Strangers

           Walking around a city for the first time is always overwhelming. If you are new to the country, do not speak the language, and are walking alone, it is difficult to lasso up fear and self-consciousness to internalize the geography or interact with people. As I wandered that morning in Dar es Salaam, stomach clenched, eyes wide, feet stumbling, I wanted more than anything to see yet remain unseen. I wished I could first be allowed to float around the neighborhood, looking into the little shops, watching the deft flips of sizzling chapatti, admire the colors of peeling buildings, patterns of chapping tarmac. I wanted to see men and women greet each other, the daily relations between customers and shopkeepers, taxi drivers and pedestrians. The passing Eastern women in silk saris, Arabic women covered fully by veils, African women wrapped in vibrant kangas... despite their various heritages, did they know each other as Tanzanians? Or were they each as strange to one another as I was?

Needless to say I was not invisible this morning, but conspicuously alien. Westerners are accustomed to a pretense of anonymity—more self-consumed with tasks and stacked thoughts, we sometimes pretend to ignore one another, and assume we too remain normal, unremarkable. I walk briskly because in Chicago that’s how confident locals (‘city-slickers’) move past awkward tourists that shuffle loudly and gawk. But here in Tanzania I can feel that my hurried gate seems unfriendly, paranoid, and alarmingly uptight—it takes me hours to notice that here locals shuffle, because calmly, there is time for everything.

         The habit of brisk walking is a sensible one to fall into when living in a western city. But where have I been for so long that the naturalness of greeting others has become utterly strange?

Jambo, Dar es Salaam!

         Chaos abounds! Early in the morning traffic clogs the main streets. Venders tote strange wares to the stagnant, honking vehicles, as if plastic lawn chairs or stuffed cartoon characters could suddenly pacify the taxis and commuters. Down the smaller, dustier roads dart bicycles and the savvier dala-dalas. These crowded public mini-vans are painted with iconic images or short blessings. Some sport representations of Jesus, others have Islamic script or reggae phrases; but most common are the plastered symbols and reverences of Barack Obama.

The sidewalk is constructed of slabs of broken concrete on shifting sands and gravel, so that its imperative for one ill-accustomed to summer sandals watch carefully to keep feet in order. Incongruous obstacles such as rusted metal rebar and yes, banana-peels, almost lead to constant catastrophe. Between maintaining physical balance and attempted decorum I very quickly lose my way and my senses. Or rather, my way in my senses—sensory overload: 



Photo by Marc Cowan



Sounds of honking, shuffling, shouting, laughter, language—Arabic, Swahili, Hindi, Tswana, slang—machinery: jackhammers and drills, the acceleration of motorbikes. Birds squawk disturbed, darting in a tree; merchants chant attention to their wares; silver anklets twinkle delicate. Behind, lips smack scandalously— sharp swivel—it is only a boy selling frosty bottled water. The streets are hotter than the African sun waving silver off tarred gravel: the man toiling over coal-charred corn teaches that. Smoke in the eyes, tears reflex and further distort the abstract world. A game of following scents leads to corner fruit stands, overripe mango, sticky rings of pineapple. Impromptu vendors pass out greasy meat skewers and fried dough. Petrol is leaking somewhere; sawdust betrays sites of cyclical construction; chilled perfume wafts free from swinging doors of pharmacies; urine from a darker alley; incense and curries drift from second-story windows; the rot of robust dumpsters; perspiration and cigarettes of people, passersby –and the subtle sesame of my own sweat.

As I wander the streets of central Dar I hear utterances of strange but infectious words. The eavesdropped enthusiasm convinces me that dozens of old acquaintances must be meeting serendipitously along the path I’d chosen. When at last I turn to gaze upon the happy sons of chance, my stomach flips finding every face turned to gaze at me!

“Habari?” says a man with a humored glint—I had run into him while turned. “Sorry. . .” I demure, squeezing into the crowded sidewalk. I still don’t know what “habari” means. The only Swahili word I know is ‘Jambo’ or ‘Hello!’ So in reply to the chorus of “Mambo!” “Habari!” “Caribou!” I answer “Jambo?” and flash a conspicuously confused smile.

Something New

          Something new – This journey is waiting to be defined. An emptiness cupped, patient and impending, book-ended by dates, solid departures. Although (or perhaps, because) I’ve been before to Africa, I cannot predict the experience that awaits. A heavy blankness looms, flitting with ghost scents and sounds of the tropics. Yellow pineapple, succulent, ripened to the day before decay. Muezzin, shouts of jubilee and importuning, in a human language intuited but not understood. And then all fades to a wisp and the leaden darkness pulls within: the unknown. But within that space, adrenaline tingles and soars with the unblemished potential that goes hand in hand with the un-defined.

           The airplane is dry. The air sucks at the moisture in my eyes, I sleep and wake. Meals are designed to slow digestion and other natural processes (I’m convinced!). Then delay, transfer, haze – I make my connection, but my backpack does not. A traveler’s nightmare, but no big deal. It is resolved with little more than ordinary paperwork confusion. The pack will be delivered to my guesthouse (though it unfortunately lacks a physical address). I buy a toothbrush, am overcharged by a taxi, and fall into deep tossed jetlag dreams. These are the ‘rites of passage’ that once accepted, quickly pass.

           Some nights in Dar es Salaam, then onwards North...