Kurasa.
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A Bus Ride to Lushoto

Na Amani Joseph ยท 20 Juni 2026

๐ŸšŒ

Juma had opinions about the mountains. 'People from the coast think money is in Dar,' he said, hanging out of the doorway to check the rear wheels around a hairpin. 'But look โ€” up here they grow vegetables that feed the whole country. Every tomato in Kariakoo was born in these hills. The mountain people are rich; they just keep it in soil instead of pockets.'

Lushoto itself arrives suddenly: a small town folded into a valley, all eucalyptus and red roofs, ten degrees cooler than the coast. The Germans built it as a refuge from the heat and called it Wilhelmstal; the locals took it back and kept the pine trees. In the market, women sell plums and pears โ€” plums! in Tanzania! โ€” and the air smells like rain even when it is not raining.

I asked Juma, as I got off, whether he ever got tired of the route. He considered the question seriously, counting a fan of banknotes without looking at them. 'A road you know well is like a song you know well,' he said finally. 'You don't get tired. You just start hearing different parts.' Then the bus swallowed a new crowd of passengers and pointed itself back down the mountain.


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