March 21, 2010
I breakfast on weak coffee, toast and baked beans on the terrace, all the while looking at the mountain wondering about the moment I will stand on its peak. It looks closer this morning because the day is clear and crisp. A young bell boy is staring at me from behind the cactus tree. I know because I can feel his stares. He says nothing. Nor do I.
Siraji is on time.
“Jambo,” he calls out in his soft voice. “You are ready to go, Anjaly?”
I have insisted being called by my name. He is going to be using it a lot, I hope. On a mountaintop with only him to watch my back, I‘d prefer not to have a formal distance between us.
“I am ready when you are. How about a cup of coffee first?”
“I will take a soda or a juice on the way.”
That settled, we drive to Materuni Village, an hour away. Siraji has packed a small lunch for us which he carries in a small backpack. All I have is a camera and a swimsuit.
The drive to Materuni is all uphill. The scenery is beautiful, full of green trees, bananas, cassava, taro and many other vegetable varieties. Patches of coffee plantations appear here and there. When we arrive at the small Materuni Village it is 11am and Siraji explains that we have to complete the journey on foot. A bunch of children gather around the car shouting mzungu, while the more determined ones tug at my backpack and say ‘chocolate’ in a rather funny way. I wish I have some to give, but all I have is the lunch which I am looking forward to eating.
The walk is extremely invigorating for we pass through many small waterfalls and waterways along the way. Thirty minutes later we hear the sounds of waterfall. Siraji tells me that on a clear day one can see Kibo and Moshi, but today is not that day.
Materuni Falls is one of the tallest in the area, spewing crystal clear glacial waters into the basin from a height of seventy meters. I change into my swimsuit unmindful of watchers and wade in. The water is cold but it is a great way to wash the body off sweat. Siraji cautions me against getting under or behind the waterfall. I see his point. Tomorrow begins my long trek up Mt Kilimanjaro and if I am going to see myself stand on Uhuru Peak, I must definitely not catch hypothermia at this time.
The cold water makes me hungry and we have an early lunch of fried chicken, banana, a bun and some cold chipsi but with the music created by the waterfalls and the gentle breeze that sprays water into our lunch boxes I feel peaceful and content.
“I would love a cup of coffee right now. A nice hot cuppa, right here.”
“We will go to a coffee house now,” Siraji responds happily. “You will see how our coffee is made. You drink coffee there. Hakuna Matata.”
Did Siraji say I was going to be drinking a cup of coffee in the middle of a tropical rainforest?
“Let’s rock and roll. Oh come, let’s hurry.”
We walk rapidly uphill till we arrive at Siraji’s friend’s house, where his mother and grandmother live basically working with coffee all day long. Siraji calls her Mama Coffee because she runs her own little coffee business, showing tourists the fine art of coffee making and processing before handing out hot cups of the brew she claims comes from her backyard.
Mama Coffee is clad in bright and floral kitenge. I learn of that term from Siraji as Mama Coffee’s attention is diverted by a young lad who has come in from the fields.
Mama Coffee hurries back to us. She says something I don’t understand. I look at Siraji quizzically.
“You want only coffee or chocolate coffee.”
Chocolate coffee sounds exotic but I am a stickler when it comes to coffee so I stick to my usual. Black.
Chocolate coffee is nothing but coffee with sugar. I don’t see fit to ask where chocolate comes into it so I nod and say nothing.
Coffee clearly plays an important role in Tanzania’s economy, even if you will not see much of it consumed domestically. Small producers such as Mama Coffee, sell some of their produce through cooperatives and also directly to tourists who visit her regularly. She tries to push her product on me.
Siraji translates it for me. “Moshi coffee is very good. Tourist prefer Moshi coffee.”
I politely refuse. I don’t know what Siraji tells her, but whatever he has shuts her up quickly and she comes to stand by my side. The she slowly takes my arm in hers, inspects it lovingly and says something that sounds like “good luck.”
Tanzania is the 19th-largest producer of coffee in the world and has known this drink as far back as the sixteenth century although organized cultivation only began when German colonists started cultivating it as a cash crop at the turn of twentieth century.
“Do you want to try banana beer? It is very special here. Only in Tanzania you find banana beer.”
I am game for anything local or exotic. Given the number of banana trees that we pass by, it is only normal that some of the fruit be bottled for future consumption. So, on our way back we stop off at a little local café, a house and some benches, to taste banana beer and wine. Banana beer is an alcoholic beverage made from fermentation of mashed bananas. Sorghum, millet or maize flour is added as a source of wild yeast. I do not turn into a fan of banana beer but banana wine isn’t too bad. Its alcohol volume is ten per cent which is the only good thing about it I think.
It is nearly 5pm when we arrive at the hotel. Siraji offers to accompany me for dinner but I encourage him to rest for the big day tomorrow. I assure him that I will find something to eat nearby. I have that mishkaki place in mind but I am also flirting with the idea of exploring other culinary offering of Tanzania, such as ugali.
In the end, I end up eating at two places. The Taj Mahal turns out sufficiently non-Indian serving ugaali na kuku or chicken with a dense white and rather flavourless cornmeal somewhat resembling polenta.
I go to bed extremely happy. Tomorrow is the big day.
