You get what you pay for

The bus journey from Ifakara to Dar es Salaam takes 9.5 hours.  Thankfully, the 6.30 a.m. bus was a big long Skandia with two axles at the rear.  It rode the bumps of the first part of the journey well and once across the crude bridge over the Great River Ruaha, the sealed road provided a smooth ride.  It's still a very long time to be on a bus with rather a hard seat.

Fortunately, the woman who sat next to me spoke some English and proved singularly helpful.  She even shared her head of freshly cooked sweetcorn with me, which kept me going until I managed to buy a couple of boiled eggs off a street boy when the bus made a brief stop.

I asked for her help when finally we approached the Ubungu bus station in Dar.  As a rather conspicuous white man, I normally get pounced on by taxi drivers and porters.  I asked her if she could help me find a reasonable taxi driver who could take me to a cheap hotel near the airport.  Obligingly, she phoned one she knew and he was waiting for us on arrival. 

My bag emerged from the hold of the bus, coated in red dust, and was slung in the back of the taxi. Fragrance - my new friend - gave me her phone number so that I could inform her that the driver had delivered me safely.  Although he claimed to know some modest hotels near the airport, it became clear he did not.  The first he found, after enquiring, was way above my budget.  The next was cheaper but had no running water.  Finally we discovered the 'Airline Motel'. Its plant-filled courtyard looked pleasant enough and the rotund manager rushed to greet me and to assure me that all my fears were over.

Yes, there was a room and yes, there was running water.  The cost was about 8 dollars.  You get what you pay for.  The room was dirty, the lavatory had no seat, the water did run - in a cold trickle.  But I was too tired to search for another place.  It would do.

I showered, changed and drank a cold Seregeti beer and ordered something to eat.  The choice was not difficult as chicken and chips was the only food available.  When eventually it came, brought by a shuffling girl called 'Margarit', the pieces of chicken looked and felt as though they had been cooked a good few hours ago. But the chips were hot.

A nice-looking dirty white pussy sat on the concrete floor by my plastic table, looking up longingly.  Typical, I thought, out to get something off a white man.  I chewed what flesh I could off the chicken bone and threw what was left to the cat.  She crunched away loudly and happily, then walked over and rubbed herself against me.

She was irresistible. I slipped to her a more fleshy bit of chicken. She ate it and looked up at me, miaowing for more. But there was no more. So she lost interest and walked away. No more pussy for me. You get what you pay for.