Service with a smile

The driver of our hired minibus was a middle-aged man, plump and prosperous.  His bus was clearly well cared for; I noted especially that the tires were in good shape before I agree to hire it.

He waited patiently while the last of my teams turned up over an hour late.  Time is seen in a different light in Africa.  Things start when everyone is ready.  Soon he joined in their chatter, and the hilarity that so often keeps Africans cheerful.  At the police checkpoints, he chatted to the white-uniformed officers with characteristic courtesy, often exchanging a joke.  Life is tough enough here without being miserable too!

When we turned off the sealed road that leads to Kenya, we were on a stony rough way.  We shook and rattled on, sending up clouds of dust.  Then we turned off again onto a single track red dirt road.  Cyclists dismounted as we approached, women turned away, steadying the loads on their heads.

Across the fields of cassava and dry-looking maize, the countryside rolled out, punctuated by hills topped with outcrops of grey rock.  Thatched homesteads were gathered in little clusters, their dirt yards swept neatly, their women folk busy with daily chores, small children playing in the sunshine.

We turned off again, onto a narrow footpath that had never been made for vehicles.  The bus lurched and groaned, as the driver expertly manoevered around boulders and craters, sometimes scraping the bottom of the bus on a protruding rock.  Blue flowered sage-like plants scratched the sides, creating a pleasing fragrance as they were crushed and broken.

At last we came into a clearing where a group was awaiting our arrival, in front of a simple red-brick home with a corrugated iron roof.  It was an elevated location and, despite the heat of the sun, a pleasant breeze and some shady trees kept us comfortable.

The driver lay down on some grass on a piece of cloth he spread out.  Soon his snores formed a background to our meeting.  I was glad that by the time we left in the afternoon, he was refreshed and maintained his patience and good humour.  Some two hours later he delivered us to our guest house, dropping some of the team at other locations on the way.

I paid him more than he had asked a gesture of goodwill, but asked for a receipt.  It was then I discovered he could not read or write.  Someone else had to be called.  My contact in Musoma told me this was not unusual among successful businessmen she knew.  Nothing surprises me, especially in Africa.

Wild ponies on Dartmoor

Boza and a bonus

Stopping in Veles on a very hot, sweaty day led me to a sladcarnitsa shop near the bridge over the river. These are shops that sell ice cream, sticky sweet cakes and cool lemonade. They also sell boza.

Boza is popular in Turkey, Albania, Bulgaria, Macedonia, Montenegro, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Kosovo, parts of Romania, Serbia, Ukraine and also Poland and Lithuania. It is a malt drink, made from maize (corn) and wheat in Albania, fermented wheat in Turkey and wheat or millet in Bulgaria and Romania. It has a thick consistency, a low alcohol content, and a slightly acidic sweet flavor.

In Macedonia boza is much thinner and lighter, and tastes sweeter. In Turkey it is served with cinnamon and roasted chickpeas. The Ottoman Empire was known to feed its army with boza as it is rich in carbohydrates and vitamins.

Boza was first made by the Central Asian Turks in the 900s. Later on, it spread to the Caucasus and the Balkans. In the 16th Century the custom of making 'Tartar boza' laced with opium brought the wrath of the authorities down on the drink, and it was prohibited by Sultan Selim II (1566-1574).

In the 19th Century a sweet and non-alcoholic Albanian boza became increasingly popular, while the sour and alcoholic type of boza went out of favor.

The waitress spoke a little English and promised to serve us with authentic boza. When it came, I drank my boza with an added scoop of ice-cream, which just took the edge off the tart acidic flavour.

But it was certainly refreshing - and I complimented the waitress, who spoke a little English. What's more, she gave me her name, address and mobile phone number. Maybe she could tell I have good taste. 

Heading for home

The air was crisp

Beyond the shingle the sea lay calm,

Whispering in the morning's breath,

Shimmering as the bright pale yellow sun

Climbed into the sharp blue sky

A gull skimmed over the rippling water

The mist gathered itself

Close to the crumbling sandstone cliff

Mounting its damp red face

Warm softness behind

Cold hardness before

I run up the steps

Heading for home