Safari Junket

Last Night, in Dar...

2012-01-25T10:00:00.000-08:00

I wander in the evening, creating for myself the malleable goal of seeing the sea. With a destination in mind, even one with arbitrary significance, I find more courage to progress past moments of irresolute fear. From Jambo Inn, I know that the sea is due east, so no map in hand I can navigate the streets of Dar es Salaam. The sun is sinking behind the buildings, making every road a shadowed alley. Certain areas happen to be devoid of people; I dread moving through these, until I notice another walking commuter within beckoning range. The fear that I feel is familiar, an old nemesis born from the days of social anxiety. It is partly a response to the unknown, a human reaction towards awareness and self-preservation; but also a type of stage fright. The moment I leave my room, I am watched. My whole body can sense the gaze of people, as physically as an actor can feel the heat of the spotlight. And every moment contains nuances of history and the current state of affairs. ‘Does this girl of Western coloring and clothes, this stranger, belong to the colonizers and their enforcers of apartheid? Or is she an emissary of the President of progress, our kinsman? Is she a friend or an other?’ Travelers are ambassadors and performers either of culture or nouveau-colonization, regardless of how conscious one is of the responsibility. Every interaction matters, every step is efficacious. This awareness is the cause of stage fright.

Ahead the buildings make way for the sea. The street empties onto a large four-lane avenue, and between the traffic and the ocean, a fence. I wander north along the dirt path aside the road, admiring the silver ocean between patterns of metal chain link. A sultry breeze breathes against the skin, whispering of salty voyage and seaweed.

Soon I am walking with others along this path. Small crowds draw wanderers, individuals joining magnetically, all walking north along the eastern edge of Africa. There is no reason really for the collectivity, no common destination. Some are strolling with family for the sake of it, some heading home from work; a few are speaking quietly, none move with anxiety. Swallowed by the current of wanderers, I am one of them. For the first time, I sense no gaze, merely mutual acknowledgement of presence—the kind of sensitivity the crowd holds for each one sharing this path. The course would have otherwise been lonely. The breeze spreads the darkness from sea to city. Dirt accumulates dismally next to the black pavement, some trash is wedged next to the metal fence. But lights blink on in some buildings across the road and in the passing cars; fire glows in makeshift grills, and groups of men and women are illuminated around small shebeens next to the water.

There is a bar I had read about, one of six recommended in the whole city of Dar es Salaam, where travelers may meet and share stories or advice. It is at the top of a hotel that is next to the harbor, and I had a mind to make that my new destination. But the fancy hotel is characterless, an exclusive cube of mirrors reflecting the outside world, barricaded by a white gate and a guard. The stream of locals bypasses this structure, and so do I.

The local wanderers disperse at the harbor. I walk past fish merchants that are packing up an inventory of eclectic sea creatures. The street descends to the water, where many board a passenger ferry. I opt out of boarding the boat, though the thrill of going somewhere unpredictable is tempting. Next to the landing is a cafe bar, where people sit around plastic tables, waiting and carousing amid festive meringue music. I sit timidly at an empty table, to watch the last sun stains fade from the sky. A waitress appears, stands imploringly over me. Because I fear my presence strange, I do not order beer or liquor, rather a glass bottle Pepsi to be safe. I sip it through a straw, watching stray cats bound across concrete blocks piling into the sea. They chase giant rats that nobody seems to mind, cornering the creatures to a watery grave. I walk back as the deepest dusk turns black, and the stream of locals wanes.

Dream Learning

2012-01-15T10:00:00.000-08:00

Eyes wide open in the heat, I watch upside-down as the sun emerges over the neighboring rooftops. I flip over a few times, restlessly looking for coolness in the sheets or against the wall. My mind reels from the experiences of the previous day, the trivial errands that somehow became a never-ending induction to my self-imposed Odyssey. Everything ‘normal’ is strange to me now that I’m alone in a strikingly new world; even something so simple as walking creates questions of politics and naturalness. I can hear a fly colliding against the screen on my window— and realize that my senses and perception are heightened to hyper-awareness.

Echoes of yesterday’s acquaintances spiral through my mind as I repeat over and over the strings of Swahili that have stuck. Jambo, Habari? Nzuri Sana, Mambo? Poa, Karibu. Asante. (Hapana, Pole. Ndiyo, Tafahdali). The language is musical. The meaning of the few words I’ve gleaned seems intrinsically bound to each sound pronounced. “Asante” sounds saintly gracious. “Hapana” yells stop, penalty, negative, no. “Karibu” beckons, caring, come here you. Like a newborn, my brain already functions to meld symbols and significations. The slightest tones, expressions, reactions of everyone around me are perceived and organized with words subliminally captured.

I am waking exhausted from dream-learning, from reconciling myself with difference. Today will be passed quietly and meditatively—I must better prepare myself for change.

One Night Communion

2012-01-07T13:46:00.000-08:00

Manon pours a bottle of Kilimanjaro Beer into a tall glass. I sip a delicate serving of Tej, a champagne-colored honey wine, that the waiter claims is his favorite beverage. For a while, we go through the formal ‘first date-like’ motions of getting to know each other, descriptions of family, of friends, studies and work and interests. I explain to Manon my anthropology-based program in Cape Town, she tells me about the volunteer organization that sent her to Arusha. But eventually it dawns on both of us that it doesn’t really matter at this point that we construct our whole personas for one another. This night is the first and last time we’ll know each other; it hardly matters that at home I pass the time watching old movies of Cary Grant, and she follows Dubstep music, and we both played ‘Olivia’ in Twelfth Night. We have sought one another’s company for communion over the things we share that no one in our lives may fully understand, the fluctuating dimensions of self that exist right now within and because of Africa. Thus our departure from normal social routine is signified when I ask Manon whether she looks forward to returning home, and she announces:

“Switzerland is sometimes barbaric. I see that now, in its conformity. I don’t know how I feel about going back. Home is just the end-point, it is inevitable. I want to see friends, but I’m afraid that I’ll sink back into it, and forget. I know I will.”

Barbaric. I think Manon may be the first person in history to call Switzerland this. Barbaric in its conformity. If I am correct in interpreting, she speaks of the inhumanity, the lack of humanness in the daily experience. The technology, the segregating and alienating systems that render face-to-face contact unnecessary. If this is what she means by ‘barbaric,’ then I understand her ambivalence towards returning.

“Forgetting terrifies me too,” I admit. “But when we go back, no matter how much we adjust to our own culture, and how many of the details we lose, it will never be like we’d never gone. Even if you forget the meaning of ‘Jambo,’ you will know that Africa is not really what politicians and newspapers say it is. And the people you met. . . you’ll always know they are real.”

The evening passes as Manon and I replenish ourselves through social communion. Exhausted and satiated, we return to Jambo Inn and bid our final farewell. We part, knowing we’ll never see each other again, though content to have had the chance to share our lone experiences.

Addis in Dar

2011-12-22T10:00:00.000-08:00

We flag a taxi right outside of Jambo Inn. Manon takes control, negotiating the fare and destination with the driver in Swahili. I climb into the backseat, observing tableaus of the night as we drive through the city. Men sit in front of closed storefronts, chatting and playing Bao in the dark. New shifts of street venders continue to smoke meat and grill chapatti. Every time the taxi pauses momentarily in traffic, someone knocks on the window, advertising wrapped candies or salvaged Western kitsch. The street color dissipates as we enter emptier and pricier parts of the city, with more imposing edifices— expensive prisons that lack ambiance. Every building looks like an embassy, doubly barricaded by walls and gates. I suppose this is the “nicer part of the city” that an Afrikaner on the plane had wanted to show me.

Entering the outwardly non-descript building, Manon and I ascend a staircase and are relieved to find a lively, ornately decorated balcony. ‘Addis in Dar’ is a restaurant of Ethiopian cuisine—now that I am here I recall ‘Addis in Cape,’ a popularly recommended place in Cape Town, evidentially started by the same Ethiopian woman.

We are seated at the corner of the balcony, surrounded on two sides by the thick, glossy foliage of the tropical trees rooted in the garden below. With the dark flickering of candle lanterns, and the smell of incense mingling with roasting coffee, the restaurant perfects for its Western customers the atmosphere of ‘exotic Africa’. I wonder if the theme of ‘Ethiopia’ strikes Tanzanians with a sense of mystery and foreignness. Looking around, I notice few Tanzanian customers; those that are here appear to be on business dinners. Though I try not to eavesdrop, I am intrigued that they are speaking English to each other, and Swahili to the wait-staff.

Dinner is ceremoniously presented. The meal consists of various kinds of wot, or stews, scooped onto a large communal sourdough crepe called injera. The injera is moist, a gray fermented flour that absorbs the rich spices and herbs of the sautéed dishes and wot.

“We eat with the right hand,” the waiter proclaims. “Use the injera to scoop up the stew. Very nice.”

We have ordered vegetarian dishes, Kek Alicha Wot— chickpeas with ginger and turmeric— lentil stews, and a hummus-textured scoop of sweet simmered pumpkin. The meal is mushy, fragrant with herbs and spices, and wonderfully contrasted by the sour injera.

Manon

2011-12-13T14:04:00.000-08:00

“Hello, are you traveling alone?” A Caucasian girl approaches me as I sit for curry at the Jambo Inn restaurant.

“Yes, for now. How about you?” The girl nods, looking lonely, so I invite her to eat.

“Thank you,” she responds with a very slight European accent.

Her name is Manon, hailing from Switzerland. She has traveled alone for the first time, to spend three months on a volunteer program in Arusha. The girl has the kind of unassuming attractiveness that is usually passed off as ‘cute’ or ‘pleasant.’ Her features are carefully composed with a straight upturned nose and a faintly mouse-like overbite. With fine, fawn-colored hair, and flawless skin, her beauty is one of Caucasian softness, but would call for a certain temper of ‘joie de vivre’ to really catch fire.

“I’ve been here for three days, and there’s nothing to do in Dar es Salaam but walk around,” Manon vents after we’d exchanged pleasantries. “I was getting so lonely. And everyone here is on honeymoon, or strange business. I’m so glad to talk to you, I use to never talk to strangers. I think Africa has made me braver that way.”

Now at the end of her time in Tanzania, Manon has changed. I couldn’t know how much has internally altered, but I could recognize the outward statements of a transformed identity. She is wearing an orange kanga print dress, handmade on streets of Arusha. The sleeves are thick, just off the shoulders, with a scoop-neck, and fitted upper torso. Her sandals hail from the street markets also, and her wispy mouse-colored hair is pulled tight into tiny braids. She doesn’t look ridiculous, as one might imagine, but genuinely believes that these changes in style make sense here. Like all of fashion, her clothes are a sign. Whether they represent practicality, an inner change, or the greatest self-delusion of having become local, is up for debate.

Before standing to take an afternoon nap, Manon invites me to dinner in a different part of the city. I agree, pleased for the company.

For someone who claims former shyness, Manon seems quite forward. Traveling has a way of accentuating the necessities of life, companionship being an oft forgotten need. It also has a way speeding up relationships, into condensed chunks of pivotal exchanges. I wonder how Africa has made Manon braver; how like Oz, visitors historically find in this ‘mystery continent’ whatever qualities they seek.

Booked!

2011-07-20T12:41:00.001-07:00

Back on the street, the sun casts long shadows on the thinning traffic. Mchafukoge, our neighborhood of central Dar, is becoming gradually less crowded. Although street vendors of fruits and meat still tow their wares to afternoon patrons, businesses are shutting their stores and commuters are heading home. After turning a few corners, I recognize myself to be on Libya St, the avenue that eventually leads to Jambo Inn. We pass the gas station parking lot I recognize, where all the taxi drivers wait for patrons, then the dusty construction site with mounds of sand and rebar extending into the car lanes. Then there is an outdoor mall, with a cloth store, a book-shop, and a small Indian takeaway cafe. Under the restaurant, concrete stairs descend to a covered sitting area where two Indian women are chatting—deeper in the tunnel is an ATM.

Safari Seniors was a legitimate company, and George’s brother thoroughly answered all my questions about Kilimanjaro and the treatment of porters. Since they were a local company, and that was my main prerequisite, I decided to book with them. The bargain deal of $1300 USD was paid in half then and there.

(http://www.safariseniors.com/)

Planning a Trek

2011-06-20T20:35:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-11T11:31:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-01T09:25:00.000-07:00

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.’

Greetings

2011-05-30T11:28:00.000-07:00

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.

The Last Conversation

2011-05-08T10:19:00.000-07:00

(scenario continued from Imagine...)

It wasn’t Psychosis – there was no confusion of what was real and what was dreamt. It was just that reality didn’t seem all that genuine.

You arrive to your apartment shaking, feeling ridiculous. Your roommate is in the kitchen heating a can of soup. The red and white label is splotched with tomato pulp. The roommate catches you glaring at it. “Want some?”

You can’t control the gasping words that pour forth. Something sticks, like “our entire experience of life, from day to day, has been designed!”

And after some beats of silence your roommate chirps, “I think it’s nice.”

“What?”

“The supermarket. It’s nice that the produce seems fresh, and that the light is always as bright as midday, and it’s never too hot or cold. I like that the aisles are organized. It’s nice.”

“Nice? But nice isn’t real! It is a comfortable, numbing lie,” You cry, exasperated.

“You’re nice.” Your roommate plays the Devil’s advocate. You were taught that at school, to get to the bottom of things. “You’re a good person, and you’re nice – even when it’s not the whole truth of how you feel.”

“I know,” You scowl. “But I’d rather be honest.”

“We’re all products of our society. And it is produced by us, not by some manipulative entity. You have nothing to run away from.”

“I’ve memorized billboards that I don’t remember reading. I know the finalists for American Idol, and don’t even have a T.V. There are concepts in my mind that I didn’t put there that have no purpose but to induce craving, a purchase. . . I want the freedom to see things the way they are, to suffer even, to live a life unmediated.”

You march down the hall with your computer and purse.

“Where are you going?” The roommate asks, alarmed and moved by your resolve.

“Somewhere that doesn’t paint food. Some place far, where I can remember things that came before there was any question of authenticity.”

Imagine...

2011-05-04T09:13:00.000-07:00

You walk in the city to be alone amongst people, to watch the world, your home.

Downtown, the faces of empirical buildings leer gray reflections of a coming storm, wayward mists mocked in solid geometry. The sidewalks are littered with newspaper stands - Corruption in UN / Famine in Africa / Starlet Arrested. So, all is normal.

Shop windows along the street have already rotated seasons; plaid scarves and wool coats cling to the curves of cream-colored manikins. “The fabric of our lives...” you hear your mind sing, without glancing at the cotton models hovering above State and Wabash.

A pair of pink earmuffs double as headphones in the gleaming white tech store, and a pulsing runway rhythm pours from within. You find your feet hitting the concrete in time with the beat, and you shuffle in triple to escape. You want to be free from the trap, from the constant suggestions filtering through.

Long cries pierce the windy avenue, emanating from a small girl with doll in matching blue pinafore. The child offsets her body to pull a scowling mother back into the American Girl skyscraper. Her mother relents to the tantrum and the heavy door swings shut, wafting the warmth of cupcakes behind.

They’ve really got us. You continue to walk, crestfallen. The melancholy is common, it creeps in when your mind has no immediate obligation. It always seems to bring with it the sense that ‘This is it. The best part of the day, of our lives. Then dinner. Then bed.’ And sharp on the heels of the glumness is guilt, for this really is it, the Pinnacle of privilege. You have the leisure to question the meanings of things, and the pocket money to have a cupcake too.

You enter a grocery store to find some dinner. The soup isle is mesmerizing. Rows of red and orange cans, so easy, so cylindrical. Just grab one and go. The produce is being misted, fresh, too perfect. You pick up a tangerine. The sticker says it has been shipped from Florida. You put it back. When you lift your fingers you find them shimmering and orange-scented. You touch the tangerine again – they are covered in something glittering and unnatural! The cabbage, the tomatoes, the carrots – have they all been painted? Your stomach churns, disgusted by illusion. Nothing here is natural! You run.

One Reason to Go

2011-05-01T14:13:00.000-07:00

One of the reasons I went to Africa was to escape mediation. I felt that my life, in America, was in real danger of following the edicts of entities beyond me. This went farther than the schemes of marketing, little material seductions, because I felt that everything I experienced (from the subway to the supermarket) was modified or designed before I even got there. I was about to graduate college, so in a way life for 18 years had been defined by an educational system of ‘theory’ that has little to do with surviving in the world. And the next step society pushes new grads into would be a series of desperate internships and simplistic entry-level jobs. I felt the walls closing in on me, and wanted to tear everything apart, to be free, to suffer.

If the idea of ‘mediation’ seems impenetrable or (ironically) contrived, perhaps the scenario in the following entry will help convey the situation...

Strangers

2011-04-24T15:45:00.000-07:00

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!

2011-04-19T12:18:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-19T11:33:00.000-07:00

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...