Pick pockets, sweat, treks, buses and markets...

18th February 2010

Yesterday I decided that I had enough of sitting around in the apartment, and occasionally flitting up to the university and across to the shop. The builders have finished adding another floor to the offices/apartments and now they are endeavouring to put up a roof. It’s a corrugated iron roof, so rather than the sleepy activity of putting up tiles, I instead have to endure a consistent pounding of hammers. This started early yesterday, so as I was just finishing off the report I had the lovely feeling as though there was a series of metallic vibrations flowing through my body.

I took a quick escape up to the university where I spent about an hour sitting in the ridiculous heat on the internet. I got back to the apartment in the hope that the roofing was happening at the other end of the building, but they were still above my head so after lunch I resolved myself to getting out.

I jumped into a dalla-dalla and headed to the Mwenge bus stand. I’ve been there a couple of times before, but mainly just passing through. The bus stand is a hot, compressed, exhaust filled, bed of hustle and bustle. There are crowds of people getting on buses heading to a variety of suburban locations, and some of the inner city areas. I worked my way through the crowds and hunted for the bus that was heading to Posta. Eventually, after passing five or six busses, I found the right one to get on. Just as I joined the cosh of people getting onto the bus, I noticed that my bag had developed an extra attachment. There was a person’s lower arm sticking out of the front pouch which led me to believe that his hand must be in the bag itself. So after a swift attempt to swing around and grab the bloke’s arm (all the while being pushed by the crowd to get onto the bus!) the little thieving bastard left me well alone and disappeared. The front pouch of the bag is a Velcro pocket, but you can get into the side of it without breaking the Velcro itself. I never store anything of value in that pocket for that very reason, but had he had ventured into the zipped main pocket he could have had access to the camera.

Less bothered by this attempt at pick pocketing than I thought I would be, I managed to get a window seat on the bus and soon enough we began the bumpy journey to Posta. Posta is one of the districts in the city centre. It is slightly further north than Kariakoo and there are lot of things to see and do in the area. The journey from Mwenge to Posta was about 30 minutes or so. Unfortunately, having never been on that particular bus, and not knowing the route that it takes, I was sat on the side where the sun pelts down upon you. Fearing sunburn and sweating something chronic, the guy next to me offered to move to another seat once the bus had cleared a bit, but being the over accommodating fool that I am, I said to him to move only if he wants to. Which he didn’t. The bus passed markets and street vendors, and houses and hotels, and eventually we pulled up outside the Holiday Inn hotel.

I had noticed on the map in my guide book that the Holiday Inn was right next to the Botanical Gardens, so I jumped out. However, the Holiday Inn has relocated since the book was published, and is now a couple of stops ahead of the main Posta dalla-dalla stand. I probably should say that I was in a city bus, rather than a dalla-dalla, these things resemble real buses, and with the exception of the number of people who run alongside the bus and try and squeeze in to stand for the journey, the conditions are generally less crowded. It’s probably worth telling you that there is little difference between the smells of the varying types of buses! And although city buses are less crowded, personal space is still something that would make the characters in a “Where’s Wally?” book feel claustrophobic.

So, where did I get to? Oh yes, I had jumped off the bus at the new Holiday Inn and I started heading down the road in the direction that I thought the Botanical Gardens would be. I passed the YMCA (which is handily displayed on my map!) and I had another look to see if I was heading in the right way. As I was there with my nose in the book, a local guy came up to me and started chatting away. The usual questions were asked, who am I, what am I doing in Tanzania, where am I from. We got to chatting, the guy had very good English, he said that he learnt it from the street, which made me chuckle as I had an image of a person with their ear pressed up against the pavement, listening to an English lesson. I think I may take some things a bit too literally! I was still a bit apprehensive of this chap, especially as one of his fellow countrymen had enjoyed hiding his hand in my bag a short while ago. We stood around and chatted for a bit, and he asked if I had been to the Botanical Gardens yet, he was heading in that direction. This I thought was a stroke of luck, so we walked that way. Eventually he told me his name was Hans, which possibly has something to do with the German colonisation in the nineteenth century. As it turns out, this guy goes by a few different names, depending on which part of Dar he is in. It seems as though he knows everyone, and he has been given different nicknames for the different way people know him. My favourite, and the only other one I can remember, was Taliyano. I like the sound of the name, but I don’t know why!

We strolled down Azikiwe Street until we got to the Askari Monument. This is a little statue on a roundabout which was put up in memory of the Tanzanian soldiers who fought in the First World War. As the road was pretty busy, I thought I would save a close up look at that for another day. Turning left, we headed up Samora Avenue, past the National Museum, and then into the Botanical Gardens. The gardens are much smaller than they used to be. The development in the city has restricted the space that the gardens can take up. However, in the small space there were a large variety of trees and plants that are found across Tanzania. Plants like Acacia trees, Royal Palms, Angel Palms, Mahogany trees, African Blackwood trees, and African Ironwood trees. There was a time when all of the trees were labelled, but these days only a few trees have their plaques. Towards the northern side of the gardens there were a troop of Vervet Monkeys. Hans told me to go ahead on my own. He was saying that the monkeys are more scarred of black men than white men, as the black people have hunted them for years. I was surprised that the monkeys let me get so close, and even stayed put when I had my camera pointed at them. There were several young monkeys, and directly above my head there was a mother with a baby holding onto her. The dominant male was in another tree; he was less keen for me to take his photo and bolted to the top of the tree as soon as the camera was raised.

We headed towards the coast along Chimara Road where Hans wanted to show me a huge Baobab tree. Baobabs are trees that have immensely thick trunks and quite spindly branches. They are very odd shaped, but the locals seem to prize them, almost as a national tree! The tree was in the gardens of the Ocean Road Hospital. Ocean Road Hospital was built in 1897, and is no longer operational. The architecture is incredible, and its beauty is set off nicely with the gorgeous bay view. It’s another site that I want to go back to for some photographic fun. The hospital looks out over the Indian Ocean, in particular over Dar es Salaam Bay. This small, natural bay is very photogenic; there are lovely headland cliffs, and white sand beaches. The tide was in, so the green grass on the cliff tops set off the blues of the sea nicely. The water reflected the pure blue sky, and the dhows and other fishing boats bobbed gently with the ebb of the waters.

We sat under the shade of a palm tree for a couple of minutes. Hans was telling me that he was an artist, but had recently had his work confiscated because he was selling it on the street without a license. This seemed a bit strange to me as hundreds of street vendors sell anything from fruit, to wood carvings, from telephone top up cards, to plastic tennis racquets. Hans was saying that he faces a fine of 1.5 million /- (£750) to get his paintings back. That is the official line, as it turns out, he could get the paintings back if he was to approach the right official, and offer him a bribe. We sat under the tree for a short while talking about corruption in the country, and about the art work that Hans produces. He had managed to smuggle five paintings from the officials, and he was looking to sell them so he can afford to buy the raw materials he needed to get started again. He had lost something in the region of 50 paintings, and if they were of the quality of the ones that he had with him, then I am sure that they would have been able to make the fine that he had to pay. He offered a price of 25,000/- for his paintings, because he had been speaking to me for a couple of hours at this point. Similar paintings are sold for 40,000/- in the Mwenge craft market. I paid him 40,000/- for the painting, and to pay for him to be my guide for the rest of the day.

We got up and headed towards the fish market on the shorefront, near Kivukoni Front. Heading into the market, after rolling up the trouser legs, we were met with the intense scent of fresh fish. Some of the fish smelt lovely, whilst others had an odour that was something close to oppressive. We wandered around looking at the fish that were being sold, and the fishermen took an interest at the Mzungu that was loitering in their midst. Down at the very back of the market Hans was talking to a fisherman who had just arrived in his hollowed-out bark boat. It was filled with different things like bed heads and plastic containers, and of course, a few baskets of fish. The fisherman had just come across from Zanzibar, and had bought a few bits that he was planning on selling once the boat had been unloaded. Heading out of the fish market, past the auction section (which was the worst smelling of the whole area), we crossed Ocean Road and headed into the fruit market. This was much less impressive than the fruit and vegetable market in Kariakoo, but had a friendlier atmosphere, and people were happy for me to be given a tour. I became very highly educated on the different fruits that were available in the market, and the custard fruits were the most impressive things that I had seen there. I have had custard fruit before, I think it was when I was in the Caribbean, and I’ll definitely be trying to find some in my local area, and if I can’t then it’ll be back to the Ocean Road markets for me!

From the markets we headed down Ghana Avenue, and past the embassies and foreign commissions. There was a beautiful peacock making a racket, with its plumage looking grand enough to nearly attract me as a mate. I was just about to pull my camera out of the bag when Hans grabbed my wrist and told me not to. There were signs a little bit further down the fence that quite clearly stated that no photographs were to be taken. I had read about this is my guide book and other books on customs and culture in Tanzania. I’ve no idea how I had forgotten not to take pictures of government or military buildings. No harm done though. We went along Ohio Street and headed towards the Mövenpick Hotel and to Nyumba ya Sana. Nyumba ya Sana is a local artists gallery, and on every couple of Fridays they have traditional dances and music being performed for a very reasonable sum of 3,000/-. We didn’t venture into the gallery at this point, it was getting on for 5 o’clock, and I was wary about travelling around at night. We passed Salum as he drove by us, having dropped the Professor off for tennis, and we headed up Mwinyi Road. The bus back to Mwenge runs along this road, and as we went further and further up the road, the traffic got heavier and heavier. The weather had cooled to a nice heat, and so we walked up the road, avoiding the buses because they were absolutely crammed from all of the office workers beginning to make their way home. We managed to keep pace with a bus for a few kilometres, before we headed down Kinondoni Road. We were a few kilometres from Mwenge still so we carried on walking. After a while a private bus passed us, and Hans ran after it. He caught up with it and the driver let him in as he shouted at me to join him. The driver of the bus was one of Hans’ many contacts so we got an easy ride for a kilometre or two.

We jumped off the bus and headed towards Hans’ house, which was in the Kinondoni area of Dar. We walked through what should be considered as authentic Tanzanian city suburbs, with low buildings and people sitting around outside with a beer, or just chatting in groups of six or seven people. We stopped and said hello to many people, this was the area that Hans has lived in for years, and he is apparently a popular person. We came to a traditional Swahili house, and I was ushered in. Hans lives with his aunt, her sons and daughters, and his grandmother who is quite ill. He dropped his bag into his room and changed from his trainers into flip-flops. I was told to sit down and I managed to say hello to the aunt, and to the children. When the grandmother came out, I used the wrong greeting (I said Mambo, when I should have used Shikamoo). I was corrected by the grandmother, and suitably embarrassed I was once again on my feet and heading out the door with Hans.

We walked for a couple of kilometres around some winding roads and paths, and took short cuts through social clubs, out of their back doors and through tiny alleyways. We were heading for an area where I could get a Bajaj from. It took about half an hour to get there, and once again, many people were greeted en route, and many hands were shook. Eventually finding the Bajaj owners, they were expecting 5,000/- for a journey that would cost only 3,000 at most. I noticed a couple of city buses passing, both of them heading towards Mwenge, so I told Hans that I’d rather jump on a bus and pay 250/- rather than fork out 20 times that amount on a short journey. I said my goodbyes to Hans as once again I wash crushed onto the bus by the crowd of people.

I’d managed to get a window seat and I was enjoying watching the sunset, and looking at the orange clouds that soon vanished into the darkness of night. Just as I got off the bus, I was called by my mum, so I thought I would walk up from the bus stand to the apartment, rather than jump into another overcrowded dalla-dalla. I had got home at about 7 o’clock, and was shattered. A quick feed of noodles was closely followed by a look at the photos from the day. Apparently I had left the camera on a low light setting from the night before (I was trying to take a picture of a beetle with a huge horn), and so most of the pictures were significantly over exposed. It’ll either take a lot of work on Photoshop, or I’ll have to go back and explore the same way again another day!