This weekend was the first time I’ve ever had a complete stranger talk to me about his testicles. It was also the first time I’ve ever had a restaurateur so eager for my business that she insisted on applying bug repellent (the lotion kind) by hand to my legs and arms so that my dining experience could be mosquito free. First time I’ve paid money to take a bus only to have it run out of gas twice, overheat once and be too over laden with bodies and charcoal to make it up big hills, thus passengers had to climb out and walk. It’s also the first time I’ve ever been mugged or witnessed a public beating. Yup, this is Tanzania.
It was a weekend full of unexpected events. I was heading into Dar es Salaam to visit a friend and to attend a VSO meeting. The journey there and back is always unpleasant because riding on a dala dala means you sacrifice all comforts for the sake of arriving at your destination. The operators are only concerned with fare money. Even if the 12 seater mini bus has 28 people in it, 6 enormous bags of charcoal, 2 chickens, luggage and buckets of fish, they will pull over and cram in another body waiting on the side of the road. There is no room to move any of your sweaty, dust covered limbs and you feel the gods have blessed you if you’re lucky enough to have a seat. There is simply no dignity on a dala dala.
On this particular Friday I climbed in around noon. Shortly afterward, I could hear the bus was labouring. By the time the heavy bus reached its first steep hill it lurched to a stop and refused to go any further. Passengers piled out. I watched the bus drive away with moans and jerks up and over the hill. It occurred to me that there was nothing to stop them from continuing on without us. We had already paid the fare and we were in the middle of nowhere. I walked faster. To my relief the bus was waiting for us over the crest of the hill. But I should have realized then that it was a cursed little bus.
About 10 stops and 30 km later, the engine began to sputter and protest. We rolled to a gentle stop at the side of the road, completely out of gas. The conductor walked off and by some miracle came back 30 minutes later with a handful of water bottles filled with petrol. It wasn’t much but that didn’t stop them from picking up more passengers and goods along the way. Of course, we ran out of gas again. This time the conductor arrived with a container of cooking oil. I hoped it had petrol in it. About 10 km later, the engine was making terrible sounds. The driver pulled over again. By this time I was beginning to think of Dar as a far away land that I would never reach. I was ready to scream. The bus had overheated. Steam everywhere. The conductor disappeared again. After another 40 minutes of sweating like a pig with the other passengers in the hot sun, he arrived with some engine oil. Even on a dala dala, the journey should take about three hours. Five and a half hours later, I reached Dar in a supremely foul mood. It took the comfort of an air conditioned ferry terminal where I waited for my friend to arrive and an ice cream cone to sooth my nerves.
The next day, having eaten some wonderful Indian food in Dar, showered and slept, I was feeling top notch again. The VSO meeting took place in a recently opened pub. The owner was very eager to please. Best customer service and calamari I’ve had in Tanzania. However, we all had an awkward moment when the sun began to set and she came by insisting she apply mosquito repellent to us all individually. Usually fending off mosquitoes is your own responsibility. I tend to carry repellent with me in my purse. But here she was, requesting arms and legs be extended so she could apply it personally. After the first two volunteers gave in under her persistent attempts, the rest of us followed suit with awkward glances and laughs. Who could believe this?
The next day, my friend and I were in the center of Dar. I had my backpack for the weekend, loaded with supplies to take back to Nyamisati, and she carried a plastic bag filled with some clothes and shoes for a game of badminton. I always hate walking around with my bag. It’s like declaring to the world that you’re a tourist. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed someone approach. He ran up suddenly and tried to snatch my friend’s bag but she held on with a firm grip. They had a bit of a tug of war for a few seconds and we both started to yell. He suddenly let go and took off running. But we had made a scene and men in the street chased after him. Across the road, in a parking lot, they caught up to him and began kicking, punching and beating him with sticks. He was thrown to the ground and a crowd of more than 40 people quickly gathered. My friend and I looked around in horror. Civilians in Tanzania sometimes take justice into their own hands because of the lack of a police presence and corruption. We had heard stories of people being beaten to death or set on fire for stealing. We were both scared by the sudden outburst of violence but we looked at each other and decided we needed to try and stop the beating. We went over to the angry crowd and pushed into the center. I kept repeating the word stop in Swahili. By now the man was bleeding and someone was trying to put a tire over his head. Someone forcefully grabbed my arm with two hands and tired to pull me somewhere. Another man helped me free my arm from his grip. My friend was also being harassed. We didn’t understand what people were saying. We just wanted them to let the man go. He was pleading with the crowd. We didn’t know what to do. I told them he didn’t succeed in taking anything. All was forgiven. We were too afraid to stay any longer and we decided to bolt. I can only pray they let that man go.
I felt shaken up the rest of that day. These are the sorts of things you never want to see. With the possibility of such harsh consequences, he must have been very desperate to try and steal unknown items in a plastic bag. We felt terrible.
Finally, I had made it back onto a dala dala for my return trip to Nyamisati. Being a mzungu (white person) means lots of unwanted attention. I am constantly approached, mostly by males, asking where I’m going, what is my cell number, what is my name, am I married, etc. I try to speak Swahili and politely keep the conversation short. One man, sitting in front of me, spoke excellent English. After learning that no, I wouldn’t take him with me to Canada or give him money, he settled into more sensible questions about why I was in Tanzania and eventually what subjects I taught. Apparently he considered a secondary science teacher to be very knowledgeable about health. He proceeded to describe his one testicle and wanted to know if he could reproduce. I started to ignore him when he went into pain and erect penises. Of all the dala dala’s, I picked the one with this guy on it. At least we didn’t run out of gas this time and I had a seat the whole way home.
So, that was my weekend. Lots of firsts that I hope don’t turn into seconds.
Cheers,
Marike
