Coming from Malawi into southern tanzania, the first thing you have to do (after crossing the border) is to climb a serious mountainrange stretching between two giant volcanoes, ngozi and rungwe. And that's what we did. 3 days of gaining height on smaller but steep uphills, just to lose it again on the downhill afterwards and to realize how hard this is going to be. Not looking forward to rwanda, the feared land of thousand hills. But slowly we proceed, sleeping at a school and at local homes, while fighting hard for every metre uphill. But by now Roman had some training on the bike and we get more comfortable on the bike. In some steep parts we still have to do it without the person on the front seat but with all the kilos of the bike and luggage of two people. We take turns but Roman is still not trained enough to push it for more than 50 metres at once, which makes me realize how much training i had until here. I can push this crazy machine on my own for a couple of km uphill. But still it is crazy hard. And slow. Cycling all day long, we manage to do 40 km. Sometimes when it feels that hard on a couple of days in a row, I really start to doubt the idea a bit. What am I even doing here? Do I need it that hard, just to prove myself or why am I going through this? The people along the road are laughing, partly that's what african people just like to do, but it has to look too crazy. This overloaded bicycle with two muzungus that have to stop every couple of hundred metres. You should see us in all our grace on a downhill, people. But even these hard days come to an end once and after more fat-dripping chips and a meeting with the local crazyperson at the village on top (i feel like every village has one or two, they are either drunk or in mental problems, just waiting for us to arrive) it is a downhill all the way to Mbeya in beautiful setting sunlight.
We speed into town, straight to the policestation to ask for a place, as it is getting late. It is a big town, but here even the officer in charge is helping us himself to move the motorbikes under a small roof on the police grounds. He insists we have to sleep there, not on the grass beneath. Ok, if they say so, it feels useless to start a debate. Just for us to discover that all the bikes have to go on patrol at 4 o'clock in the morning. Not that this wasn't clear before. The next day Roman has to do some work and I decide to go to the hospital to do something about my digestion problems that i had since i fell sick with malaria in Malawi. I decide to do the real thing and end up in the public hospital that has no english signs, nothing that indicates what i have to do or where i have to go. That's the first encounter with the KiSuaheli loving tanzania. It is confusing because there are hundreds of people everywhere, but a guy offers to take me through the whole process. He is hired to just do that and explain to people all kinds of things. From now on he always stays with me, because of that i get to skip every line and can talk to people rightaway. Helpful, but that's to being treated equal. As if people weren't already staring, now I get taken past every single line while people stare at me. Am I famous, i just want to be treated the same as all the other people waiting, it's just that i have no idea what to do.
When i finally see a doctor and tell her my problem it is more like a self treatment. Without tests i get a pill that should help with a bunch of common parasites. As long as it helps I'm fine with it, we don't have the time to wait for the test anyways. From now on I will hopefully only feed myself not some stupid worm, which kind of gets a running gag. Feed the worm.
Because we have to leave the policestation, we ask at a church and after a long discussion we get connected to a youth hostel which is just across the road of our favorite bakery. Jackpot. We stay one more day and I roam around the city to find several tools and equipment as well as some very nice shukas, a piece of cloth that the maasai are traditionally wearing and which comes in very handy in the cold evenings up here. Then it is time for some planning: which route do we want to take towards rwanda? As we have no clue which roads are tar and which ones aren't, there are several options: the one in the south, along lake tanganyika. The shortest, most straight route right through the center of tanzania about which we have no information. Or the only one that certainly is tar, with a big detour to the west through the capital Dodoma and then all the way to the east, towards rwanda. Checking on the Internet doesn't help a lot, we just find out that the route makongolosi- singida is a well used long distance road, so we decide it can't be that bad. But that means leaving Mbeya we will have to climb a mountain range again, for another 600 hm, a full day of work. But there is a route to avoid that: for sure it is a bad road, probably dirt, but downhill, passing through a nature reserve. We decide for this option, having no clue what is about to come.
The first day was relatively easy because of the downhill, but gave a taste how it would be to travel africa the hard way. These roads are not just dirt, which could be ok, except for the notorious washboard, but are covered with cobbles and rocks. Doing 70 km that day it felt like good progress riding a washboard and the bad road makes you feel you're really out there. Such a remote place, just miles and miles of bush, sand and rocks. Some people drive their herds of ankole bulls along the road which have ridiculously big horns. Makes me wonder how they can lift their heads. The villages look like in an endtime scenario. The world after nuclear war: live in inhabitable places. No one here speaks any english, we have to use hands and feet just to realize people here eat meat. Nothing else. And all parts of the animal. Looks like it is going to get a bit tough here. But it is impressive nevertheless. I haven't seen such places before, semidesert scrublands. How do people live out here? While riding, we are aware that we're inside a national park which makes us rather nervous in the beginning. I am constantly spotting for lions, which might be ridiculous, but we couldn't get any info about the park, animals or dangers. Wild animals would freak me out a bit, I just wouldn't know what to do, how to react. And the vegetation changes rapidly. From scrubland to desert to a more green area where we try to find a place to sleep, which doesn't work. The main difficulty again is the patriarchic society. Even if i can somehow explain what we are asking for, if the man of the house is not around the women can't decide on these things. So we proceed to a village and Roman gets to test his place finding skills. The first time and such a hard one. I'm happy chilling, making sure the bike doesn't fall over, which easily happens with the extra luggage on top and just watching him being in the situation I usually face. A whole village which enjoys in blasting a huge discussion about what to do. And it takes ages. Then we get told it's not possible, they can't guarantee our safety. Wow that's not good, the first time i get turned down and we're inside a national park. I would rather not wildcamp here. But now we have to. I'm not sure if that is safe. First pushing up a crazy steep hill in the dark and then finding a spot behind some bushes. But we are so tired we sleep like babies. I guess afterwards, this park is a joke, we haven't spotted one wild animal. At least in these outer areas.
Up from that point we made ourselves believe it is 20 km to the next road which will be tar. We just had to believe that at this point. But showing up in Saza, a town that probably had its last muzungu visitor 30 years ago, we only caused a really big mob following us around, waiting outside the restaurant and staring at us. Makes you feel you're a famous football player. Now I know: I don't want to be a famous football player. It gets so annoying if people are staring at you all the time and there is absolutely nothing you can do. That's probably the worst. You're getting pissed off and you can't change this situation. And then the big surprise: the road of course wasn't tar. Even worse than the dirtroad before. Having already broken a couple of spokes on the other road and lacking the spanner to remove the cassette, which is necessary to replace spokes in the back i wondered if we would survive this. The road was so bumpy and so steep in some parts, it is a miracle to me how we got the bike up there. And of course it was crazy tiring. These 20 km took us the second half of the day, until a tire just exploded while riding. The bike with two people and that much luggage is just too heavy on the back tire. (Goodbye yellow cheap asian tire, I'm proud you lasted from swaziland till tanzania). So, put on the last spare tire, patch the tube in the middle of nowhere, replace spokes and push to makongolosi. And there we discovered we hit a dead end. Not even the road from there to singida was tar. There are a lot of trucks taking this route but it is still a dirtroad. For 500 more km. I was tired, i didn't want to do it anymore and i knew the bike will have so many breakdowns on this leg that it could easily mean the trip ends there.
So there we were. In dusty makongolosi at the edge of the world. Dusty, dirty, crazy trucker's makongolosi. The godforsaken, the craziest town i have seen on the trip. It is hard to explain, maybe it was the mood, being aware of where we are, running out of money, no atm was working, in such a dusty place full of weird acting people. All these things you can't make any sense of. In the morning when we tried to get breakfast, we only found people shuffing down goat soup, a bad tasting water- fat mix with goat intestines and a chapati. No man haha i'd rather starve. One evening (it was about to get dark, like an european 22 o'clock experience) we went to the market to have a look around, strangely finding ourselves stuck in crowds of children. Or more like hundreds of them. Out of nowhere. They were populating the whole market. I mean, helloooo...somebody put something in my drink or what or am i dehydrated). As if all grown ups were magically turned into 6 year olds. I have no idea why all these kids crowded the market this evening.
In addition to all of that, we met Afman, a half cypriot- half tanzian weirdo. The craziest person i have ever met. Or definitely very high on the list. He was always hanging out at our hotel's bar and he decided we were best friends. Somehow Roman always managed to sit on the side, so it was my task to listen to all his crazy stories. And there were many of them. He just flooded my brain with input as if he hasn't talked to another person in 5 years. He loved to ask a random question and when you replied like: "yes afman, the beer is good" he exploded as if you insultet him very badly " WHY ARE YOU SAYING THAT" just to continue with "it's a so very good we are friends." He just couldn't stop doing that. Also he had a woman around every time. And every time he pulled off the "joke" of telling us "this is my wife, her name is blabla", just to explain 5 minutes later: "just kidding she's a prostitute HAHAHAHAHA." Not only is this probably not nice to her it's just plain strange. Why would you do that all the time? And then he made a prophecy: "One day when you meet me again you will be like: Fuck man, it's afman". And that is definitely what i would say. Just before turning around and running for my life. Fuck man.
Also, it was dead dry. Since we left the heights of Mbeya it was getting worse. Less green, more scrubs, thorns and sand. These colour changes happen all the time on the trip, slowly switching to more green, more yellow, more brown or red. A painter would have some inspiration. And makongolosi? Well, it was bright. There's definitely been places which were more white but it was yellow, dirty and very dusty because of the trucks passing through. This atmosphere combined with our devastation was a special atmosphere. It really felt like the end of the road. Testing the road for just 2 km destroyed my hopes of maybe still trying to do it. This road is just too bumpy, whenever you speed up, there's a part with big stones killing the spokes. It would really make no sense to try and push through and risk the trip to end there. So we went to the bus station. Found the bus that had just arrived from singida. Speaking to the driver made us find out the bus leaves at 1 o'clock next day. One o'clock? That makes us arrive in the middle of the night. We asked them 10 times. Showed them on the clock. Went to the ticket shop. Did the same. And bought the tickets.
Then we spent one last catastrophic evening with el afman. Oh my. When he found out where our hotel room is i really felt like he is my buddy in makongolosi now and i can't stop it.
Next morning at 7 we get woken up by someone punching our door like a boxing bag. What the f*** is going on? Opening the door i already have a bad feeling which proves true: the bus is leaving. 0 o'clock is six in the morning here, so one o'clock is 7, easy to understand if just one of those bright lights would have told us. I hate busses.
Just to make you understand: the african is the most chilled creature in the universe after the sloth. Not that people are just being lazy, some people especially women work crazy hard. But when he or she is not working. His mum could catch fire 50m ahead, still an african wouldn't walk faster than 2 kph. At least I guess so. And i sort of learned how to do that and to like it, hakuna matata. But put him on any motorized vehicle and he turns into a complete lunatic. Like someone that is constantly trying to do more risky maneuvers. Overtaking in oncoming traffic, speeding till the last moment and honking smaller vehicles off the road (like me) is just normal. The african driver can't break down, that would be catastrophic. And the worst are the busses. With the trucks (which are slower) they are top of the food chain and you better not stand in the way of the Maputo- Beira express on his 20 hour ride to hell. Now, 20 hours seem very slow for this distance and that is mainly because of stops, fixing all this luggage on the roof and bad road. Trust me, in between he's speeding like his ass is on fire. Which explains all the bus and truck wrecks along a perfectly flat and widely visible road. I feel like there's just some rules missing, like when can i pull out of a side road. When to overtake. Who goes first at a crossroad. Do not go with 140 here.
So, let's say the bus people were a little excited. But because tanzania is strictly Swahili country, people speak very little english. All they were doing was shouting Faster! FASTER! All the time. These 20 minutes until we had our things packed must have mattered. Ok, the whole bus full of people was waiting for the muzungus, i still couldn't see what we could have done. Of course the bike needed to go on the roof. And because everyone was immediately into asking for exorbitant prices to help, i found myself on the roof of the bus trying to lift the bike up there. After that was done we were crammed into an already overcrowded bus that even took more people in on the way. It was just so full that people had to climb through the windows. And off we went, at a frightening speed of probably 50 kph. Which, considering the road conditions was just as fast as you could go if you don't want to crash rightaway. It definitely took a lot of patience and closing our eyes sometimes, when he had to go so far on the left that it felt like toppling over. During the trip of course, the mood went to zero. And it was about to get worse.
Because bus number one had a flat we also had to get on another bus in rungwa. Which was after more than 6 hours of drive. So, before we realize what's going on, everyone is jumping out of the windows, grabbing their luggage and gathering around the next bus. At that point we were quite sure our seats would be taken. We still had to gather all our luggage and safely get the bike down from the roof. Just to realize the next bus doesn't have a roof carrier. Great, the bike is way to big to go to the other luggage. With a lot of "Faster faster" they still make me try, but it's pointless. So, while the whole bus is waiting, I have to disassemble the whole bike and somehow squeeze it in there safely, while everyone is gathering around, not leaving me any space to work, just to see what's going on. Of course they try to make it as fast as possible, constantly trying to tell me it's ok, trying to lift the bike inside carelessly. I don't think they or the bus company would pay if something breaks.
Once this is done, we squeeze back into the bus with the 150 other people and it looks like we paid for seats. Hooray, the first positive thing on this otherwise hectic day. And the journey continues, making me wish to be back on the bike. At one point, all the passengers are rising up, refusing to take on some more 30 people. This is madness. People are already halfway leaning on seats and each other. The journey lasts another 10 hours. I'm beginning to feel like a chicken in a cage. And then it seems I have a blackout. I can't remember arriving in singida and assembling the bike. I know it was very late, about 10 or eleven, which left us with no choice than going for a hotel. I must have dropped dead after this bus ride. I'm happy i don't have to do whole africa like this, which was the original plan. Thanks Patrick. I would have ended up in a sanatorium.
So next day was full of fixing the bike and then literally searching the whole town for 26 inch tires that don't have crazy unnecessary profile and are not too wide. To add insult to injury, we discovered that the one we got in Makongolosi was too big and just wouldn't fit on the bike, no matter what I tried. It just fell off the rim. Which would leave us with no spare, knowing the tire we are using will not last long. Oh makongolosi, may you be baked in the south tanzanian sun.
The result after a full day of searching was: maybe 15 bike shops visited, no tire found, no oil found. Funny story: after showing up together in every single bikeshop of singida asking for lubricant and getting weird looks, we found out it was banned to prevent homosexuality. That's a proper african way how to deal with something religion doesn't approve. Ban lubricants. And we're travelling with a flag that could be misinterpreted, showing up in every shop going "Hello, do you have lubricant? LUBRICANT?" Maybe it's time to leave. Basically we didn't get anything done. Frustration. To hell singida, which otherwise was an ok town.
Next day we found an exceptional food place for tanzanian standards, fruit salat and what not. At least no ugali with vegetables, which means spinach. We managed to do an impressive 20 km out of town until the back tire just exploded at 50 kph downhill. What's wrong, tanzania? Too much trouble here. And my mouth was constantly dry. There's not enough water in the world not to be thirsty on a bike in central tanzania. Luckily Roman in the back was able to safely break the monster down. Then one of us (me) had to hitchhike back to singida and find some spares asap. I wasn't exactly looking forward to that. The day before had proven one thing: There are no 26 inch tires in this town. It is a 26 inch tire free zone. And i had about 2 hours until it would turn dark. While Roman was entertaining the local kids, I was racing through town. I doublechecked the shops. The guys that we gave the too big makongolosi tyre to for free the day before, after asking for fun, offered it to me for 10 bucks. I nearly collapsed of laughter. But I couldn't believe it, but found not one but two tires and one of them looked very nice. Hooray and back to Roman. Hitchhiking on a truck brought me back quite fast and Roman was still busy with the curious kids. After putting on the new tire, we went into the village and we met a red haired dude from the US. What is this man doing out there? What's wrong with him? Well, it is Keith, staying there for two years with US peace corps to teach at a local school. That's what i call commitment. Makes my mission look pretty easy, that's what I think. I can have company whenever I want, basically do whatever i want, as long as i push Bob the bike from time to time. He's out there on his own with his cat, but he speaks excellent Swahili and is friends with a lot of locals. Just the fixation to one place so far away from everything, all by himself, i think i couldn't do that. Or I wouldn't be very happy doing it.
Very happy to have found another muzungu to talk to, he invites us to his house and we have an european evening, the first one after a long time. And it's nice, to be able to speak to someone about more western things. I always enjoyed the company and staying with local people, just the conversation is usually a bit limited. Whether it is because of educational differences or cultural like the way of communicating, humour or something else i can't point out, doesn't matter. Maybe it's just a feeling i have, and of course it is still interesting getting to know new people and new life stories, to learn about other people's lives. In a way it is something i feel is very enriching and moves myself away from closing everything to myself and to my own head. Maybe something people at home are doing too much. Not talking to others about what's moving yourself, not opening up. But of course i feel, people giving me a place so generously, i should talk to them and if they want to find out about what I'm doing it is a bit like I just can't turn them down and be on my own. I owe them for helping me out. So it can be quite exhausting, answering the same questions over and over again, on the road, at the restaurant, in the evening at the people's place you're staying with, to the policeman waving you off just to talk to you. It's difficult to handle that and not to be unpolite which is what I'm always trying to avoid.
But cultures in africa are very different and also some of the people's behaviour here would be considered unpolite back home. Like mobbing you, grabbing you, getting close to the bike and touching it, basically be very unthoughtful or unconscious of others feelings or needs. Of course i can't know whether that's just a phenomenon towards me as a muzungu, i wouldn't generalize to say africans just are like that. But towards foreigners it can be very rude. And I'm mostly ok with kids behaving like that, as long as it's not too much (hey ethiopia, lets see what you have in store). But to have it 500 times a day, whole villages going mental as soon as i arrive, people standing on the tools while I'm trying to repair the bike, people grabbing the steering while I'm riding, it is a bit much. Accompanied by the constant muzungu muzungu shouting. It is hard to describe all these situations, i think in general it's just the frequency in which it happens until at one point everyone's nerves will be kak (Afrikaans word for comlete shit). In ignoring thousands of people, just because they are too intrusive, i get a tunnel vision. Just don't look at anyone or he will feel befriended or chosen as the lucky one i want to talk to. It's really that stupid. And it's the end of all nice and natural meeting and communicating with locals which could turn out as simply nice and interesting conversation. And me, i start cycling through towns staring forward. That really would be a shame, so I'm trying as hard as I can to shut those negative feelings down.
And the culture here is different, people just touch things no matter if it's theirs, grab my arm, stand next to me and start a 10 minute monologue in Kiswahili that i bet would even be complete bonkers if I understood what they're saying. So you can't just get rude also, just because german, reserved culture is different. Trust me, the occasions were plenty when i wanted to actually shout at someone to stop. It is a hard fight sometimes with negative emotions like anger and frustration, how to make people stop behaving like this, but man, you just can't. Being a white person travelling these areas, you feel so welcome by everyone in another culture you don't have any clue of it would be too rude and people would think you are just plain crazy to get so upset. They don't get that and you are totally on your own. When I'm back home I'll get myself a puppet and let it go. But some common sense can't hurt so I'm feeling like a teacher to all the grabbers and starers and crazy drivers sometimes. Teaching adults basic behaviour. It just won't change shit. TIA, and somehow I came here because it is different, so let it be different and then draw a clear line at which point it is too much.
Heading west from makongolosi towards rwanda we had some fun looking 600 km to do through flat semidesert. A- ha A- ha, that's the way i like it. I tell you, doing this sometimes it can turn you a bit crazy. Especially in combination with drinking too little water somewhere in frikking rural shinyanga. All kinds of bad songs were sung on the bike. But you've got to entertain yourselves on the long boring stretches. And push like up to Col du Galibier because you don't want to run out of water or sleep next to the main road in the middle of nowhere. So with one day rest at a school, a football match with the local boys (I've just got to mention that - Roman was too tired, while i scored the only goal at a 50 cm wide goal) and two nights with a local chief while i was sick and we unfortunately had the worst chicken ever. I'm sorry to say, even if it was killed just for us. Tasted like it was cooked in oil and made me and my stomach, which was busy with uprising nr.2, even worse. During the days we were baked under the merciless african sun and tried to get around in towns and villages where people you ask for a restaurant just stare at you like you're a pink unicorn. What sounds funny can be quite a challenge. We started having siestas because of the heat, desparately trying to suck enough water through roman's filter. Roman was in the back everyday, working his legs because i felt too tired to do it. In the evenings it was either (you name it we have it-) ugali, nsima, sima, shima, pap or hopelessly drowned in oil chips and chicken. My stomach felt encouraged in his rebellion against the system that fed him bad. You know the scene from Blood diamonds where leo dicaprio was sniffing on cocaine with gunpowder and wanders around tripping? I think i've been there, it is a pretty african scene and feeling, walking these chaotic towns along the road at night. From central to western tanzania i took maybe 20 pictures, that's how interesting the landscape was. An interesting first impression of these dry places quickly turns into "ok it is sandy, now i know" into "please make it stop. Hills. Mountains. Trees. Please!"
I want to see green again.
And getting closer to rwanda it became more mountaineous and finally, green again. An endless forest with at one point improvised barracks of people digging for something and then slowly it turned more into what i remember rwanda to be like. Hills on top of hills. And it became very rural, which in africa, especially in tanzania- with it's little population in some areas- means you get really aware of how far of the next "town" you are. Then our second last tire gave up. It lasted 500 km. The distances are getting shorter.
As if the hardness we were about to face wasn't enough, at one point the bike failed completely when i realized the last tire was rubbing on the frame. And that wasn't the only thing. The bike was becoming harder and harder to push. So, the tire's fabric had failed, so it had a big bubble and zigzag shape, making it touch the frame, doing the signature sound. Chrt...chrt.....chrt. Some spokes were also broken. So, we're in the middle of nowhere, the next suggested position of bike shops is 250 km and our last tire is grounded (a word I'm trying to introduce for situations like that. It's hopeless, it's total kak.) Releasing some air and trueing the wheel a bit made it somehow rideable. But it's not turning easily. Why? The back rotor is deformed, bent to one side. Great, it is destroyed anyways, i just somehow bend it back. Why did that happen? The break levers are not opening up even anymore and the breaking pads are worn down uneven. We don't have any more breaking pads. Trying to replace breaking pads to somehow be able to ride Bob to Kigali, Roman, who hasn't been doing bike repairs before, pulls the breaking lever too much without the rotor between the breaking pads, let's say accidentaly. Breaking fluid is released, after that of course there's air in the system, making the brake useless. Somehow the breaking calippers in the back are wrong anyways, not opening up anymore. So this is it, the bike is almost unrideable, tire rubbing, the only brake running almost metal on metal in the front, spokes missing front and back (due to missing torx tool and spanner for the cassette). I want to stay here, stare at the stars and die. Fuck. This could easily mean the trip is over. How to replace a whole hydraulic breaking system in east africa? People here ride bikes which brake on the inside of the rim, no one is going to be able to fix your gears, not to mention a hydraulic breaking system.
We decide we will try to push through to the border, then we might have to jump on a bus if possible, loaded like this it is just not safe to go in such hilly terrain on one almost worn down brake. Which got way worse quite fast. So we spent another night in a crazy village. As i can't remember its name let's call it Dusttown. Which it was. The road was not tarmac everywhere. I leave it to your imagination how it looks there, when the sun is setting. The world is on fire. We went to the village market accompanied by 50 kids and sat down at a table with some of the men to have tea. If the world is going down, you might as well just take some tea in the middle of all the chaos.
The next days were horrible. The bike sounded like skating down a tarmac road on a piece of metal, as soon as the front brakes were also down. And it became much more hilly. I didn't know until then, how much power I had in my legs. Roman forced us up the hills with his stupid stories of "showing the african kids what we're able to" and "muzungu determination". I just wanted to give up, go home to my bed, not move, just lie for a week. But somehow we did it. 200hm with 7 to 8 per cent here, 300hm there, most of the hills i had my eyes closed to be able to concentrate on the burning pain in my knees. "That's kak roman, let's just go back to makongolosi and live there until we die, no one will find us there". On the downhill to Rusumo border we had to go next to the road to have more friction, that's how bad the brake sounded. Just imagine the looks. And how it feels. Like the most stupid way ever to travel, pedal up on a 200kg bicycle 3 km uphill, just to brake it down to walking speed on the downhills also. Repeat that ten times a day, hooray. In Rwandaesque terrain. Stupid muzungus, don't they know you have to ride a bike on the tar, you can be faster.
I was devastated. Would the trip end here? This way? Not because of personal reasons, running out of money or being too homesick but technical problems?
Let's see what happens in the next country. I have already been there about 5 years ago. A country which is mainly famous in western countries for the davastating genocide about 25 years ago, which I see as one of the most horrible and saddest moments of human history. But back then I also got to know it as an amazing country, both for it's nature and unbelievably friendly people which appears as such a strong contrast to the happenings back then. In the one week I have spent there 5 years ago, the people easiliy managed to make it one of my most favorite countries. I just love you, Rwanda. Show us what you got in store for us this time,hashi zi jeyeytili tuta bonana.