We needed fuel but first we needed money, so by 8:30am I’d found the largest bank in town the ‘Standard Bank’ and had failed to use their ATM, as no Visa service was available. The teller, a few minutes later, was to confirm my fears, No Visa, MasterCard or credit card service was available in Tanzania with the exceptions of Arusha and Dar El Salem. Shit…my only option was to change some of our precious dollars for which the bank wanted a $10 fee, which I thought was taking the piss.

Having picked up Lisa and fuelled up we headed back into town to arrange insurance. 1 ½ hours later and we’d paid 25,000 shillings each and bought 3 months of 3rd party cover each, which will be enough to cover our return trip through Tanzania through to Malawi.

We now needed to get a move on; we’d wasted the morning sorting cash, fuel and insurance.

The T2 in Zambia became the A104 in Tanzania and lush covered mountains had replaced the open plains we ridden in Zambia. Smooth tar snaked, dipped and wove it way around the hills; we took advantage, opened up the bikes and made good progress.

With balancing skills that would make a circus acrobat jealous, small women carrying ludicrously heavy bundles on their heads kept the road sides busy, whilst the men stopped mid conversation to stare and occasionally smile as we rode past. We guessed they don’t see too many large bikes here.

We were heading Northeast and hoping to reach the Kisolanza Camp before nightfall. In the blink of an eye the landscape had changed and we’d been transported from Tanzania to Norway. The tropical vegetation was gone and rolling hills were now covered in neatly lined but mature spruces. This is logging country and so it continued…bizarre. During a long straight section a pretty girl appeared on the side of the road, her bright orange wrap contrasting brilliantly with the dark green of her surroundings. We wondered where she had come from as we’d seen no buildings, even more we wondered where she was going as 10 miles further on we’d seen no turnings off and not a single home or village in sight.

Kisolanza came sooner than we’d expected and by 5pm we’d found a spot put up the tent and were thinking about cooking. The familiar thump of the BMW F650 funduro caught our attention and Jamie and Des came round the bend of the camp and into view. We’d last seen them in Maramba in Zambia. It was nice to have the company.

Jamie and Des were already getting packed up when at 7am we popped out heads out of the tent and greeted the new day. “Aah Mawmin’ Si”, Jamie said in his deep Auzzie twang, accompanied by his constant grin. An hour later and with a few photos taken of the lads on their bikes we headed off. Des and Jamie were off to see the site where the oldest remains of human ancestry had been found only a few Km up the road. Being the philistines we are, we decided to give it a miss and make our way straight to Dar Es Salem. The A104 as far as Iringa was easy riding and the 34 miles passed quickly. At Iringa we’d pick up the A7, which would see us all the way to Dar Es Salem, another 540 km away. This wasn’t going to be short day.

Past Iringa and the countryside changed as distant mountain hills became close friends and again dry surroundings were exchanged for lush green vegetation. The ride was more like a roller coaster as we rose and dived through the elevations; high mountain passes and long winding valleys. By mid-day our eyes were strained by the views and all the way red mud homes lined the way, with most set no more than 50 metres back. Each one with its own small path trampled clear over time by feet homeward bound.

By mid afternoon we’d entered the valley of the baobab. An ancient valley carved out by the once fast flowing river, which now ran lazily at the bottom. Century old and huge baobab tree’s had taken this valley as a strong hold, with their numbers in the tens of thousands. Huge distorted trees of dinosaur proportions covered every square inch. Never have we seen so many in one place.

‘You are entering Mikumi Park Game Reserve, please drive carefully’ the sign read. The A7 passes right through the middle. A large dry savannah with boulder-strewn outcrops was home to big cats, impala and giraffe and alike. A small herd of Zebra stood to attention a short distance from the road. We’d caught their interest as we slowly came to a halt hoping to get a quick photograph. Feeling like unwelcome intruders we carried on and left the Zebras to continue their grazing.

The number of suicidal coaches passing us was increasing, so was the level of stupidity in their choice of overtaking places; blind bends, steep hills, it didn’t seem to matter. The last 60 km dragged.

Queues of traffic impatiently made their way slowly forward and we joined in.

With directions asked we were heading for ‘Silver Sands’, a hotel and camp site built right on the beach and a favourite with Over-landing trucks. Jamie and Des suddenly passed in front of us as they crossed the junction we were queued at and a few minutes later we’d pulled up behind them and rode the last 15km out to the coast.

Large Iron gates were swung open and we rode onto the beach. “Karibu, Karibu, welcome, welcome”, said the young gate porter smiling broadly. A ½ hour later and the tents were up and with a beer in hand we watched the sun ‘cock a snoop’ to the African continent before diving below the Indian sea horizon. We’re tired but excited about being in Dar Es Salem.

With the blue water of the Indian Ocean lapping rhythmically against the beach, we walked, slept and just enjoyed the day.

With a few photos taken, we sat ourselves at one of the small roughly carved tables laid out on the beach for guests and 15 minutes later had started chatting with Victoria one of the drivers for an English over-landing company. Vic was in desperate need of a break after a particularly difficult few weeks having dealt with ‘clients from hell’. Now this is a girl with stories that’ll make the hair on your neck stand up and quite happily refers to herself as ’truck trash’, although later mentioned she came from quite a ‘well to do’ family. We liked her immediately. She says what she thinks and can’t stand bullshit. In her job a great sense of humour is mandatory for survival. Having mentioned that a trip across to Zanzibar wasn’t planned because of our budget, Vic popped us a wink and said, “I’ll see what I can arrange. I get free tickets across on the ferry, I can’t see why you shouldn’t”. She seemed very sure. “OK great”, we replied a little surprised.

The rest of the afternoon was spent checking over the bikes and kit sorting.