimes those boats don’t make it. Snuffing out that idea, I also remembered why its best not to tell you parents everything you get up to!

With that in mind, I took the normal route from Dar Es Salaam to Tanga following the main road north to the turn off to Tanga where I was to meet my friend Mike at 1pm. I arrived on time but just as the rain started. Standing there with the water seeping down my back, I struggled with my rusty pannier padlocks. All I wanted was my wet weather gear. Mike came to my rescue as he always carries WD-40, and here I was hassling about the amount of stuff he was carrying! To give the WD-40 time to seep into the lock, we sat in a small roadside shack and drank a much needed coke hoping the rain would stop. It didn’t, but now at least I had my wet weather gear.

Mike was first in Tanga over six months ago when he was on his way to meet friends and family in Mombasa, where he met Pam and Eric. Pam and Eric are both BMW riders and have done a few motorcycle trips of their own. Now when they see an overlander in town, they tend to pick them up off the street and take them home, clean them up, and give them a good rest before sending them on their way once again, refreshed. What they probably didn’t realise is we needed more of a rest than most overlanders, as we ended up staying a whole month!

Kesho & Our Cottage

View From The Cottage

Welcome To My Office With Three Dogs & A Beer

In the month hanging out in Tanga, I realised the one thing I do miss from being in a place for more than one or two days, is getting to know people within your community. Going to the supermarket, a vegetable stall at the market or just to the same restaurant more than once, builds up connections, strengthens ties, and creates bonds between people. I loved that I know I can buy chapattis, milk and tomato paste at the little hole in the wall shop at the end of my street. I loved knowing the best restaurant in town was owned by a South African and she gave us a slice of cake, fresh from the oven, for free. A man in the market would take me by the hand and help us buy fresh fruit and vegetables and the lady at the supermarket checkout would hassle me about how much beer we were drinking. All of these were just little things you never get to experience if you are consistently on the road, moving every day.

Mad Chopper Dude Who Makes His Own Bikes!

Masaai Warriors Checking Out The Bikes

I didn’t sit inside for the entire month. We were kept entertained by the five dogs who took advantage of my kind heart and would trapse in mud, then drop piles of stones and plastic lids for me to throw. In the morning the small young sausage dogs (as George would never do this) left extra special presents around the house, while the bigger outside dogs left dead animals. One in particular was quite interesting. While eating boiled eggs squashed on toast with a nice plunger coffee, sitting on a beautiful handmade outdoor couch, I looked over to the dogs, and wondered what was at their feet. It was huge like a fat cat, fluffy like an opossum but it had a rat shaped head and tail. To make things even more confusing, it had the pointiest testicles I’ve ever seen in my life! (I’m sorry; I forgot to get a picture, so I hope my description is good enough). Now sick in the stomach and completely scared to go outside at night, for if this animal was alive it would eat my whole foot off in one bite! When Pam and Eric came back from their week away they explained to us, that it was indeed an opossum, but a special kind – a special kind indeed!

This wasn’t the end of my animal incidents, one night, while sitting on the couch watching a film on my laptop I felt something cold and damp on my leg. Thinking it was just one of the little sausage dogs being polite for a change and trying to get my attention, I casually glanced down. Flipping out, I shook my leg backwards and forwards really hard, until the clammy, slimy snail flew off and landed safely on the floor. Inspecting my leg to ensure myself that I still had a foot. I noticed it had left a huge slimy trail, that crossed my socked foot a few times, before it headed up my leg. Wow, I wonder how long my foot was sitting still for?

On My Way To Pagani

Ferry Crossing In Pagani

Main Road To Pagani Beach

Mike and I decided to get out of the cottage for a few days, as itchy feet had indeed set in, but I was waiting on a package to arrive, so we decided to head 40 km south of Tanga to a beautiful strip of coastal land and head to a resort that someone had mention to me as being a great place to stay. This was far from the truth. It was an over priced place with snobby owners. In fact we would have stayed a lot longer but decided to leave because of the owner’s attitudes. However that aside, this is where I had my incident with the crab – click here to read all about it!

Pagani Beach

Pagani Beach Village

These Cute Children Buying Sugar For Their Mother

Tanzania is turning out to be an animal infestation for me after discovering white ants in my AXO motocross boots and backpack, a massive spider running around our room and it was also where I got my first scorpion sting! After two and a half months here, I think it’s time to say a massive thank you to Pan and Eric and leave Tanga and head towards Rwanda.

Mike Having Lunch Inside A Lacy Restaurant.

Our Lunch Of Meat Soup, Chaptti and Chai

Mmmmmmm Lunch

A cloudless blue sky that merges seamlessly in to the bluely green ocean that washes gently onto the blinding white sand. Dowels dance in the sun, as they head out for their night fishing. Birds in skimpy fluorescent bikinis & old hairy men in Speedo’s dip their toes into the warm water while their very own Maasai warrior dressed in traditional clothing, topped off with hot pink trendy sun glasses, stands guard against any sea urchins or local predators. After spending nine months in strict Muslim countries, I felt pretty much naked as I lay half buried in the white sand, struggling to keep the sun from turning my skin an ugly pink colour. After a week or so relaxing in the sun, slowly turning my skin from pink to brown, getting accustom to walking around bare footed, it was time to get to work.

Dad and Robin sitting outside our beach house.

An every day ritual

The locals waiting for the fishing fleat to come in from the nights fishing trip.

Sunset in Nungwi Beach

Another sunset while having a beer

Opening Dad’s suitcase was like discovering my very own treasure trove. On top lay a brand spanking new pair of AXO cross over boots. Under them was a cam chain, cam chain sprockets, cam chain guide, nuts and bolts and a desperately needed heli coil kit. Next came a second hand GPS, a bar of dark chocolate and hundreds of muesli bars. Then he pulled out a surprise for me from one of my avid followers, J, who has since become friends with my father. J had sent me a ton of batteries and a pack of grease monkey wipes. Perfect! It’s just what I need when you’re in the middle of nowhere trying to fix something on my bike.

A heli coil kit is a small box of stainless steel coils plus a plastic piece to drive it into the freshly cut thread. You need this when you have accidently stripped a thread while tightening up a bolt. If you remember back (Disaster On The Western Desert Highway) I was in the middle of the White Desert in Egypt when I discovered the garage in Sharm Eh Shek had stripped one bolt holding down the engine head. I didn’t trust any garage along the way to fix this problem, and it actually looked like it was holding firmly so I rode all the way to Tanzania with a rod holding down my engine head rather than a bolt just so my Dad could fix it for me. These bolts drove my Dad crazy, because every time we put the engine back together we discovered another dubious bolt! Travelling along at Island speed, we spent a few hours working on the bike, several eating lunch, back to the bike before beer o’clock! I don’t think I’ve eaten so well or drunk so much beer in ages and was starting to feel the effect around my tummy! After a week or two, Dad and I were getting incredibly frustrated with my bike. Every time we put the bike back together we found another problem, especially when it came to the electrics.

My motorcycle workshop at the beach!

My Dad working on my motorcycle

It all started with my tail light. On the Moyale to Marsabit road I snapped the wires to my tail light, and once that was fixed up, my indicator stopped working – we fixed that and in doing so, we discovered that behind my front light was a birds nest of wires all worn down to the bare wires. As we fixed them, another problem would pop up and we would have to un-wrap everything to find the dodgy wire. It was become tedious! It was a build up of years of ex-owners tampering with the wires. Some were too short, some you could wrap around the bike twice! I guess this is one of the trade offs for buying a second hand bike and not having enough time to everything I needed to do on it before I left Australia. Dad suggested when I had some time I should re-wire the whole bike again and eliminate these problems. Himmm, I thought to myself, I wonder when I’ll have the time for that?

Local fishermen burning the boats hull to kill the wood lice.

Local fisherman with his catch of the day at Stone Towns fish market

Dad is showing me the sail on a Sail Fish.

After they won the auction, the new owner drags the fish off to one side and makes his own individual marking on the fish.

You can buy a whole fish, bits of fish or like this Tuna, pre cut chunks.

We eventually got the bike back together and in functioning order, but I wasn’t 100% happy, there was something different about my bike – it sounded different but there was nothing we could put our finger on. So, after six relaxing weeks on the beach and poly poly (slowly slowly) motorcycle maintenance, Dad flew back home and I caught the boat back to the mainland. Thanks a lot for coming to see me Dad. I had a really nice time catching up with you, I hope you can come and visit again some time!

To see more photos of Zanzibar then click this link to get to my flickr set. 

With only three days before Dad flys into Dar Es Salaam, I had to tear myself away from the awe-inspiring company at Jungle Junction and hit the road south. Packing everything up, I wave goodbye and navigate my way through the congested Nairobi traffic.  I planned a route with would take me around the city rather than through it, knowing this would be the last time I would have to plot my route out on a paper map. My Dad has just confirmed he has packed a GPS into his luggage!  

My fears of getting lost when leaving Nairobi were squashed, I had done a lot of getting lost while kicking around in Nairobi. But when I finally left the Nairobi fringe, that’s when the usual navigation mistakes appear. Looking down at the blurred road, I could see that my shadow wasn’t where it should be, that meant I was heading directly south! Pulling over just after an intersection, I pull out my map and under my breath I mutter “I’m so glad this is going to be the last time!’ As I looked about, the people were trying hard to ignore me. This was strange, I wasn’t used to it after Ethiopia! My map confirms that I’m not heading to the border but directly south into Maasai country. It’s a pity I’m in such rush. This would have been an interesting side trip!

 Turning my bike around, I noticed a rusty, twisted sign that I still can make out the words on. This was indeed my turn off! Laughing, I turn down the road but not before realising that there was no actual sign in the direction I had just been coming in. When you’re in a rush to get somewhere, you for once would like the roads to be beautifully asphalted. This wasn’t the case at all on this little link road that I decided to take just to avoid the Nairobi traffic. It was full of pot holes that just kept on getting larger and larger until it eventually turned into one dirt road with a few asphalt patches. Arriving at the main road was a relief, boring as it was it led me straight to the border between Kenya and Tanzania. Kilometres beforehand, the rain had started and not just any rain but a massive down pour, the start of the wet season!

I parked the bike at the Kenyan side of the border and ran dripping into the immigration office.  Water dripped off my jacket as I filled out the immigration card. The wind had picked up and scattered the forms all around the office, where people stomped all over them rendering them useless. I was finger printed, and then stamped out of Kenya. Dashing into the customs office, I handed over my carnet de passage. While passing a comment “do you guys want to swap, I work here and you ride to Dar Es Salaam?’, the officer takes one look at it and smugly asks “where is your road tax?’.  Road tax I wonder? No one asked for road tax when I entered Kenya.

 Pulling a fast one, because road tax means money and I don’t like parting with money if I don’t have to, I replied “I crossed the border with two other Dutch guys (this of course wasn’t the lie) they left Nairobi a few days ago and must have taken it with them!” The officer looks at this dripping, helpless, stupid girl, pulls out the massive stamp and let it crash down on my carnet leaving a smudgy customs mark. “Thanks a lot, have a great day” I say, leaving as fast as possible before they change their mind and make me pay for road tax.  Stuffing all my paper work into my backpack, I cross unchecked into Tanzania. Repeating all the paper work, I was left to head into the heart of Tanzania.

The rain got heavier and heavier until I couldn’t see the road. I couldn’t even see a meter or two beyond my front wheel. Coming upon two red tail lights, I slowed down with enough distance so I wouldn’t get muddy tyre spray and decided to follow him for the entire downpour.  Fifty kilometres later the rain subsided and the clouds cleared leaving behind a crisp landscape bogged down with water. Maasai people wandered out into the road and waved heartily as I past. I so wanted to stop but I knew if I did and took one single photo I would be hassled for money. Riding on, I arrived into a village called Moshi. Moshi is a small town which tourists use to kick off their Mount Kilimanjaro trek. I headed straight for a recommended camp site just out of the town.   

I had been hearing a noise all day, and with a few riding tests I came to the conclusion it was coming from my chain. Before I set up my tent I took a closer look at it. I wish I hadn’t. I  could see that several rollers that shield the pins which keep the two sides of the chain together were only holding on by a small piece of metal. Quickly calculating in my mind how many kilometres I had left until I arrive at Dar Es Salaam, I worked out I just couldn’t risk it.

In the morning, I pulled out my chain and with the help of a nurse from Denver, Colorado, we worked to put my new chain on. This is normally an easy task, but I hadn’t cut my chain down to the right length. This is something I really should have done at Jungle Junction where there were all the proper tools! Borrowing a foot long grinder, I got one of the Maasai Guards to cut the chain. I was too weak to even pick the grinder up let alone use it! I was back on the road before lunch with a brand new quiet chain. 

 Everything was cruising along smoothly. I past Mount Kilimanjaro without seeing it, as it was covered in clouds (maybe on the way back?). I passed rows and rows, field after field of massive spiky plants that looked to me as if it would grow giant pineapples but I later discovered was a sisal plant!

Sisal Plantation

 While passing one of the never ending fields, I was pulled over by a police man with a speed gun in his hand – really, I was speeding? I was only going 80km/hr! He waved me over to park my bike on the side of the road. I turned my machine off. Apparently I was doing exactly 80km/hr in a 20km/hr zone. Looking around me, I just didn’t believe him. There were two buildings that looked like sisal workers lunch houses. I turned around to check there was a sign that actually said 20km//hr or was he pulling my leg? It turned out he was right and I was wrong. I rode back to the police officer at 20km/hr to get a feel of what I should have been travelling at.

 While standing there, trying to get the fine down from 30,000 TSH ($18 USD) to nothing, I notice a few people speeding past us. I pointed a couple out to the police officer, who explained to me, they can start speeding up from here onwards (not where the sign clearly indicates open speed limit). When I saw a police truck roar past with the occupants waving out the window, I put my helmet on, turned the key and stood up to kick start the bike while saying “sorry brother, but if you are letting all these people pass without stopping them, I think you are just pulling my leg” and drove off, leaving him standing there stunned in the middle of the road.

 I sweated out the next 50km hoping no one was going to chase me down. I even caught up to and passed the police truck which had passed me while I was been questioned on the side of the road. No one stopped me, so I kept on going, until I was 100km away from Dar Es Salaam and it was now too dark to continue.  I gave up trying to negotiate with the only two guesthouses in the village over the price, and  went to the police station. “Is it ok if I pitch my tent around the back of your station?” After the chief was asked I was assigned a place to pitch my tent. With my tent pitched I walked across the street to get dinner. Just as I polished off my chicken bones, a lady who I was sitting next to took my plate and tried to find any scrape of meat left on the bones, but she was out of luck. Sorry lady, but I was hungry! I returned to my tent and fell asleep with the sounds of guns been cleaned and cocked and the national anthem every time a new shift came on. Ah what sweet dreams came about after that!