Last week in this very column, I wrote about “Village Life to JKT: My 1973 Buhemba Experience.”
Naturally, this piece revived mixed memories among several Bongolanders of my generation who went through this mandatory exercise after completing high school in the 1970s and 1980s.
A few of them wanted more—rightly so. They argued that my narrative, which ended with our small group arriving at the main gate of the Buhemba National Service Camp—frogrmarching with our travel bags precariously balanced on our heads to the Quartermaster’s office—was incomplete.
As I explained, the frogmarching was due to our being half an hour late in reporting, despite having travelled hundreds of kilometres across forbidding mountains, valleys, plains and rivers in this vast country.
Readers argued I had left them kwenye mataa—in suspense—because I had not completed the story with a “real-life” insider’s account of the camp.
Lconcur. So here we go.
It should be recalled that, at the time, the Buhemba Camp was historically an abandoned gold mine. It still had its deep, water-filled mine shafts, about 50 thatched huts that had once housed mine workers, two function halls, administration offices, staff quarters, and several other facilities.
All male recruits were housed—four per hut—in those 50 structures, while the female learners were accommodated in one of the newer facilities. Much of the rest were restored huts.
Unfortunately, on our arrival, the huts were fully occupied, so we—and all others who came after us—were temporarily accommodated in the dining hall.
Indeed, it was surreal. We slept on bare, hard dining tables—after dinner, of course. Our bags, kept inside the food store, became our pillows, and a threadbare regimental blanket was our only cover.
The hordes of mosquitoes that happily sucked blood from our bare bodies didn’t make our lives easier. But you know what? We grew to love our sleeping “quarters” because, among other things, it was the best place the Afandes would think to ambush during early morning wake-up drills.
Also, there were no cumbersome room-cleansing inspections. Ironically, we even protested—albeit verbally—when we were later ordered to move into the huts once they became vacant.
I also recall that, a few days after our arrival, we were all marched to the main gate to witness what we were told was the worst example of reporting late to camp. In this case, not only was my classmate from Mkwawa High School, the late Adam Lusekelo, very late, but he also arrived with only a toothbrush and toothpaste in his back pocket—to ease the pain of the “baggage-on-the-head” frogmarching punishment. He was frogmarched straight to the Quarter Guard detention cell, where he cooled off for the better part of a week.
Otherwise, we settled into life at the camp with relative ease. We were trained in all the military parade drills—reluctantly at first, but eventually with a degree of enthusiasm. Gun handling and range-shooting training were deferred for later at a more specialised camp.
Sundays were free. That was when we would go to the nearby Fort Ikoma village to fight for chapatis at the only place preparing them, spending our meagre resources from our monthly Tshs 20 stipend.
Fort Ikoma was at the very end of the road from Musoma, some 46 km away. Beyond that lay only a rough trek into the wild and mighty Serengeti. Apart from limited trade, patchy farming, and occasional hunting, the village was also known for its drinking and dancing scenes.
Initially, we were mere spectators. But in time, we actively participated in the local revelry. This meant a group would sneak into the night, disguised as visitors to various points of entry.
As I recall, that event, a few months into the service, was our attempt to rejoin the main group.
But after a few weeks—and repeated mocking from the locals (“Fiasikari gani hivi, finaliwa hata kabla kafharijanywa?”)—we upped our game. One night, our group of four managed to finish an entire three-litre stuffura of gongo.
That was a big mistake.
We tried—and failed miserably—to wobble our way back to the camp. We could see the night lights of the camp, but whenever we tried to reach them, they mysteriously seemed to appear behind us. Apparently, we were walking in circles.
We ended up spending the night snoring in the dangerous, snake-infested bush. At sunrise, we staggered back to camp and straight into the hands of the MPs, who sentenced us to two weeks in the Quarter Guard’s freezing cell. And that, naturally, marked the end of our gongo adventures.
Towards the end of our Buhemba stint, the entire camp—over 300 servicemen and women—was punished for two reasons: firstly, for remaining of a single hut while dodging our entire stay; and secondly, for illegally pre-harvesting rations, and eating all the maize.
The punishment: A mandatory 20-kilometre route march into the Serengeti wilderness the next day.
And that was the Last Order, as they say in military-speak.
📌 The author is a veteran journalist and former editor of national and international newspapers.
