UDSM and Mwenge

I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting my posts. It seems as though every time I sit down to consider what I would write here, there are too many experiences to chronicle and too many feelings to distill. To choose one or two would be insufficient to describe what living here feels like. But I suppose that it’s time that I gave it a shot. Right now, I’m sitting under the main tree on campus, a huge baobab with a number of concrete picnic tables in varying states of disrepair. It’s one of the few places on campus with reliable internet access—assuming that the power is on. There’s slight danger of being nailed by either monkey or bird excrement in addition to the usual shower of ants, but it’s shady and comfortable.

Yesterday class ended an hour before the scheduled time, which was certainly unprecedented. With our newfound free time, Caitlin, Mackenzie and I decided to make our way to Mwenge, the local market district. The ride to Mwenge is always an experience in itself. The main mode of transportation around here is the daladala—picture an old VW bus filled with scavenged car seats and benches, obnoxious music blasting and phrases like “THANK YOU JESUS” or “OBAMA” painted on the rear. Generally there are a few holes in the floor, and the daladala isn’t considered to be full until the door can no longer close—not a place where so called “personal space” is maintained. Daladala fare is 300/= per ride (roughly $0.25) no matter the distance.

Dar es Salaam is seriously lacking in city infrastructure, and in particular important driving regulations such as traffic lights, stop signs or speed limits. Just outside of University campus there is a bit of a bottleneck at MlimaniCity, accented in particular by a canal-sized hole in the street directly in front of the turnoff into the parking lot of the mall (yes, mall), but soon after that the daladala pulls into the daladala depot in Mwenge. When I say depot, please don’t think of an ordered, clear area where one can switch daladalas in a timely and predictable fashion. The “depot” is more of a giant dirt parking lot, choking with daladalas and dust, with conductors yelling to you “Karibuni dada” “Posta!Posta!” Generally there is at least one evangelist with a loudspeaker, screaming the word of the lord to everyone in a 1km radius. One of the first things I learned about Africa was that wherever you are, no matter where you are going, someone will always be in your business. Privacy is just not an option. Everyone is asking where you are going, why, how you are getting there, where you study, how do you like Tanzania, etc, etc, etc. All the talk was a little overwhelming at first. If you are looking for the correct bus, you cannot trust the destinations painted on the front, nor can you wander about the honking dusty lot and expect to magically happen upon it. You have to ask. For the typical American it’s quite a foreign concept. And when you ask, you will not only be pointed in the correct direction, but you will most likely be walked to your destination by a friendly passerby.

Enough about transport. Mwenge itself is divided into two sections. When you first exit the depot, there is a long street with fruit vendors, tailors, shoe shops, luggage stores, and food markets. Music is sold here on cassette tapes, and the vendors usually have two ancient speakers hooked up to their cart, blasting Tanzanian hip hop or more traditional music (with the occasional Michael Bolton or Shania Twain album) into the street. We stopped at the main fruit market and bought a coconut (nazi) for 500/= from a woman vendor I met last week during our Kiswahili class excursion to the market. Customer loyalty is taken very seriously here. When you begin to purchase from one vendor, it is almost expected that you will be their customer exclusively. That said, it’s important to find good vendors, but it’s relatively easy to strike up a friendship if you find a vendor you like. Locals are always incredibly surprised when wazungu speak Kiswahili, even if it’s broken Kiswahili.

My battery life is running short, and it’s beginning to look like rain. It’s time I head back to the dorms for my afternoon ritual of bucket laundry and water filtration.