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.’

The Last Conversation

(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...

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. 

  

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.