Greetings

          While trying to find a box to send some unnecessary things home, I pass a group of five or six idle men on the corner across from Jambo Inn. They stare unblinking as I pass, and self-consciously I utter my “Jambo”. They burst into a flood of greeting, validating my observation that a stranger need merely break the ice. One of the men follows me and introduces himself as George. The man has the build of a wrestler and the stature of a giant, yet his eyes are demure and gentle. George offers to help me find a box and send it home, in exchange for my considering his brother’s company for a Kilimanjaro climb. I’m elated to have company, and begin asking George advice.

“I just got to Tanzania,” I confide. “The only word I know of Swahili is ‘Jambo’. Could you tell me what ‘Habari’ means?”

            “How are you?”

            “I’m fine. . .”

“Then you can say, ‘nzuri’ or ‘safi’ when they ask ‘habari’.”

George teaches me more Swahili, and soon I feel perfectly natural navigating the streets of Dar.

“Is it dangerous for me to walk alone here?” I ask.

“Oh no! Well, some people might try to rob you, but it is safe to walk in the light. See, how many people are around? Tanzanians are very good people, we are very peaceful. But you have to greet people, they can get upset if foreigners don’t even greet them.”

George motions to an alleyway bunched full of eclectic stores: computer parts and kerosene lanterns; barfi (Indian candy), used text books and hammers. Blocking the alley is an older African man slicing pineapple, evidentially the juiciest, judging by the Indonesian mothers who crowd him on behalf of sticky-fingered children. George gently presses the Fruit Vendor to the side with one hand as he squeezes behind him. I try to give the man an apologetic glance as I follow, but he never looks up from the pineapple, as if it were the wind that pushed him forward. George enters the first store to the left, which sells bottled water among fabric and bicycle tires, and sure enough there is a stack of used Kilimanjaro Water boxes against the wall. George speaks in brusque Swahili to a young Indian man with dark circles under his eyes.

“What?” the man responds with tangible irritation.

            A thin curtain rustles in the back of the room and a graying man appears. He looks George up and down, then glances at me. Even though I know nothing of Swahili, I could tell from the first interaction that George hadn’t greeted the shopkeeper before delving into our demands. I wonder why he hadn’t followed his own advice about greeting Tanzanians.

            “Hello sir.” I nod to the younger man and older.

            “How can we help you?”

            “This girl is searching for a box to mail to America. About this size.” George shapes the air, the exact size of the water boxes in the corner.

            “Sorry we don’t have boxes.”

            “Something like that would be perfect,” I motion to the corner.

            Both men look towards the piled boxes.

            “Oh,” the old man replies. “You want that. Yes, here you can take it for free. You need packing tape?”

The younger man passes us the box and we buy duct tape from behind the counter. “Karibu,” the old man replies in Swahili, as we exit their store.

George and I walk through the streets shimmering with high noon heat. We walk slowly under the weight of the sun, deciding to split for spell while I fill the box and we each find lunch. When we reach Jambo Inn, I notice his friends still standing across the street, waiting vaguely for something to happen. I’m not sure why George is helping me, shelving my errands with his quotidian frankness.