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The Bad Road isn’t determined by the quality of its tarmac or by the number of its potholes, but by what is travelling on it and the manner in which it is travelling.

The road to Dar es Salaam is a bad road.

Imagine, if you will, an episode of ‘Wacky Races’ but with a cast consisting entirely of Dick Dastardly duplicates – no Penelope, just Dick – and you begin to get an idea of how it feels to drive on the road to Dar. Villainous vehicles of all shapes, sizes, and speeds are set on running you off the road. If you’re not being stared down by the unblinking, luminous gaze of an oncoming HGV, then you’re being laughingly edged off a mountain pass by an impatient, high-sided behemoth.

Sadly, Tanzania’s Wacky Races don’t conclude in a comedy Crash! Bang! Wallop!, just a crumpled carcass strewn among the mountainside conifers – twisted steel skeletons, enough to scare us, but not truck drivers from vying for first place in their imaginary race.

And then there’s the police check points, which hitherto haven’t been as irksome or multitudinous as in Tanzania.

‘Ah, from England. What gifts have you brought us from this England?’
We weren’t lying when we said we hadn’t any money – there aren’t many ATMs between the Malawian border and Dar es Salaam. All we could offer was a treasure trove of hand sanitizer, sun cream and insect repellent.

‘Nothing else?’

Nothing else.

A reluctant ‘Welcome to Tanzania’ and we were on our way. Until the next police checkpoint. Repeat above conversation.

Money did eventually change hands when we were flagged down for our first speeding offence. Without looking at us, a languid lady police officer sloped into our path, idly pointing something more suited to a Strom Trooper than a traffic cop (a speed gun, we’re told) in our general direction. We stopped and smiled the best roadworthy smiles we could muster.

Still not looking at us, lady law kissed her hand and shook Davy’s. Kissed it again and shook Giles’s. Odd, yes, but this was apparently to compensate for the fact she didn’t speak a word of English.

She smiled at us, knowingly, we beamed back, unknowingly.

Before the grinning contest became uncomfortable, another officer emerged from the shade of a nearby tree (the police checkpoint) and informed us that we were travelling 71 in a 50 zone.

Bribe time.

How much?

Twenty thousand Tanzanian shillings.

We explained that the dearth of ATMs meant we only had 12,000, but could make up the rest in dollars.

Dollars, you say? How much?

Ten.

Give me ten.

We gave him ten and were sent on our way. The officer’s preference for shiny US dollars over local currency meant we got away with only paying half the fine.

God bless America.