Tanzania > We're not allowed to leave

At breakfast, the manager says that his boss wants $300 to be paid for our group in total before we can leave. However, the boss is not on site, so we tell the manager that he is responsible for keeping the gate closed. He stares stoically ahead. Around nine o’clock, the planned departure time, we are gathered around the manager. A stalemate develops that seems impossible to resolve. Everyone’s irritation grows. On the counter is a QR code for reviews—maybe they should have taken that away? Fifteen very dissatisfied and angry guests. When Patrick calls his manager, it turns out the resort owner claimed that Patrick was drunk yesterday. Patrick bursts into tears. He hadn’t had a drop to drink, and this accusation could cost him his job. Some of the lodge staff also have tears in their eyes. The lodge manager is besieged by angry Dutch people. Everyone talks at him. He says he will call his boss and walks into his office. When I walk into his office a little later to ask if it’s been resolved, he still mumbles about the payment. There’s a deep sigh and an “OK.” He walks to the gate and has it opened. At the gate, he does say that it wasn’t his fault and he was just following instructions. Our angry reactions made him realize there was no other option. He too has tears in his eyes. An unpleasant situation with only losers. Despite it all, we still leave a tip for the staff, as we do at all hotels. We make sure to hand it to the staff directly. We set off. The travel distance to Arusha is about a three-hour drive. The road is fine, especially compared to the bumpy tracks through the nature parks in recent days. In Mto-Wambu, we stop at the Masai market. I try to avoid the souvenir sellers at the entrance. The newly learned “Jambo, Mambo, Pao” (hello, how are you?, good) works well. When the follow-up sentence in Swahili comes, I lose track. Laughing, I say in Dutch that I don’t understand a word and walk on. At the back of the market, a woman is baking chapatis behind a mesh fence. A chapati costs 1,000 shillings (about 40 cents). Although I’m not hungry at all, I decide to buy one. The chapati is rolled in an old newspaper. “It’s very hot,” warns the man of the house. When I want to take a photo, he insists on first taking off his jacket, straightening his shirt, and calling his wife over. I even have to make an effort to get the woman who is baking into the photo. With the warm, sticky newspaper in hand, I walk across the market. At the fruit section, I ask an elderly woman if she would like my chapati. She nods in agreement and starts eating immediately. Another person made happy. Around one o’clock we drive into Arusha. Suddenly there are traffic lights at the intersections, and there are several speed checks—police officers with laser guns. At the large market, we stop in a parking lot. We have two hours to explore the market and get some lunch. The market appears chaotic—messier than the others we’ve visited so far.

Tanzania - Souvenirs can be bought at the Masai market

Women sit beside a cloth with a small pile of onions while people walk past on all sides. The fish market swarms with flies and has an unpleasant smell. You have to watch your step because the streets are uneven or eroded by water. Pots and pans, car parts, second-hand clothing, sewing workshops—everything is available. A boy tries to sell me a 30-kilo bag of onions. When I tell him that would be a bit tricky on the plane, he sees the point. At the bus station, dozens of minibuses are ready to take people in all directions. One is older than the next, but all are colorfully decorated, often with the name or image of God or Jesus. Near the parking lot are a few better-quality restaurants. I order an egg sandwich. It takes a while to arrive, but it tastes fine. From the center of Arusha, we drive to the hotel in the suburbs. The hotel is spacious. We seem to be staying in the new wing. At first glance, the room looks fine. Then the African quirks stand out: the window doesn’t close and is set too high, the beds are positioned in front of the bedside lamp switches, and the bathroom door can barely close. All in all, a decent room, but a shame that there’s so little attention to finishing details. In the bar, I order a Kilimanjaro beer and sit in the shade of the garden. The beer doesn’t taste right. I’m not feeling well, though I can’t pinpoint why. Maybe it’s still the after-effects from the day before yesterday. At least it’s not diarrhea—maybe even the opposite. Tonight is the last meal with Zak and Silvia. They will take us to the airport tomorrow and then drive back to Nairobi. Before dinner, I go over the kitchen expenses with Silvia. She wants to account for the spending from our tip fund. She has gathered all the receipts and listed the amounts in both shillings and dollars. Seven dollars more has been spent, but that’s not a problem. For formality’s sake, I point out two items to check against their receipts. Everything matches. I sign on behalf of the group to approve it. In the dining room, I share the results of the check with the group, and everyone is fine with it. I notice I’m feeling worse, especially with the smell in the air making me more nauseous. Still, Gert and I thank the driver and cook on behalf of the group for their efforts. We’ve collected a tip for them, which we hand over in a makeshift envelope folded from an A4 sheet. Silvia and Zak also thank us for being such a fun and pleasant group—someone was always ready to help. Before we even start eating, I excuse myself. I can’t manage dinner. I rush to my room and make it to the toilet just in time. Everything comes out. I crawl into bed but can’t sleep. Several times, I have to run back to the toilet. Even the paracetamol won’t stay down. After hours of tossing and turning, I finally fall asleep. There’s always at least one rough evening on a trip.