Dalla Dalla Do's, Don't's, & Dangers

At home, transportation is relatively straightforward. You walk. You drive a car. You ride a bike. You take the subway. Maybe for the envied few, you hop on a scooter or motorcycle. Bing, bang, boom—you arrive. In just about every other country I have traveled in outside of Europe, this has rarely, if ever been the case. The straightforwardness that is. Rather, in Morocco, squished beyond reason with five others in the back seat or two more in the front, you brave the hairpin turns of the white Mercedes grand taxis, racing to beat some imaginary clock ticking in the next town, counting down the number of passengers a driver can acquire in a day if they don’t fly to the finish line. In Vietnam, you brace yourself for the sea of motorbikes as you weave in and out of traffic in search of something resembling a sidewalk, also often teeming with pedestrians and the more than stray motorbike. Thailand sports red truck songtaews with makeshift benches installed beneath canopied roofs that serve as covered transportation devices. And if you are not a fan of shared transport, hop a tuk tuk and voila! Arrivederci sidewalk, hello open road. Yet despite the relative ease of getting around once you’ve identified a mode of movement, the lead up to departure is nothing short of harrowing for the average unwitting vacationer. A conversation might go something like this one I had on more than one occasion with rickshaw drivers in India:

Indian Rickshaw and driver (online image)

“Namaste!"

Blank stare.

“Good morning!”

Blank stare. Wad of betelnut and saliva splatters pavement inches away.

“I would like to go to the market.”

Head bobbles side to side, a barely perceptible nod somewhere in there.

“How much?”

“[INSERT INSANELY EXORBITANT PRICE].”

“Yesterday it was [INSERT HIGH, BUT REASONABLE PRICE FOR A FOREIGNER.]”

Head bobbles again, this time more aggressively. No nod.

“Okay, [INSERT LOWERED PRICE STILL HIGHER THAN YESTERDAY]. It’s a very good price, Jii.” 

Accent elevated on the very. My head bobbles, a barely perceptible nod complete with smile as I begin to enter rickshaw. There is a pause, a grunt, and the suffocating blast of exhaust fumes as he relents, bobbling his head from side to side in what might be satisfaction or dismay. Uncertain. (Note: Shaking of the head does not always mean no in India, more frequently it is a sign of thinking!)

Fully loaded piki piki/ boda boda

In Tanzania, much like Kenya, there are a few recognized modes of public transport. This includes the private taxi, usually a white Toyota sedan or other make of some sort displaying the driver’s ID and registration in the window if it’s legit. Taxis run at reasonable to sky high rates depending on location of pick up, savvy of passenger, and the mood of the driver, distance notwithstanding. Meters? Don’t joke.  A similar set of bargaining gymnastics ensue whenever one is approached, including “friend” drivers who are go-to’s after a ring on the mobile in a pinch. If distances are short or the wallet is thin, then a boda boda or piki piki is the man of choice (I’ve yet to see a single female and doubt there would be any for safety, culture, etc.). These would-be racecar drivers are in fact moto-taxis that zip around from point to point, weaving in and out of traffic when taxis are grounded. Grueling work, especially when many rent their motos for the day, sometimes at a rate 75% of their average daily earnings (remember that the next time you haggle viciously over 500 shillings (approx. 33 cents)). (In Arusha, we’ve no tuk tuks, or bajajis as they are more locally known elsewhere in the country.) Definitely did a victory dance the day I managed to explain to a piki piki driver that I needed pick up in thirty minutes followed by a trip to an airline office, but first can we stop at the bank and then can you wait 15 minutes and drop me near this one hotel near by that club- do you know it?- and can we please please set a good price- in Swahili no less!

Taking life pole pole

Official White Taxi (online image)

And then. The mother transport of them all, the famed dalla dalla. This exquisite beast is very much the same as a Kenyan matatu, albeit with slightly lowered incident of overt crime and much more reach to rural areas. Resembling a Peruvian microleta, jam-packed with as many people as can stand, sit, squeeze, and squish inside, it is by far the most economical way to get around. For the more adventurous vacationers, it’s a novelty. For locals, it’s a necessity. But passenger, beware. Walking past a group of dalla dallas is a bit like wandering into a den of ravenous wolves, each shouting destinations and snarling in turn for your business. What do you mean you don’t need to go 4km outside of town? Surely you must be mistaken about your destination. I will convince you otherwise. If you’re really in for an authentic treat, you might climb inside a van only to be promptly ripped from your seat and out of the vehicle by a rival collector screaming that this van stole his business. Then you might be grabbed by six pairs of hands wrenching at your arms, backpack, and bits of your jacket, all yanking in different directions with you trying not to scream, but all the while struggling against them, until a knight in shining cargo shorts comes to force them from your limbs, urging a panic-stricken you to run on. That might happen. Maybe.

My first actual trip onboard, I prayed no one would talk to me. So long as I kept my mouth shut and my scarf draped about my shoulders like the local women, I was incog-Negro. Every time a pair of eyes wandered my way, I averted my sight, careful to look absorbed in an errant piece of thread on my backpack— out, out rogue thread! Before I knew it, we were off, mostly comfortably seated. Within two or three curbside stops, however, we suddenly had about thirty crammed into the twelve person passenger vehicle. Many sat on floors, crouched near the sliding door, or like the door cash collector, just hung out the side. My head squashed beneath the armpit of the collector (who collects the coins and bills for service from each passenger), locked in an intimate embrace (or unintentional headlock), I discovered what I have come to recognize as the stages of…natural scents. And boy there are stages.

Dalla Dalla (online image)

There is the early morning “Ooh! I forgot to grab my deo stick! Ah, no worries, it’s a short day” and the “Wow, it’s hotter than I thought today. Hmmm, this might not work out so well” and even the “At least I washed this shirt last week sometime. That should probably do for now.” My personal favorite (or least favorite, depending) is the “Well, the work day is pretty much done. I’m going home now. Who cares anyway?” Now, naïve though it may be to envision such mental exchanges, I like to think that something of the sort crosses minds throughout the day, though honestly I doubt it. Most days it’s little bother with fresh air rushing in through the windows and the cool, brisk mountain air of Arusha swooshing down from Mt. Meru and Kilimanjaro. And then other days…

Chartered a dalla dalla all our own!

Back in the dalla dalla, I am minding my own business, content with myself for having navigated all on my own for the first time, cozying up with the door collector in our intimate embrace, having a cheerful day aaaaand a woman is flying out the side door. Yes. Hmmm. Well, she’s out now. Okay she’s landed on the ground. Not quite on her feet, but no broken bones. Suddenly there is shouting. Was that not her stop? Ah, perhaps she did not intend to eject herself so roughly. I guess I should I leave? No, play it cool, distant, aloof like everyone else. Stare a little, but don’t look too concerned. Be nosy, but don’t prompt questions. Blend in. Glance casually at her, no looks of alarm. People fly out of minivans every day. Every day.

That’s one way to get around Tanzania. I think I'll stick to staying in dalla dallas.

Nyumbani Tamu Nyumbani (My Home Sweet Home): Teachings from Month One in Tanzania

In an effort to synthesize the myriad discoveries that have characterized my first month in East Africa, I thought it best to perhaps enumerate the various lessons learned over the past few weeks. A top ten list didn’t seem quite fitting so instead I’ll just trace the progressively mounting wisdom week by week:

Week 1:

1)    This is the first place I have visited where the women are properly referred to as dada (sister) and the men take no objection to being called kaka (brother). Confusing though it was the first few days while I kept referring to all men as dada and didn’t really want to call anybody kaka, I think I’ve gotten the hang of it ;)

Zanzibar (online image)

2)    To my utter dismay, I learned very quickly that hakuna matata is in fact one big joke—my childhood has been shattered. (Though it does mean no worries, stick to hamna shida most places outside of Kenya and Zanzibar…) Fortunately, simba is still a lion and rafiki does mean friend. But never call a warthog pumbaa because you'll just get shaking heads and incessant laughter and usually have to leave and go to a new shop. Don’t get me started on timon. Nothing I know by experience obviously, though I plan to write a strongly worded letter to Disney. (To be fair, you will hear and see plenty hakuna matatas around Tanzania, but almost exclusively in tourist destinations and tourist-catered businesses cleverly pandering to our childhood love for a lion, a meerkat, and a warthog.) 

Hand washing before meals (online image)

3)    African women have an impressive and convenient penchant for transporting goods por la cabeza. Seemingly precariously balanced, whether a fruit basket or entire suitcase, with grace and apparent ease I have watched countless women meander through market stalls, down crowded streets, and in and out of traffic, not an orange disturbed. Pretty sure this is a precursor to beauty school lessons in elegant stride. Henceforth, I have resolved to balance my laptop and backpack upon my head. Challenge One for Africa. Let’s see how far I get… 

Week 2:

Piki Piki drivers

4)    House hunting in any country is a major pain in the nether regions. House hunting is a bigger pain in a country where you have no office, no friends, and no means of transport. (Cue $75 taxi bopping from complex to complex and house to house frantically searching for a living abode. Sigh.) 

5)    When proffered a metal kettle or plastic jug and large bowl before eating, this is not the opportunity to sample a hot beverage in an oversized drinking device, rather take this time to lather your hands with the hot water and receptacle so courteously provided. If you’re lucky, there might even be a slimy square of something that once (and maybe currently!) resembled/s a bar of soap. Careful lest it should end up the comical banana peel stand-in for the waiter or waitress.

6)    Green bananas are yellow when cooked and taste a might bit like tubers. Accept this. 

7)    Get cheated on your vegetable purchase for lack of local pricing knowledge.

Week 3:

Chi Chi! (short for parachichi (avocado)) and Roomies

8)    After three weeks, at long last I acquire the most important phrase of all: Wapi choo ni? or Choo ni wapi? Where is the bathroom? Score.

9)    At long last a home, two roommates, and a dog are discovered. If I close my eyes, it almost feels just like home.

10) Internet is a luxury afforded the privileged few. Despite modems, landlines, and wireless, connectivity may or may not exist at any given time. In my new home, I’ve learned if I don’t breathe too hard I can have a viable Skype connection. Never guaranteed.

11) Giving directions in Swahili to the moto driver taking you home is a feel good moment.

12) Ducking to hide behind trees as pre-election violence sends crowds racing in fear through the streets in a frenzy after the pop pop! of shots in the distance is not.

Week 4:

Prepping post-dinner treats 

13)  People in clubs can dance...well...

14) Home-cooked meals are to die for anywhere in the world. The process goes something like: take 40 minute dalla dalla (public minibus) to distant countryside; get lost on dark roadside wandering in search of home; remove shoes and enter concrete living room; smile with a polite Shikamoo  to greet the parents; gather on one of many couches around two edged together coffee tables; watch in awe at the spread of dish after dish and matunda (fruit); soak hands in hot water and soap; devour meal and refuse profuse offers for more; pat your belly to indicate that your tummy is indeed large and full; pick teeth with ample toothpicks; resist urgings to stay the night though home is far and it’s late; sleep contentedly with a full and satiated abdomen.

15)  Return to vegetable market and purchase pile of tomatoes, potatoes, cucumbers, avocados, peas, and onions at the local price. In Swahili.

Home cooked chakula (food)

Baby steps ;)