March 2014 - World Chump

In my last post, I already briefly described a bajaj (pronounced buh-jaj). It’s little more than a three-wheeled vespa with a roof over it, and there are thousands of these in Dar.

One of the few pet peeves of being a foreigner in this town is that people do not expect you to be on foot. Wait a minute, the bajaj or taxi driver is thinking, that white man is (gasp) walking along the road. Certainly the man must need a ride. Time to honk my horn. Beautiful women get their fair share of honks from vehicles (as they do in many societies), but their quantity still dwarfs when compared to the foreigner walking on foot. Sometimes you literally feel like a walking dollar bill, although I am sure most locals would love to have that problem here. I can take a quick walk down to the Farmer’s Market, and there are so many horns honking, you would think Tanzania has just won the World Cup.

Although I have already taken a taxi, my preferred method of transportation is the bajaj. The bajaj is quick, easy, and relatively cheap. Besides, it’s a convenient place to observe the city from. But Lord, those things are deceptively quick…and scary for the passenger who pays too much attention, or expects a limo ride.

That said, before embarking on such a ride, make sure you know how to bargain. That’s always been one of my favorite rituals in certain countries, bargaining over items and services that have no fixed price. I don’t mind the bargaining part per se. I understand and respect how merchants and people in the service sector will try to get the best terms so they can go home to their families with their heads held high at the end of the day. What I can’t stand, though, is how people sometimes seem to spot a pinwheel hat on my head marked idiot foreigner. That gets a little tiresome after a while. Luckily, I am still in pretty decent shape, so I am not afraid to walk away from anybody and their blue sky requests whenever I know I am being ripped off. I still have two functioning feet and will use them if the price isn’t right.

Anybody remember the high speed chase on air motorcycles through dense woods in Return of the Jedi? How Carrie Fisher and Mark Hammil roar through the forest at brain numbing speeds in hot pursuit of the scouts? Now substitute the forest of trees with a forest of human beings and assorted other vehicles, and that’s a bajaj ride in Dar. There will be many times when you will be thinking, OH MY GOD, HE’S GOING TO RUN OVER THAT WOMAN, THE PRESS IS GOING TO BLAME THE FOREIGNER, AND THEY WILL WATCH ME BURN IN THE STREET LIKE SOME PROTESTING BUDDHA MONK. The bajaj drivers can hit the tightest spots, will drive over and through a ditch whenever it suits them, and could park their vehicles in little plastic water bottles, I am convinced by now. Have you heard the term ‘thread the needle’? Most of these guys must have been tailors in their former lives.

Of course, riding in a bajaj is not without risks. There is no safety belt. These things, mostly owing to the drivers, have higher rollover rates than the biggest SUV’s. There is the traffic in Dar to contend with as well, not to mention thousands of others bajaj riders trying to make a living. It’s a bajaj eat bajaj world out there.

My kids are more immune to any of these dangers and already love riding in them. Their parents’ arms wrapped around them is seatbelt enough for them. By now, Bash must come to terms with the fact that most car models he so easily made out back in the States have disappeared. Time to start anew.

Maybe it’s not such a bad thing that I don’t have a vehicle yet. This is my way to gauge the traffic and what it’s like here in Dar before joining the madness myself.

I wonder if someone would sell their Bajaj.

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And then there are the police stops. Can't forget those.

Here in Tanzania, that means big men in all white uniforms lingering at the side of the road and waiting to pull people over. The main reason for pulling people over is speeding (so they say), with talking on the phone while driving coming in at a close second. That said, I now know they will find an excuse for anything: no fire extinguisher, flat tire, bent mirror, car is too red, car is too blue, they don’t like Toyotas, their football team lost, etc. In short, it is little more than a shakedown, and people point at the policemen’s bulging bellies as prime evidence. The main reason for pulling people over, evidently, is to supplement their own meager salaries. Hard to figure that one out, isn't it?

So who do you pull over? People who can spare a few thousand tsh's (Tanzanian shillings): people owning bigger cars are the prime candidates, obviously, although it appears that they are not the only ones targeted. In all, it does seem kind of random. As a driver held liable for a certain offense, you have a certain choice: go to the police station and pay the full fine or pay half the fine to guess who…the man in white, and by that I don’t mean a Catholic priest. People usually take the easy way out, unless they are unwilling to part with any money at all. I have yet to see policemen pull over bajajs, for example…until now.

On my way home one day, I am frolicking in a bajaj, checking out the roadside action. There are dozens of tables on the side of the road: the vendors’ tables selling mangoes and bananas, tables serving snacks for weary travelers, poker tables, you name it. Besides the tables, there are also the white uniformed police officers at their usual place.

There is obviously trouble. Dozens of guys are surrounding this cop, who is trying to create a little more elbow space. Uniform or not, if there are twenty guys surrounding me with a bone to pick, I will handle a situation like this very delicately. Here, you might want to forego the bribe and dismiss the driver with a warning. The bajaj driver pulls on the brakes and immediately leaps out to join the fracas.

From what I gather, the cop has confiscated a bajaj and is dangling the keys in front of the furious mob. Let’s put it this way: I doubt the bajaj driver was pulled over for speeding. The driver was talking on the phone, the cop insists, and the perp refuses to pay the fine. The mob is growing by the minute, and I’m hoping they come to some sort of settlement here, simply because all white uniforms and all white guys (like me) might not mix very well in a situation like this.

There is quick talk in Swahili that I don’t understand, and people are getting louder. The mob continues to grow.

The next thing you know, a dozen guys—probably fellow bajaj drivers—defy the policeman and carry the bajaj across the road and to safety. Very crafty. Something tells me that the policeman tried to shake down the wrong guy. Another unformed policeman arrives to the rescue, and for a moment I am convinced that the bajaj drivers might just climb back into their vehicles and storm this farce of a police stop with all nine hp engines roaring in unison.

People here in Dar have a reason to be jittery. According to a report published last year by EABI (East Africa Bribery Index), the Tanzanian police has the highest number of bribe cases within the East African community. Ironically, none other than the Tanzanian police accepted an 8.8 million pound aid package from the UK for what is known as the Strengthening Tanzania Anti-Corruption Action (STACA). Way to go, London. Open toilet lid, flush money.

Meanwhile, the vendors on the side of the road are making out like bandits, selling their drinks and snacks to the mob members who are seeking a little reprieve from the action. The only thing that is missing here is the popcorn and the nachos. There is a screen of about ten guys protecting the bajaj while another couple of dozen continue to argue with the policemen. There will be no bargaining here, I realize. The bajaj drivers want the key to the vehicle back, period.

Finally, the cops relent (smart choice), the bajaj drivers scatter, and I get to go home in one piece.

Note to self: avoid the police whenever possible. You would think that’s common sense in any country, but I am now certain that the bad guys in this country are not dressed in black.

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At a nearby supermarket, the fish vendors are out in full force. Proudly displaying their products on cheap paper plates, they are asking the passing customers to sample their latest catches. I sidle up to one of them, a fishmonger named Teddy.

To the foreigner from the west, displays like these might appear kind of hokey and old fashioned, as outdated as the vacuum cleaner salesman and phonographs. I remember in La Paz, vendors would go a step further: there you would find scantily clad pretty women hawking the red wine, fruit juice, or chicken cutlets in their supermarkets. I was almost embarrassed for these girls.

Here in Tanzania, there are no pretty women or flashy bras beckoning. Here it’s people standing silently in a corner, the labeled plates in a row in front of them.

Fish can be hit or miss in Tanzania, I’ve noticed. Due to the ever increasing popularity of fishing with dynamite, the customer will not know whether that fillet he just bought will taste like tuna or TNT. Trial and error. After a while, you’ll know what company sells what.

I am actually curious and sample a little kingfish from one of the plates. A little squeeze of lime, and the fish is absolutely delicious. More, I am thinking. More! Greed is good.

What follows is the longest conversation ever with a fishmonger. While Teddy is educating me about some of the intricacies of fish off the Tanzanian coast, I decide I will sample from every plate on his table. First, I shovel down all of the kingfish. Oink, oink. With my palate still unsatisfied, I move over to the red snapper. It is absolutely divine.

“You don’t mind me eating all of your fish, do you?” I ask the fishmonger.

“No,” he says, “because then the suppliers will think that the samples were very popular here.”

Teddy himself is a short, stalky guy with a smile that covers most of his face. His skin is the darkest shade you’ll ever see anywhere, which lightens up his pearly whites even more. Although he is not pushing himself on customers, he is very helpful in answering their questions and assisting them with the fish samples. I am almost becoming his assistant, with the subtle difference that I am porking away on the lion share of his fish.

It’s only fish, I’m thinking, right? Can’t get fat from that, can you? Do we know any other famous last words? How about JFK asking to keep the car top down? Houdini daring innocent bystanders to punch him in the gut? Don't worry, the gun is not loaded? The words more fish almost become my undoing.

By the time I’ve helped myself to a couple of plates of tuna and dorado, I am convinced I am growing gills in my stomach somewhere. The hair on my arms is standing up, almost as if I'm expecting to watch scales appear where my skin is. I’d like to shop and get on with my life, but it seems there’s always a fish somewhere tripping me up with either a fin or a slice of lime. That said, I do help Teddy sell a few bags of fish, telling the foreign shoppers just how good the stuff really is. They would actually know for themselves if I wasn’t eating all of the fish myself.

Finally, Teddy rolls out the prawns after they’ve been cooked. Charge! preferably before the customers get there. Oink, oink, slobber, barf. Yum. And yum again. So gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins? Amen, brother. So be it.

Of course, I eventually buy a red snapper fillet and some tuna when I bid farewell to Teddy. He’s made out quite well for the day, in spite of me.

Outside of the market, I am not walking anymore. We are now talking about floating like a balloon after so much fish, and I am begging not to stumble into a cactus on my way home.

So far, I haven’t been crazy about any of the meats for sale here yet. I guess it will be fish, then. I’m sure I can do a lot worse for my health. The only danger here is eating too much of it. The fish could get their due revenge in that, after they’ve been blown up, they can rest in peace knowing that they helped blow up a human stomach from its owner's own zealous, avaricious overeating.

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Anybody who’s been following this blog knows by now how fate has consistently paired me up with the mountains. La Paz, the Andes; Nepal, the Himalayas; Morocco, the Middle Atlas Mountains; our house in Tryon is located in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains; Germany before that, the Alps. It was finally nice to be assigned to a country with a beach that’s easily accessible.

Here in Dar, we live less than a block from Coco Beach, a vast and wide area that stretches along Toure Drive, the main road that turns and winds its way all the way to the tip of the peninsula that is Oyster Bay. The beach itself starts with a sea of green: there is a jungle of cacti, here and there a palm tree sprouting out, and so many plants and bushes jumping out of the ground that you wouldn’t think you were near a sandy beach.

Walk a few yards more and you’ll see the first few tents. These are tents belonging to vendors selling various items: tires for the kids to float in, boats, and sometimes just drinks and snacks. How many of these tents double as residences, I don’t know, but it’s obvious a lot of people live directly on the beach, as evidenced by the numerous trash deposits, clotheslines, and chairs and tables scattered about.

On the weekends, Cocoa Beach itself is a big party. It seems every Saturday some company produces a gigantic stage (weather pending), DJ’s, bands, and rappers do their impromptu performances, and people are up almost all night enjoying the music and the calm sea breeze. We can hear it all the way to our house, although it really doesn’t bother us.

If the stage isn’t there, you walk past the tents and that’s where the long white carpet of sandy beach is rolled out for miles in both directions. Usually you will see locals taking a stroll, every now and then people go skinny dipping, depending on the tide. Once the tide starts rolling in with the waves, you’ll find plenty of surfers, even para surfers skipping over the waves like flat stones.

On the horizon, there are dozens of boats floating over the pale blue water. Some of them must be fishing, others are lazily idling in the sunshine, the gentle rhythm of the waves rocking them to sleep. Further out, there are container ships, which are the only eyesore here: big bulky sea vessels as large as luxury liners making their way down the Indian Ocean.

At low tide, you can probably walk for a hundred yards in the water until you’re even knee deep. Every square foot of the beach is covered by seaweed or algae, and there’s little chance you will see a wave any bigger than the size of a dollhouse. It does make for a calmer surf, which is why most locals then venture out on foot or boat when they otherwise wouldn’t.

A nice soft breeze sweeps in from the ocean, although it is still muggy and humid, beach or not. This is the best place to be during the dog days of summer, which means now, or January until roughly March. The breeze offers temporary relief from a scorching sun and its dagger rays cutting through skin.

On this day, I am also dog-sitting, so I take Pip, the retriever, out on the beach for a walk. Pip is a friendly but dynamic dog. In the middle of our walk, he storms a barbecue party, virtually scattering all the locals in different directions. Something tells me that this is not the dog friendliest of nations. They seem horrified by the black dog in their midst.

Not to worry. Luckily, Pip is a friendly dog and people retain their seats. Pip, like me, is happy to be there and sniffs every inch of the beach for any concealed clues or news left by his mates before him.

Heading back home, I have to laugh. Only a month ago we were covering ourselves in multiple layers of clothing in miserable Arlington in a never-ending winter featuring several snowstorms and subfreezing temperatures just aching to reduce us to human snowmen. Here, I am dressed in a shirt, shorts, and shoes, the bare acceptable minimum in a modern civilization.

Nice to be in a place that doesn’t require sweaters or jackets for a change.

Life’s good. Or shall we say, life’s a beach.

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The first thing you will notice about people in Tanzania is that they will neither avoid you nor appear shy, and this is from the moment you first cross paths with them. It seems people are friendly and hospitable almost to a fault.

How cultures can vary. I remember one of the cardinal rules in New York is never, EVER, to stare at people, not for a New York minute, not even for a New York second, if you can help it. In New York, I’ve always noticed it’s about fleeting glances. A fleeting glance, after all, should be enough to confirm whether or not you know or recognize the person. If that won’t do it, it’s best to be on your way. In New York, you just never know who might be sharing that double seater on the bus with you. And if it’s a serial killer, you’ll be sorry you stared.

Here in Dar, it’s quite different. Pass a person on the street and (s)he will check out everything about you, from your hair color to your shoe size. This also has very little to do with me being a mzungu, or a white man. People will take the time to size you up, no matter where you’re from. This is in strong contrast to other countries and cultures I have visited. In the Middle East or where we were in South America, for example, people will have their eyes gouged out before getting into a staring match with a stranger. In Dar, people looking at you has little to do with harassment, but an overall confidence coupled with curiosity. What do you do? Return their gaze. Don’t be caught with your head down, give as well as you take, show that you are a person who knows what you’re doing, that you can handle yourself, and where you’re going. When in Rome, do as the Romans. When in Dar, do as the Darees.

Walking down the streets here, you can be meeting anybody. It can be a white foreigner, a barefooted local wearing a single colorful toga like wrap around him (called a shuka), a lady balancing a twenty kilo sack of rice on her head, a person in a suit (which is rare, people sweat buckets in those things here), anybody. As in most countries, a smile goes a long way. Perfect strangers on the street will greet you. ‘Mambo’ (hello), they will say. The reply to this is ‘Poa’. Other people will greet you with Haribu (depending on the time of day, this can mean good morning, afternoon, or evening). There’s also the word ‘karibu’, meaning welcome. That’s one of my favorites, since people really seem to mean it, for the most part. Good language will only get you more good will from people in the long run.

In all, I believe there are over 100 different African ethnic groups in Tanzania, none of which exceed ten percent of the population. Luckily, this hasn’t led to as much strife and conflict as one would expect. What do they have in common? Swahili, besides speaking their own native tongue. I will delve more into the names of the tribes and their specific characteristics in a later post. For now, I am merely grazing the subject. The main ethnic group I have noticed outside of native Tanzanians are Indians. They seem to be everywhere. If it’s a school, a supermarket, or a hotel, it is very likely that there’s an Indian in charge of it. Not a bad thing, necessarily. They are very friendly and extremely knowledgeable, qualities I never take for granted anywhere in the world.

Speaking of people and expats, there is a huge British presence here, but that should go without saying. The vehicles have right hand drive, cricket is quite popular, and the wall sockets are 100% UK, as are most imports at local supermarkets. A lot of British football clubs are supported here.

The British are not shy about their presence here, and neither should you be. As a visitor, come here with bells on, literally. People will sniff you out anyway, so be out and explore.

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Although the ocean is very close to the house, it’s safe to say that I am still trying to find my sea legs around here.

For starters, it’s the dog days of summer, meaning the humidity will find you drenched in perspiration, no matter how light the cotton shirt you're wearing might be. It is also the beginning of the rainy season, which means inches of pouring rain accompanied by the supersonic boom of thunder. The lightning crashing over the ocean is a pretty sight, although it’s best to admire these scenes from indoors.

Rain can translate into much needed nourishment for the farmers and their crops in the area. For others, it will translate into pools and pools of water. Although this might sound refreshing to the stray animals in the neighborhood, it also means breeding grounds, as in mosquitos. And to mosquitos, this means it is time for the gift that keeps on giving: malaria. Time for long pants and long sleeved shirts. Whew.

By and by, I am also picking up Swahili as I go along. I already know enough to communicate with the bajaj drivers. Good. Now it’s time to get a little more ambitious. This is what a typical scene may look like at a produce market.

Me: Mbili (two, as in thousand Tanzanian shillings).

Potato vendor: Hapana. Tatu. (No, it’s three.)

Me: Mbili, brother. You just sold it for two to the local you served before me. You are not negotiating by the buyer’s height, are you?

Potato vendor: Nne. (Four)

So now the price just went up? WHAT!? Again, here’s the walking dollar sign with the pinwheel hat.

Me: Hapana. Mbili. (No, it’s two.)

Potato vendor: Tano. (Five)

By now, I am just laughing. It seems I am being charged by the word here. In the end, we settle on two and a half.

From the produce market, I walk along the beach on my way home. A bunch of little kids immediately spot me, yelling, “MZUNGU! MZUNGU!” Translated, this means white man. I have certainly been the target of racial slurs, primarily during my time living in the United States. But here, there is really no malice in their voices. In fact, they seem genuinely happy to see me. Even the kid who has scaled the coconut tree is yelling this from 30 feet up. They follow me until it’s time to make my turn toward the house. The kids scatter in all directions.

There are workers currently digging up the cement in front of the house, where we will have a front yard. Bless their hearts. It’s amazing to watch any man work under these conditions, but even more so in the afternoon, when it is ninety degrees plus, with a humidity to sap anybody’s energy, even the battle tested locals.

Here in Tanzania, you don’t stiff the workers or the guards. That is considered very disrespectful. Even just a passing mambo (hello) goes a long way toward earning good will. You do not, ever, use your index finger to point or wave at somebody. That is an old bad (colonial) habit that people might not react very well to. Here it’s better to motion to people with the hand. I remember this from my time in Morocco, where this little gesture was first mistaken as a bye-bye wave.

So we’re getting there, shwiya b’shwiya, as we used to say in Morocco. Little by little. Now it’s time to communicate better in Swahili. Sifahamu Kiswahili. I don’t know Swahili. Yet. And that’s the keyword here.

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World Chump - Wanderlust

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Andrew L.

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