Dar es Salaam Diary

The other day at lunch, our Finance and Admin manager expressed concern at the amount of food on my plate. “Utashiba?” he asked (“Will you be satisfied?”) I assured him that I’d taken enough, and he shook his head, saying, “We want you to return to America two times your weight!” For reasons pertaining to my health, as well as American standards of beauty that I have not yet been completely able to discard, I do not share this goal, so in addition to monitoring my portions at lunch, I have been trying to get some exercise.

Now that it’s “cold” here (think highs of 85 rather than 95) running outside is a nice option, especially since I can run along the beach. But it gets dark rather early, so I can’t always go after work. Plus it can be nice to have some variety. So, I’ve been checking out a few of the local gyms.

If I’m feeling like a splurge I can go to Coliseum, a super-fancy ex-pat haven on the peninsula, with state-of-the-art machines and a beautiful pool. However for $10 a pop ($12 now to help them pay for the generator that keeps the A/C on now that we’re having power cuts) I can’t make it a regular thing. Nor would I really want to, as spending all my time at an overpriced gym does not exactly seem like a good reason for having come all the way to Tanzania.

Thus I much prefer going to Gator’s Gym, which is about a 10-minute walk from my house and has a bit more local flavor. Gator’s can boast neither A/C nor state-of-the-art equipment, but they do have aerobics classes 5 nights a week, which are consistently hilarious (not to mention a good workout).

The classes are supposed to follow a schedule (Monday is “Samurai Taebo,” Tuesday is “Circuit Challenge,” etc.) but they generally just involve a similar combination of semi-coordinated jumping around, with the occasional use of assorted props like long wooden sticks, steps, and yoga mats. Other than myself and my wazungu girlfriends, the attendees are generally middle-aged and somewhat out-of-shape Tanzanian men. We are led by one of two instructors, also men, accompanied by a tape of disco and pop hits, which usually has to be rewound at least twice during the hour-long class.

My favorite instructor is a squat, pumped-up guy with enormous biceps, short dreadlocks, and a perpetual grin. He clearly means business, but it is almost impossible not to burst out laughing at the sight of him bouncing around in his muscle-T and counting out our steps in his trademark style: “One! Two! Three! Four! Five! SEXY!”

Despite Tanzanians’ predeliction to add a “y" to the end of many English words (For instance, a Tanzanian giving you directions might tell you to go “lefty" then “straighty” then “righty”) we kind of think our instructor’s pronounciation of the number “six” as “sexy” is deliberate, since he always gets a sly look on his face when he says it.

As I said, these aerobics classes are serious business, and definitely hard work. Sometimes the instructors like to speed up the tape, which makes following the somewhat ridiculous combinations even more challenging. Fortunately, aerobics class shares a sense of solidarity, and one can always count on encouragement from a classmate if one is falling behind. The other night, when I was clearly struggling to keep up, a vigorous 50-something man in the front row turned around and smiled (while continuing to run in place) and shared the following nugget of wisdom: “When the going gets tough… you have to... get tough!”