Interesting experiences, interesting people, philosophical reflection and daredevil stunt drivers...

28th February 2010
Yesterday I had planned to take a trip to Bagamoyo. Bagamoyo is a small town located about 70km north of Dar. The town is apparently quite historical, and was of significance during the years of the slave trade. It is also the town that most early explorers of Tanzania would have arrived to and departed from. However, on Friday I checked the weather forecast and it looked as though it was going to be quite wet with a high chance of storms. I was put off going to Bagamoyo because of this; it would have been pretty unpleasant walking around in the wet weather.

When I woke up the sun was shining, and it didn’t look like it was going to be a wet day at all. Still, knowing what the weather can do in this country, I put off going north for the day. Instead a pulled out the guide book and had a flick through to see what else I could spend my day doing. I’d wanted to go to Coco Beach (also occasionally spelt Koko, depending on which map/book you are looking at). I’d finally found a map of Dar in a shop the other day, so I was quite keen to venture further afield. Coco Beach is on the eastern side of the Msasani Peninsula, a couple of kilometres north of the city centre. Not knowing which dalla-dalla to get up to that particular region, I set off in search of a Bajaj to take me up there.

I got to Mlimani City; it’s a shopping centre about 5 minutes from my apartment. It’s a very western style of shopping centre, significantly air conditioned, and housing shops that sell goods at prices that would make average westerns weep at. There is a little bookshop with a tiny selection to choose from. They had recently increased their stock, but this was mostly with language books, and books that you would find in the self-help/popular psychology section of a large bookshop. There were a few fiction titles in stock, so after a long browse of about 3 minutes I grabbed a copy of Omertá which is one of Mario Puzo’s books (he’s the chap who wrote The Godfather). I slinked back out of the shopping centre and found a nice looking Bajaj to take me on my merry way.

For a reasonable sum of 7,000/- (roughly £3.50) we began the relatively epic drive across Dar. It took just over twenty minutes to get to Coco Beach, and having studied the map beforehand, I was impressed with myself for knowing where we were, and when the next turn off would be, etc. I am easily pleased.

Coco Beach is a popular area for many local people. Apparently many tourists also come to the beach during the peak season so they can enjoy the sound of the Indian Ocean whilst sipping on a cold beer. The beach itself looks like it has fallen from a travel brochure. I use the word fallen because, the bar is sat on what looks like an ancient ruin. The bar building sits on a crumbling concrete base, and as you approach the bar it looks a bit like a building that has suffered the ravages of an angry sea. Surprisingly, the thatched grass roof still looks healthy; it’s the damaged doors and lack of windows that suggest the building has been through the wars.

As I sauntered around the building, and took out the camera to take a couple of photos, a group of four kids started shouting at me! They were standing on the concrete ledge at the side of the building, taking it in turns to jump down into the soft white sand. The tallest of the four did an impressive handstand to drop, and came running over to me...initially with his hand out for some money, but then changing his mind, he wanted a picture to be taken of him and his friends. Not wanting to miss an opportunity of taking photos of local people, I said I’d take their picture. The kid ran off up to the ledge and stood with his friends. I don’t know if they were expecting to have the photo taken so soon, but the result was an incredibly natural shot of the kids, all with beaming smiles. It’s possibly one of the best photos that I have taken so far. Happy to see the resultant picture, the kids went back to the important game of jumping into the sand!

I plodded down, with my feet sinking into the warm sand and took in my surroundings. The beach is lined with palm trees which lean into the prevailing wind, with the palms being pushed in the opposite direction, like a constant battle between the tree and the wind...both fighting to get past each other. The sand is laid down in an uninterrupted path between the two cliff headlands. The beach itself is a small bay, which shows no obvious signs of long shore drift (get the geography textbooks out!). The sands get slightly yellower as they get nearer to the sea, which in turn makes the gentle breaking waves seem slightly yellow. This yellow, filters into a light turquoise, gradually getting darker as you look further out to sea. The perfect deep blue of the horizon stops where the perfect, slightly lighter blue, sky meets it. Opposite the southern end of the beach there is a small offshore island which has beaches that have white sands which reflect Coco Beach. To the north of this island there were a fair number of large container ships floating around, waiting for the tide, and a suitable time to float into Dar es Salaam harbour. The number of boats would probably rival that of the number that seem to wait in the Solent and the English Channel before entering Portsmouth or Southampton. When I had arrived at the beach, there was a thin line of seaweed marking out the level of high tide; this however had a much less significant impact on the overall view of the beach than the excessive seaweed that has built up on Mbezi Beach, which is near Picolo Beach Hotel.

I took a few shots of the beach, the bar, the palm trees, and then I grabbed a table in the shade so I could sit and read for a while. I had only sat down for a couple of minutes when a guy came up to me wanting to sell me a necklace, or a bracelet, or a painting...he wasn’t fussed which he sold. He sat down on the chair next to me and chatted to me for a while. His name was Joseph; he’d grown up in a town called Tabora. This is somewhere in the middle of Tanzania, and you pass through it on the train to get to western Tanzania. He’d been living in Dar for years, and was scratching out a living selling his goods to tourists. Local people very rarely buy the jewellery that he sells, but occasionally someone will take a bracelet or two. We chatted about his business, and about how he is affected by the low tourism season, which is now! Conversation came around to England, he has a sister living in London, and she is apparently enjoying life there. Joseph’s English was quite good, he’d been going to college to learn the basics and seemed to be progressing quite well. I’d greeted him in Swahili, and said a couple of words to him at the start of the conversation. This sparked a discussion about how much Swahili I actually knew, and how much I was planning on learning. He thought that I had been to some classes, and he seemed shocked to hear that I had taught myself what I know so far. I must say this made me feel pretty good about myself. Conversation then got on to how long I had been in Tanzania, and we talked about how I’d come down from Bukoba to Dar, via the national parks. He was telling me that Tanzanian’s in general don’t like the wild animals in the same way that tourists do. Apparently most people find the animals to be pests, rather than national treasures. I’ve heard about farmers who have had problems with elephants, and predators, but for someone who doesn’t own land or cattle, the dislike of the animals is still present, if not unwarranted.

A local guy who was wearing what can best be described as rags, with torn shorts being held up with a bit of rope, walked by and asked me where I was from. I told him I was from England (it’s often easier saying England than explaining I was born in Ireland, and moved to England when I was a child), and then he made a wonderful remark by saying I was “...whiter than snow...”. He carried on about his business, and started to sketch some local kids who had queued up for their portraits to be drawn. Joseph and I chatted a bit more, and I asked him about the dalla-dalla routes up to this end of the city. I pulled out my map and got him to show me where the different routes were. After defacing the slightly outdated map (produced by the Department of Geography of the University of Dar es Salaam), I felt confident that I could get up here by a cheaper means of public transport, if I could remember the names of the places that I needed to get to. I gave Joseph 1,000/- to get himself a soda and he went off on his way, and started to run through his selling routine with some local people at the next table.

I was left to myself for a while, and between reading, and getting up to move my chair into the shade of a palm tree, reading a bit more, and then readjusting where I was sitting once again, I noticed that the clouds had started to build over the headland to the south. The clouds looked as though they were building up right over the city centre. Coco Beach is about 6-7 kilometres from the city centre, and the clouds overhead were intermittent and offering no threat of rain. I took photos every couple of minutes as the clouds looked as though they had come off the sea, and straight into an invisible wall. Every time that I looked up from the book there clouds had built up, taller and taller. After about 10 minutes the fluffy white clouds in the distance had stopped acting like marshmallows being stacked on top of each other, and had turned into a monstrous grey pillar, threatening to deposit tons of water over the unsuspecting city. It was like the footage you see in nature programs where they speed up the process of clouds building over a mountain range. It would have been a photographic dream if a woman hadn’t moved her chair and her child into the camera frame. Unfortunately I had to move a bit to get the shots I wanted. I was hoping to use the same framing, but with the different cloud formations, to create a sequence of the clouds. It lost some of the charm when I got around to processing the images.

Under the shade of the palm tree, and the blue sky and sunshine that was above that, I sat and enjoyed not being under the rain cloud that was now engulfing the city centre. Between reading and occasionally looking up to see the kids I had taken photos of play fighting, I was contemplating making a move for Msasani Slipway. Then I heard fresh playful screams from the kids, one of them was beating the other with a wad of cardboard, the other one was swinging a sandal at the cardboard wielding combatant. It strikes me now that kids in England are too concerned with image and acting older than they are, you wouldn’t see kids messing around on the beach like that in England...they would be having genuine fights and the playful screams would actually be blazing obscenities that are more foul than your average chicken coop (Yes, I do realise they are different fouls/fowls)!

I was still toying with the idea of making a move to go to the Slipway when a guy called Mark approached me. He had a camera around his neck and he sat down for a bit of a chat. He started the conversation by saying that he was a photographer who takes shots of people as the beach, and then posts the photo to them, for a small fee. I really didn’t want to pay for a photo of me, so I started talking about the camera he had, and he soon knew that I had a good idea of what I was talking about. He then told me he was a priest in a Pentecostal church. It struck me as odd as this would be an afterthought in the conversation, I would have imagined being a priest would be a more noteworthy profession than a part-time photographer. Religion was discussed, and for fear that I may be preached at, I brought the conversation around to discuss the churches that are on Kivukoni Front. The topic moved from religion to architecture and then Mark went off in search of some souls to capture...either photographically or religiously...I’m not sure which.

I finished up my water and plonked my hat on my head a ventured on a 1.5km trek to Msasani Slipway, assuming I was heading in the right direction because I didn’t want to rummage through my bag looking for the map – a white man with a map would have screamed tourist! The sun was doing its job and was beating down on the area like the constant pulse of a lighthouse...only with a lot more heat. You become very popular if you walk anywhere in Dar. Taxi drivers and Bajaj drivers beep their horns in the hope that you will provide them with business, the people who are also on foot say hello to you, and security guards glare at you, or tell you that you look like David Beckham. If the heat wasn’t so brutal, I’d walk around a lot more often...it’s nearly as fun as getting a dalla-dalla about!

Msasani Slipway is a strange shopping complex/eatery! It’s another big draw for the mzungu shopper...the ones with the money and the expectation for the world to look exactly like their hometown. The Slipway reminded me of a low rent version of Brighton Marina, only with nice, clear, tropical blue water, rather than the greenish soup that splutters around the south coast of England. Some shops selling things for obscene prices and some bars offering big screen TV experiences are dotted about the complex. There is a market at weekends at the Slipway, and it reminded me of a softer version of the Mwenge Craft Market. There is a sleepy atmosphere to the marquee-covered market. The people at the stalls are less intense with their attempts to sell you things, and every other word you hear is “Karibu” (“You’re welcome/Welcome/Any common greeting of reception”) as you pass between the stalls. I stopped and chatted to a few of the stall owners, they were mainly women, and a few of them said they base themselves in Mwenge during the week, and come out to the Slipway at the weekend. The prices were far more reasonable at the Slipway, and I can’t decide whether it’s because I am able to use more Swahili than I did at Mwenge or if they reduce the price because they don’t want to barter. Maybe I seem like less of a tourist than I did a few weeks ago. Prices down also get reduced if I tell them that I am living and working in Mwenge...it’s like I’m being offered local prices. The Slipway complex looks over Msasani Bay, which looks like a lake. The water is so placid that you could easily forget that the small waves are actually tidal. Msasani Slipway had a relaxed feel to it for the most part, but I can’t help thinking that it would be a horrible place to visit on a weekend during the peak tourism season.

Having had my fill of exploring, and fancying a chance to sit down and have a quiet beer, I took off on foot and paced my way to O’Willies Irish Bar. This is about 1 km from the Slipway, and having built up a considerable sweat I plonked myself down on a chair overlooking the bay...only this time from the southern side of it, rather than the eastern edge.

The clouds had been building over the city all this time, and I was quite anxious to park myself under a parasol if not to hide from the sun, then definitely to hide from the possible rain if it came over. I ordered a beer and listened to the gentle wash of the water. It was an idyllic scene; the flat surface of the water, the dhows silently gliding around the bay, the western side of the bay being covered in dark, rain threatening clouds, the eastern side with wispy-white clouds, and a pure blue sky. I began to question what kind of Irish bar would actually have a view like this. Normally Irish bars a slightly dark and seem quite earthy. This was not like it at all. This was like a high end tropical beach bar, where the owner was able to control the weather. But then the thunder rumbled! It sounded like it was directly overhead, but there were no clouds straight above. The angry outbursts from the sky were over the city centre, but it was as if the clouds wanted to warn the surrounding area that the wrath of Zeus could strike anywhere in the vicinity.

I passed a couple of hours at the bar. I had been reading, making amendments to the map to make it more up to date, thinking of what I could write in this blog, and generally just chilling out. A big fly thought it was a good idea to interrupt my thoughts by plunging into my glass of beer. Luckily there was only a mouthful of beer left, but I watched as it feverishly threw its legs around in the beer, desperately trying to get some purchase on the fluid surface, but to no avail. I asked for another glass, and watched the waiter take away the soiled glass as the fly struggled in the vat of bubbling amber liquid, slowly succumbing to its ethanol induced demise.

A group of kids walked by the bars terrace, and they all started asking for different things. It was like they were opening a bad joke: The first child asked for a soda; the second child asked for some chicken; the third child asked for some fish...I didn’t get to hear what the fourth child wanted, I’m sure it would have been a hilarious punch line to the joke that was being set up. Unfortunately, we’ll never know the end of the joke as one of the waiters threatened to throw a glass bottle at them if they didn’t stop harassing the customers.

A few minutes later a lone child walked by carrying four 5 litre empty bottles. Like many Tanzanian kids, he had been sent to get some water. I gave this some thought, and I was amazed to realise that this kid, who couldn’t be more than 12 years old, was out to get 20 litres of water, and would then have to carry it back home. You’d struggle to find any 12 year old that would be able to carry 20 litres of water in England. Little things like that really make you think about how little some people have, and how much energy they exert just getting through each day. It really made me appreciate how easy my life as a child had been. It seems that the everyday ‘problems’ that westerners have are trivial in comparison.

I sat and contemplated this point for a while, and I soaked up the view of the bay. I was just finishing my second beer (and feeling the effects of it – oh yes, I am a lightweight now!) when I noticed some jet skiers in the distance of the bay. The ecotourist in my got a bit annoyed at their presence. Here was this beautiful scenic bay, as flat as a mirror, seemingly undisturbed by the breeze that had just picked up. And in the distance were some westerners making a lot of noise, travelling at ridiculous speeds and not going anywhere. This seemed like a horrific juxtaposition to the gently gliding dhows, which silently cruised across the surface of the water barely creating a ripple on the surface. It was like an absurd version the tortoise and the hare. The hare (the mzungu jet skier in this metaphor) was doing its very best to get from ‘point a’, to ‘point a’, whilst making as much noise as possible. The tortoise (the dhow and the fishermen in the boat), slowly and steadily cruising across the water, was serving a purpose, it was getting from ‘point a’ to ‘point b’. It was bringing food to someone’s table, and it was doing it without upsetting the rest of the world. I struggle to understand why you would go on holiday to partake in an activity that you can do at home. Surely the authenticity of a place will provide an experience that would be much more meaningful. Maybe tour companies should encourage visitors to enjoy genuine experiences, rather than man-made, obtuse activities.

With this alcohol influenced argument playing out in my head, I got up to leave the bar. I noticed four or five Maasai walk into the main bar, where the big screens were showing the Chelsea match. A group of tourists were sitting in the pub watching the football...I’d hazard a guess that they would do this at home, and this got me back to thinking about how much tourists miss by following the same routine that they have at home. I passed a slightly disproportionate man with dreadlocks as I was leaving, and I was convinced that he had been a barrel in his former life and I headed in search of a Bajaj to take me home. I didn’t want to get a dalla-dalla to Posta, and then from Posta to Mwenge, and then walk another 15 minutes before getting home.

I walked down the road in the direction of Mwenge hoping to catch someone looking for a fare, and eventually a man in a relatively rare, green rickshaw pulled up next to me. For the reasonable sum of 6,000/- he took me down some back streets to avoid the traffic on the way to Mwenge. The driver pulled into a petrol station and filled up the glorified tricycle, whilst the engine was on, and we started back on the bumpy road. We got caught behind a 4x4 with a bumper sticker saying: “Jesus Christ: Someone you’ve got to meet!” This reminded me of another car which is often parked near my apartment which has a sticker on the fuel cap saying: “Powered by the blood of Christ”. There are so many variations of religious stickers on cars and it demonstrates how important faith is to the general population. The nearest thing you’d see in England is the fish-like symbol of Christianity. Belief and faith values are so important to the people of Tanzania.

Like a man possessed the Bajaj driver flung the motorised roll-cage around to the side of the 4x4 and gunned the vehicle up along the dirt path that pedestrians are meant to walk along. The driver clearly had no fear of crashing, and he seemed like he was in a desperate rush to get to Mlimani City to drop me off. Having cascaded down side streets and pathways, and avoided buses and cars alike, we somehow made it to University Road without any broken limbs or damage to the vehicle! I was more than impressed...the driver was rated as a better driver than Shorty (the irritating kid from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom).

With all of the adventures from the day to keep me occupied mentally, I went up to the not quite fully constructed third floor of my apartment building and took some photos of the full moon that was acting like a floodlight. It was a good day of interesting experiences, interesting people, philosophical reflection, and a daredevil stunt driver.