Planning a Trek

        

I have read much about fraudulent climbing companies, sending out emissaries of street children in the towns of Moshi and Arusha. Websites and guidebooks warn about such scams taking place in the safari and adventure industries throughout the world. But almost as insidious, in my opinion, are the international corporations that charge tourists exorbitant prices, then employ the services of local companies at rates that barely cover the real costs of the expedition. The greedy abuses of these companies feed on the fears of travelers who want no surprises after arriving in a foreign land. They undercut legitimate local businesses, and often contribute to the exploitation of porters and other workers. I would rather take the risk of a small-scale scam, than help fund massive corporate swindles and middlemen exploits. So while I remain cautious of the pressure of booking with George’s brother’s company, I am armed at least with the awareness of my own expectations, as well as humanitarian concerns.

George and I trek towards the more residential streets of central Dar. We pass an old building of colonial architecture. George motions to a window on the third story.

“The office is up there. The building use to be a hotel.”

We walk through a dark stucco entryway at the center of the complex. To the right is the doorway to a smoky neighborhood tavern. There is a strange rhythm wafting from the bar, as if some patron or two were drumming quietly on the tables, anticipating a concert of Swahili Jazz. We pass an old woman standing behind what used to be the Reception desk.

“The Safari office,” George mumbles to her, as we squeeze past and ascend three flights of stairs. On the second floor a woman attends to a crying baby, shutting the door as we pass. It seems the old hotel has found many new purposes, business, recreational, residential.

As we walk down a dingy hall, a wooden door at the end creaks open. A heavy-set figure is silhouetted in the door frame.

“Welcome brother, Karibu dada! Come in, come in to the office.”

Past the door, the afternoon sun filters in through large windows, filling the small, neat office. The man who welcomed us hugs George in greeting. He is older than George by more than a decade, wearing a heartened expression and a well-loved gray suit. He turns to shake my hand.

       “Welcome to Safari Seniors. So . . . you have some questions about climbing Kilimanjaro.”

Going Postal

We arrive to the more industrial downtown, a huge boulevard of dashing buses and dala-dalas. There is a large concrete strip of buildings, including a bank, the backpacker hub of YMCA, and at last, the central Post Office.

Opening the doors, we find the main room crowded. There is no line, nor is there the conflict of people pushing and shoving to send or retrieve packages. Groups stand, unevenly clumped together, watching the uniformed postal workers deal with boxes and paperwork. I watch a petite mother kneel as she swaddles an infant to her back with a purple printed kanga. She glares up at me under darkly lined lashes, but when I shyly smile in greeting, she again surprises me with a vibrant grin.

George pushes through the people boldly, on a mission to the front desks. Everyone shifts to let us through. I hesitate to follow and grab his arm.

“George, isn’t everyone waiting in line?”

George stops and glances around.

“No line here, people are just doing things they need to.”

From the front desk, we are directed to weighing room. George again ignores the patrons and places the box on a small scale. A corpulent postal worker at the front waves her hands indignantly at George, lecturing him sharply. He shrinks away towards where I had waited:

“Here there is a line...”

His embarrassment seems to have redeemed him. As we wait, I find the opportunity to observe the crowd through adjoining windows of the main room. It seems that a visit to the post office is a family affair; there are young veiled wives with husbands and fathers in topis (traditional Muslim caps), quiet children staring wide-eyed at the packages and people. I’m intrigued by boxes held by the senders: what precious things are needed by loved ones too far to visit? What is it so thoroughly taped and cradled by that fragile girl, guided carefully by her brother; what could be hidden under that angular paper-wrapped anomaly, lifted by the graying African man—a bicycle frame, or a carving of sorts? Suited businessmen hold crisp white boxes, perhaps containing signed documents or machine parts. I catch a glimpse of a small crowd of nuns in the corner, stuffing an open box with cellophane-wrapped candy and school supplies.

“Where to?” The rotund woman asks, having placed the box on the scale at last.

“America.”

The weigh-officer winces, calculating the price of the box’s proposed journey. She slaps a sticker onto the package, and we trek back to the counter in the main room. I sense the intense observation of senders around me, equally curious about the Internationally bound box, as I had been about the brown-papered errands commanding their own days. Finally the box is taken away, and I am unburdened to wander alone, to tread the earth lightly. 

Shortcuts Through Dar

           George walks briskly through the city, taking winding alleys between major residential streets, creating shortcuts that one would never find on a map. Perhaps because his confidence is contagious, I feel worlds apart from this morning’s tremulous meandering. Without worrying about my path and my vulnerability, I am free to lift my eyes towards the architecture of the city. I am surprised to find verandas and more ornate window castings above some of the dustier street fronts. I notice there is even the occasional tree sprouting between the buildings, creating an oasis of dappled shade along the scorching avenues. Fewer eyes are drawn to mine when I follow in the shadow of George’s assurance, as if I’m temporarily endowed with an aura of belonging. George doesn’t realize it, but he is teaching me how to walk again, reiterating the naturalness of ‘being a local.’