Last year, I received a taste of what the rains were like in Tanzania. There is one rainfall I recall in particular that lasted for hours, with the thunder and lightning thrown in for good measure. There was so much lightning that night that I thought somebody was putting on a pretty darn good laser show at nearby Coco Beach.
You would have some drizzles, some showers, and some downpours. You would have floods in the less sophisticated areas of Bongo where the infrastructure is not as pronounced. The rains expose shoddy roadwork in the city, of which there is plenty. All of a sudden the pothole that was filled up becomes a pot trench, there are sand banks sprouting up from the pavement and cracks that couldn’t have been created any more efficiently by an earthquake.
The rainy season last year seemed like a misnomer. Was there more than an average amount of rain? Sure, but in the west, you will have more rain in the spring, and they still call it spring. After witnessing the monsoons in Nepal, I doubted I would see more rain within a short period of time.
That is, until April and May 2015 in Dar.
It starts off innocuously enough with a few showers, followed by substantial downpours that leave enough water to flood the balcony at our house. At some time, though, somebody just pulls open the zipper in the sky, the dark brooding clouds come charging through, and it's on. For three weeks, I don’t recall one spot of blue in the sky: no sunshine, only rains absolutely pelting the city. If there ever was a rainy season, this is it.
It’s been very rare that I’ve felt threatened by rains. True, you have the streets that are in a horrid condition, but with the proper navigational skills (and clearance, meaning an economy-sized car wouldn’t do here) I always feel I could manage.
It isn’t until the third day of the rainy season that I have a choice to make. For beginners, it has been pouring for three straight days. All right, so there is a pothole here and a little fender bender there in what is otherwise a normal day of city traffic. With traffic creeping along on Bagomoyo, I decide to take my chances on Kimweri, the other street cutting toward Msasani. Although the traffic there is sluggish, I like my chances there better than creeping around on Hailie Selassie.
Finally, one car turns left, another turns right, and it’s smooth sailing. Yippie yay, I am thinking. What I see at the next to last minute is one narrow side street that is crowded with cars, absolutely packed—it almost makes the rush hour traffic on Bagamoyo look like the Indy 500. Note that I mention the next to last minute. The last minute is reserved for watching the biggest flood I have seen so far in Bongo. This one is impressive, with actual waves. A couple of cars in front of me decide not to chance it and turn around, destined to join the turtle caravan in the sidestreet.
So here’s the choice:
1.) Turn around with my tailpipe between my wheels and join an ever growing herd of excruciatingly slow moving cars down a little side street with no prospect of getting home anytime that day.
2.) Gun it. Open up the turbo and bombs away.
Eventually, I am facilitated in the decision making process by a lone bajaj that has just arrived and is now waiting at the shores of this newly formed lake in the streets of Dar. The bajaj driver takes one quick look, and it’s hero time. The bajaj becomes a tank ready to roll. Meet the little bajaj who thinks he can.
The bajaj makes it halfway through without being sucked under or any deadly encounters with Nile crocodiles or boas, and I decide to give it a go. It’s a good decision, one that has the lake’s waves knock off a mud flap, but a good decision no less, and one that will enable me to see my kids before they go to bed. That bajaj was absolute dynamite, as if it were nuclear powered rather than sputtering along with one horse power.
So, to the bajaj driver: I tip my hat and send out a heartfelt asante. This Kilimajaro beer is for you, brother.
