Day 8. Sat 28th September
MV Liemba
The MV Liemba stops 19 times on its way from Mpulungu to Kigoma. Apart
from the first at Kasanga, which has a proper quay, the stops simply involve
putting down the anchor and hooting the horn. Within minutes the ship is
surrounded by boats of all sizes, some with outboards, some with paddles,
and others which are fishermen's dugouts, all selling something, buying
something, onloading or offloading cargo or passengers. The dawn stops
bring fisherman from the middle of the lake to sell their overnight catch.
Other stops provide live chickens, which presumably become our evening
meal.
There is no ladder and access to the ship is by the simple expedient of
clambering up the side.
Mothers with babies in shawls on their backs embark and disembark in this
manner, and toddlers are usually swung across by one arm. Money exchanges
hands constantly and water taxis vie with each other to be first - whoever
gets the passenger gets the fare.
A man with a boat full of planks to be transported up the lake cannot get
them on the ship by himself. Everyone stands and watches him struggle until
finally he offers money. A bargain is struck and his goods are quickly
loaded. Another woman has steaming containers of curry and rice in her
boat, which she ladles into plastic bags and sells to the passengers.
Meanwhile to stern, bags of rice are loaded into the hold with derricks.
On board the Liemba, traders sell pineapples, drinks, nuts and pieces of
sugar cane which is tripped of its outer husk and then chunks bitten off
and chewed.
Between stops we read, write our diaries, chat with the other passangers
and enjoy the ambience. Although we are the only white faces on board,
and certainly objects of curiosity, there is no feeling of animosity at
all, and most passengers who speak English are happy to chat about where
we are from and what we are doing. The pronouncement that we are English
generally provokes the response "Ah, David Beckham".
As first class passengers we also have access to the bar and restaurant,
where we quaff cold cokes and beer and Ken amuses himself, and us, by slipping
salt into Nathan's beer when he's not looking. The food is better than
we expected, although the choice is limited to beef or chicken with rice,
sometimes chips, or msheema, a thick and largely tasteless dough made from
maize flour. (Andy seems to like it).
After dinner we and our glasses of scotch are invited onto the bridge to
watch the mayhem of the stops from the crew's point of view. The Captain
is supremely indifferent to the antics of the people below, and, when he
decides time is up, simply hoots his horn, raises the anchor and motors
off, leaving anyone attached to the side to fend for themselves. On one
occasion as we move ahead a wooden boat scoots under our bow, presumably
a latecomer frustrated at missing his chance to ply his trade. The officer
on watch fixes him in the spotlight beam and, barely slowing, gives a toot
on the horn, and the little craft nips through our wash, the occupants
paddling furiously.