One Night Communion

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

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

“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!

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

        

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.’