The Central Line

Hello again, followers. Long gap between posts; I've been waiting for something interesting to happen in Dodoma. Or just something to happen. Ever since I got here I have been attracted to the Railway Station and the sight and sound of the occasional big old train arriving or departing. Dodoma is on the Central Tanzanian Railway, built by the Germans just before WW1. It follows one of the old caravan routes from the coast to Lake Tanganyika at Kigoma, the path tramped by Livingstone, Stanley, Burton and Speke, Emin Pasha - all childhood heroes of mine. My favourite reading here (on my Kindle) is by or about those guys, their foolhardy curiosity and sheer guts, with some disturbing glimpses of how little things have changed. One thing has though. In 1871 it took Stanley 5 months to get from Dodoma to Kigoma. (His route must have taken him through Dodoma but, then as now, it wasn’t worth a mention.)Thanks to the railway I did it in 28 hours last week. Getting a ticket wasn’t easy. There are two trains per week with 12 First Class berths per train. Most, sometimes all, of these are reserved for “staff” (TIA). There is no 2nd Class and I was advised that even I (“Well, this is fairly grim, Galloway, so I suppose you’re loving it”) might not cope in 3rd Class. By a stroke of luck I happened to mention my ticket quest to Ahmed who helps in the gym at the Dodoma Hotel. He said “I’m from Kigoma. The station master there is my friend. I’ll get the tickets. In fact I’ll come with you, if you pay.” 180 kilobob later the deal was done and we set off, a trifling 3 hours late, on Saturday morning.

The accommodation wasn’t deluxe. We were sharing the 2-berth compartment with Ahmed’s other friend, Mr Siwingwe, the train supervisor, and his fiancée (who seemed to be met by her husband and 4 children when we got to Kigoma!) Comfort was further compromised by 4 sacks of flour, 2 of potatoes, 16 buckets and various other transportables. Mr Siwingwe’s official duties meant that there were plenty of comings and goings at our door. At Manyoni two women with babies and eight of those big striped nylon carry-alls pushed their way in. After a bit of a shouting match they left, but their luggage stayed in. Mid-afternoon we stopped at Saranda for lunch. Everyone piled off straight into an outdoor trackside “restaurant” the whole 17-carriage length of the train, all grilling and frying and stewing.

This was repeated on a smaller scale at most of the stops, many of them very lovely aging German-style station buildings in a compound of solid old mango trees, palms and frangipanis. In between halts there was always the buffet car, which served basic meals and cheap, if warm, beer. The train rattled on through the bush, with no other sign of human activity for long stretches. Sometimes a dusty track ran alongside and it was easy to picture a long caravan of porters, guides, askaris and the explorer in his pith helmet or battered old peaked cap, all trudging along. Or, coming the other way, a pitiful line of fettered and chained slaves plodding their sad weary path to the coast.

The scenery got gradually greener and at last we had our first view of the Lake. Just after 3pm Sunday afternoon we rolled into Kigoma, whose magnificent terminus would not look out of place on Lake Geneva rather than Lake Tanganyika.

Four days later the train back set off six hours late. A fellow passenger told me the trains get later and later until departure time catches up with the time of the next train, so they cancel one and the process starts again. Our train broke down in the middle of the bush for an hour or so in the late evening. No one seemed bothered, quite the reverse. Bonfires were lit beside the track and groups of passengers stood around eating, drinking and laughing, till the whistle finally blew again.

There were two backpackers/volunteers from Berlin in the compartment next to ours and we had a bit of a party the second night. First topic of conversation was “Is the train German?” Franck said the locomotive was, but not the rolling stock. He was a former graffiti artist and boasted specialist knowledge of train design. After that we discussed Tanzania and its problems, with increasingly incoherent contributions from Vincent, our neighbour on the other side. His main argument was that Tanzania was a “foolish” country. When Vincent was finally incapable of getting his tongue round the word “foolish” any more we decided to pack it in and get some sleep. At 8 o’clock on Saturday morning the train stumbled into dear old Dodoma and we stumbled off the train. I’ve spent so long describing the journey there and back, which admittedly took up a large percentage of the trip, that the story of what I did when I was there will have to wait for another post.