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.