DAYS 6 – 7
As you remember, we spent the last night outdoors. It turned out to be a somewhat rash decision. While some slept well, others felt a bit cold (it was 11°C in the morning), and a few couldn’t sleep due to the strange wails of goats and the snoring of neighbors. But in the morning, everyone quickly got up (adventures await!), hung their damp clothes and sleeping bags up to dry under the warm morning sun, had a quick coffee made on a camping gas stove, and set off.
We picked up those who had stayed at the hotel instead of visiting the Maasai, had a (rather meager) breakfast there, and the working day began. Repairs, refueling, and other tasks took a lot of time, so we only arrived at the mountain reserve in the afternoon. The road led through a wide, arid valley between two beautiful mountain ranges. Here, residents leave empty canisters by the roadside for a water delivery truck to fill. A special type of cactus is grown here in large quantities, its fibers used for production of rope for export and even as basic material for making Crocs.
After a long ascent, we stopped to rest near a primitive hut, from which a bunch of kids ran out instantly. The older girls wore headscarves, which meant that we were in a Muslim area. A five- or six-year-old carried a tiny baby on her back. Naftali handed them each a lollipop. The younger ones cautiously approached, like little wild creatures, grabbed the sweets, and quickly retreated. Then Naftali (an electrician by trade but a teacher at heart) began teaching them the English alphabet. “Aye!” he sang out. “Aye!” the impromptu choir repeated in perfect tune and unison. And so they continued through the alphabet.
Soon, another group of children ran over from another hut. They, too, received their share of sweets. It was heartbreaking to see these kids, who would live their lives in poverty, in a relentless struggle for survival in conditions that felt… well, I can’t even pinpoint the era—it was almost complete wildness.
The mountain views were breathtaking; too bad a phone camera couldn’t fully capture them. After crossing the pass, it got noticeably colder, and the landscape changed dramatically. Along the way, it alternated between pine forests, subtropical forests, and mixed woods. In the valley we descended into, agriculture was more developed, and the quality of houses was slightly better. The population was predominantly Muslim—an indication that we were heading towards the eastern coast, from where Islam had spread. However, women in black with covered faces were a rarity.
For the night, we stopped in a relatively large town, Lushoto, which had a bank and an exchange office. We handed in our clothes for laundry. The faucets in the room—spacious and beautiful—were loose and leaking. When I asked why they weren’t fixed, I was told, “Nobody can do it in this town.” But our driver had a different explanation: “Nobody cares.”
Dinner was at an Italian restaurant (of course, going by name “Mamma Mia”), and it was quite decent. They tried their best. Next morning, as I was just soaping up in the shower, the hot water ran out. Part of the group (including me) stayed behind to rest, while others went hiking in the mountains to see a waterfall. They even spotted some monkeys. Tomorrow, we head back to Arusha. I didn’t take many photos, but Lana Edelman kindly donated some to my post—quite fitting, given that her last name translates to “noble person.”
DAY 8
Day 8 began with a trip to the bank to exchange money—an experience worth describing. First, an employee checks if the form have been filled out correctly and takes the passport to make a copy. Then comes the line for the cashier. Ahead of me, a guy was buying foreign currency with a backpack full of cash, and the line had to wait for about half an hour until he was done. When my turn finally came, the endless procedure began: stamps, signatures, a search in the computer, more writing. The cherry on top? The cashier asked me to put my hat on backward. Either he was amusing himself by making fun of a stranger, or he went bananas.
Finally, having received my millions, I dashed out of the bank, got picked up, and we headed for the mountains. A day full of mountains. Beautiful. Diverse. A tough route for our motorcyclists. We stopped for lunch in a village high in the mountains. While our meal was being prepared in a crooked wooden shack, we mingled with the locals, for whom we were as much of a novelty as they were to us. They stared, took photos with us for memories. One of our guys sang them an Israeli song, line by line, and they repeated it in unison. Total bonding.
The food was ready. We sat on benches at makeshift tables in a little shed, which nevertheless had a sign on the wall forbidding smoking. To our surprise, the food was delicious: dark rice, beans, and chips and eggs baked together. After eating, we handed out candies to the children swarming around us, feeling like 19th-century explorers. Then, we moved on. Stopping for fuel in a large village, we found ourselves in the middle of market day.
On both sides of the road, hundreds of women had laid out their goods. The crowd was enormous—a true Babylonian commotion. After fighting our way through, we continued our long and difficult journey through the mountains. In one village, we saw a large, well-dressed crowd. This was a common sight here, we were told: Muslims had invited Christians for a religious debate. They almost always win. This is how Islam spreads in these parts—effectively, because they are the dominant force here, and the weak and uneducated seek refuge in them.
Finally, we arrived at our lodging for the night and were left speechless—the hotel’s cabins opened up to a majestic panorama, with the peak of Kilimanjaro barely visible in the distance.
DAY 9
After sunrise, when the sun began to warm the cold mountain air (1900 m), many members of our group sat on benches overlooking the vast panorama of mountains and valleys. It was a moment when you just want to sit, gaze, and soak in the beauty. I’ve seen many mountains, but this view was among the best—neither the jagged peaks of the Dolomites nor the towering heights of the Caucasus, but gentle, beautiful waves stretching into the morning mist towards Kilimanjaro.
But then, it was time to move on. The road became almost impassable, with construction underway to improve it. Large heaps of earth were everywhere, forcing our small truck to crawl forward at a near-zero speed—a tough challenge even for our skilled driver, Vincent.
Finally, the difficult section ended, but our driver—perhaps a bit too early relaxed—misjudged the curve at a not-so-steep turn. The vehicle veered dangerously, nearly sliding off the road into a ravine. For a moment, I felt we were right on the edge—the next move could be either way. Strangely, fear didn’t have time to set in. Vincent yanked the wheel sharply and hit the brakes. The truck halted abruptly as he shouted, “Get out! Quickly!” I coolly opened the door, knowing that panic could be more dangerous, and we all scrambled out, catching our breath.
Another passenger either seriously bruised or sprained her leg. Vincent did not leave the car, afraid that if he lets go of the brake, the vehicle will slide down. We placed a huge boulder under the wheel, and now he could get out too. We began waiting for help. Fortunately, within minutes, a passing car appeared and, for a small reward, pulled our unlucky car out.
Can we move on? Not so fast. As we have caught up with our group, we found out that two of our motorcyclists collided, and one of them may have had a leg broken. He needed to be taken to the hospital. Two hours later, we arrived at the hospital. After taking a look at it, the injured person demands to be taken to an international hospital 100 km away.
I was dropped off at the hotel while they continued the journey. Later, a message arrives confirming the fracture. This meant he will have to be urgently sent home. Unlucky guy—just two days before the end of the tour. The whole group floods him with messages of sympathy and regret. He remains in good spirits, joking about it. That’s the way it is: extreme sports come with risks.
DAY 10
For some reason, I expected this day to be relatively calm. But it turned out to be full of impressions and adventures. First, we rushed back through the valley of cacti, from which ropes are made, and then turned onto a dirt road, arriving at a fairly large lake. It was formed by a dam that blocked a small stream collecting water from the mountains.
There are hydroelectric turbines in the dam, and in the lake—called a pond by locals because it’s artificial—people fish and sell their catch throughout the region. We reached a ford but did not rush into the water, opting to assess the situation first. The water is shallow, knee-deep at most, but the concrete slabs covering the bottom are slippery with algae. The ford is busy with traffic—trucks, motorcycles, sometimes very heavily loaded. Those unwilling to get their feet wet pay for being taken to the other side by boat.
After a briefing, our motorcyclists began the attack. Three of them made it through successfully in saddles, two fell into the water, and the rest got across in one way or another. On the other side, we dried our gear and enjoyed coffee under a sprawling tree. I suggested naming the place “Jewford” after the Israelites’ crossing, but unfortunately, no one supported the idea.
We continued through dry savanna, alternating between rocks and sand, nearly a semi-desert. Mаasais appeared again—this is their land. No one claims it, and they make do. It was the third Maasai group we met on our route. These ones have fully integrated into modern life: attending school, buying motorcycles, and even cultivating occasional fertile plots. At every village, children greet us with joyful cries of “Hello! Good buy!” and wave. Some adults do too.
Everything was going well until we noticed the road had disappeared. Branches furiously lashed the cabin, and after a while, the driver declared, “We are lost.” We turned back, retrieved the road, and moved on. As the lake ended, we crossed a stream, and then, as if by magic, found ourselves surrounded by lush greenery.
In a while we entered the territory of a sugarcane processing plant. In addition to producing sugar, they also distill alcohol from the leftover pulp. The territory is vast, with endless fields of sugarcane. It’s like a state within a state: the factory has its own railway, its own schools and hospitals, and even its own police force, with checkpoints at the entrance and exit.
Finally, we leave the factory grounds and soon find ourselves in the heart of Tanzanian life—crowds of people, countless shops, trucks, motorcycles—all flashing by in a chaotic, vibrant scene. With great relief, we pull into the courtyard of our hotel in Moshi, check into our rooms, and rush to wash off the dust and sweat that has seeped into every pore.
We receive instructions to prepare our swimsuits for tomorrow—something interesting is planned. Hooray! Finally, a chance to take a dip.
DAY 11
The last, relaxed day of our ride. In the morning, we headed to a warm spring, diving seep into the source where the water gushes out. After that, no one wanted to do the final off-road stretch, so the group handed back the motorcycles and checked into the hotel.
The last hotel turned out to be quite decent, but it was located near the bus station, in the midst of complete chaos—hundreds of people, dozens of vehicles, stalls and stands selling everything imaginable. I still need to find a souvenir shop and bring back at least something as a keepsake, although, to be honest, there is absolutely no space left at home to for anything new.
Thus ends the first part of our journey through Tanzania. Tomorrow, we begin the second part—a week-long safari. What can I say about the first part—the motorcycle tour? I didn’t really participate, just tagged along, so I missed out on the adrenaline. But for those who are in the business, I have to say that the Tanzanian route is one of the toughest on the continent, if not the toughest.
But it provided us the opportunity to see the country from the inside in all its diversity and to interact directly with its many different inhabitants. And this was just from barely scratching the vast expanses of land called Tanzania.
On a safari, we wouldn’t have experienced this, but we now hope to witness something else—the country’s rich and abundant wildlife.
So, I’m not saying goodbye yet.
