It's Sunday in the middle of August. Mikindani at sunset.
Getting people out of bed. Smoking the first cigarette. Drinking coffee. Getting the Hardbody packed. More coffee (knowing it will mean an early pee break for the four women). Stuffing four passengers in and all their stuff on the load. Getting going. 10 hours ahead of us.
The 60 kilometres of red road appear to be less bad on the way out. Possibly because we invent this game where you have to guess someone who played a (funny, remarkable) role on this road trip. We play loud music, sing and make many stops to pee, smoke cigarettes and joke about whatever can make the trip appear shorter.
I took the above photo of Justine, and I told her she looked like a lost European rock star on a mission in Africa; 'Eh, tell me, where are those starving children, I'm gonna dedicate my next album to?'
Somewhere around 65 kilometres before Dar Es Salaam I almost lost my energy, partly my temper. The petrol station reported no more diesel. And my passengers began buying bananas.
It is the worst thing I know. Bananas, especially inside a car.
So, now I am this person with a remarkably, funny limit: Bananas.
Guess, that's what happens on road trips.
If you drive far enough, you can't hide.
