Dar es Salaam Diary

So I’ve gotten in the habit of walking to work. It takes about an hour, which means I have to leave my house at the ungodly hour of before 7 AM, but with the traffic in the morning I really don’t save much time by taking the dala-dala. Plus it’s nicer to arrive at work without the neck cramp and residue of sweaty, awkward embraces that a morning dala-dala ride necessarily entails. It also affords a chance for some daily meditation and low-impact cardiovascular exercise! (Multi-tasking, so American…)

I tend to lose myself in thought as I make my way, whether attempting to determine how my being in Tanzania contributes my (extremely nebulous) “life plan” and the good of the world, trying to make sense of a Larium-enhanced dream, or simply marveling at the fact that I’m awake, out of bed, dressed, and on my way to work at 7 in the morning. These deep thoughts are frequently interrupted since, as I may have mentioned once or twice, I don’t entirely blend in.

The taxi drivers around the corner from my house have eternal hope that I’ll abandon my morning constitutional for a ride to work and are always quick to offer their services. When I politely decline, they commence with a volley of greetings that feels like a Swahili quiz:

Karibu! (Welcome!)
Asante. (Thank you.)
Habari za asubuhi? (What’s the news of the morning?)
Nzuri. (Good.)
Za kazi? (How’s work?)
Nzuri. (Good.)
Mambo vipi? (How are things?)
Poa. (Cool.)
Salama? (Peaceful?)
Salama kabisa. (Totally peaceful.)

In addition to the taxi guys I can count on a few other regular encounters as I make my way to work. First is usually my buddy with the shiny, bald head and bright red tie, who deftly maneuvers his hand-crank wheelchair up the hill, always stopping to give me a grin and occasionally admonishing me for being late. Then there is the tiny old man with who acknowledges my “Shikamoo” (an expression of respect for one’s elders) by clasping his hands over his heart and making a little bow, smiling until his eyes squeeze shut.

Unfortunately most mornings I also have to avert my eyes from the half-naked (yes, that half) junkie who wanders along the side of the road by Selander Bridge, a somewhat notorious spot, if perhaps only due to his presence.

The other day I made a new friend, this one fully clothed, and about 6 feet tall, with a white skullcap and matching beard. As is more often the case than not, I was running late, and thus trying to walk quickly in order to arrive at work somewhere within the realm of on time. One of the men I brushed past caught up with me and said something in Swahili that I didn’t quite catch. When I asked him to repeat himself he did so in English, explaining that he was complimenting me for being a “good walker.” We began chatting and he explained that he had lived in the States during the Johnson administration, having gone to Atlanta, Georgia to study fingerprinting and handwriting analysis! He was quite pleased when I exclaimed, “So you’re a detective!” and explained that he now works “independently” but if I had any problems that could be solved by identifying fingerprints and analyzing handwriting, I should look him up.

This being Tanzania, my new Private Eye friend being a man, and me being a woman, he was quick to ask me whether I was married. I answered with my practiced “Bado.” (Not yet!) He assured me that he didn’t think it would be long because I was a “good, cheap woman.” Um, excuse me? He explained that he could see that because I was walking I wasn’t one of these women who is always asking for money for the bus or a taxi or something else. I laughed and said that yes, I enjoy walking and am in no hurry to get hitched. He seemed to think this was a wise choice, and encouraged me to go and further my studies before settling down with a family. Apparently despite being past 70, he is still supporting 9 of his 14 children… Hopefully he will get a jewel heist or lucrative forgery thrown his way soon!