There’s eating local, and then there’s buying fresh Nile Perch from the edge of Lake Victoria and carrying it 17 kilometres home, strapped to the back of a bicycle.
I’ll give you one guess as to how I spent my Saturday.
The day started as any good weekend morning should: with a bike ride out of the city and into nature.
For me, that city is currently Mwanza, the second largest urban centre in Tanzania. Located in the northwest corner of the country, closer to neighbouring Uganda, Burundi, Kenya and Rwanda than to Dar es Salaam, Mwanza is a city on the water. It’s hard to go anywhere without spotting it. Lake Victoria is Africa’s largest lake, second in the world only to our own Lake Superior. It’s immense, and its shoreline juts and pivots around the city, forming peninsulas and bays, inlets and ports.
My cycling partner in crime for the day was Gabriella, my British airbnb roommate who has been in Mwanza for six months. Gabriella has kindly been my social convenor for the past two weeks, inviting me to curry nights, trivia showdowns, birthday parties and, most importantly, on bike rides. She was kind enough to rustle up a spare mountain bike so we could embark together on a couple of weekend rides.
On this Saturday we headed north of Mwanza town and rode along the main highway until we reached the airport. Taking a left off the tarmac, we made our way down a strip of very well packed dirt, past the end of the airport runway where, if we were to return at the right moment, we would experience the sensation of being landed on by an Airbus A319 (note to self: do this).
We quickly came up on a steam roller that was compressing the grit and sand into our heavenly bike path. From there, it was all semi-loose sand, a flurry of dust and smoke whenever a construction truck, bus, or piki-piki would pass. I closed my eyes and held my breath at their approach, trying to remember not to lick my dusty lips.
Lake Victoria was a constant presence, and we were never more than 100 metres from the lake.
In her half year in Mwanza, Gabriella has explored many a bike trail around the city. Today we were bound for what she described as a clearing close to the water where you could see the fishing boats and the rocky outcrops for which Mwanza is so famous. Having been needy for nature in Dar, our final destination could have been a garbage dump. I was just happy to leave the city.
The next 10-or-so kilometres passed through the middle of rice fields and small towns. It is near the town of Igombe that the path again reaches the shore. Sure enough, there were the fishing boats bobbing gently in the calm waters, their clean painted stripes making them appear as a collection of collegiate rugby sweaters.
A bit further down the road were clumped bushes with blooming bright yellows, Tanzania’s equivalent of a field of sunflowers. Behind, the geological feature that pairs so nicely with Lake Victoria’s blues: black and grey granite boulders shaped round with weathering.
We were a couple of hours into our cycle and hangry-ness was approaching fast. I suggested we head back the short distance to have a Dorito break near the fishing boats, though Gabriella suggested (correctly) that we would get a lot of heckling if we were to stop for any amount of time.
That’s when we noticed the wood table set up by the shore.
Assembled on the table were three large fish – foot-long Nile Perch caught on the water that very morning. Gabriella and I approached the table, a collection of men and children following us from the road.
Perhaps it was the hungry talking or maybe it was because we knew this fish couldn’t get much fresher, but we decided we wanted roast samaki for lunch. We deliberated for 10 minutes. We had a backpack, but nothing to put the fish in. I took my buff off my wrist and stretched the length of it next to the fish. It would fit, but both the buff and the fish would be disgusting by the time we got home, accidental seasoning the result of fish sweat and human sweat and a piece of fabric satiated with dust. Gabriella had a plastic bag attached to the pannier rack on the back of her bike. We decided to go for it.
As soon as we gave word, a woman began hacking at the fish, yanking the guts and neatly tucking them into the crack of the table. The removed scales shone brightly in the morning sun. Carefully placing the fish in the bag, we wedged our precious cargo onto Gabriella’s pannier rack, hoping it wouldn’t be indented by the time we biked the 17 kilometres home. A man ripped a series of tiny holes in the bag for good measure. Fish pre-cooked in the midday heat is never a good thing.
Home we went, being oh-so-careful not to lose our lunch on any of the road’s more iffy patches.
I would say my mouth was watering, but I think it was too full of dirt. Once home, I dashed down to Kirumba Market for potatoes, peppers, carrots, and lemon.
Soon, Gabriella and I had a set up that would put Jamie Oliver to shame. We delicately lay our miraculously un-squished fish into the casserole dish and got to work chopping, slicing, juicing, and seasoning. Gabriella plucked some fresh rosemary from the garden and I tried to contain my excitement in getting to use an oven for the first time in seven months.
A lengthy bit of time later, dinner was served! The only thing better than good food is having awesome friends to share it with. Gabriella and our airbnb host, Anne, fit the bill.
There’s nothing quite like the taste of a meal you’ve cycled home.