Prom, or Safari in the Serengeti

I have to admit: finding a good safari company is a lot like picking the best date for prom. You skip about from this storefront office to the next, careful to glance over your shoulder lest the last smitten tour operator should notice and become jealous. You start to feel a bit two-timey and cheap, hopping in and out of this free ride and the next, worried one might catch you cheating with another. You dread the explanation of But I was only just looking to see what he offered! about as much as that regular check-up at the dentist’s after six months of non-stop candy-coated sugar-eating bliss and chewy nougat. As I made my way through the thick of them, substituting phone and email conversations when I had donned as much as I could bear to wear in disguise- super-sized sunglasses, hair up this day and down the next, hoodies, long pants/capris/skirts, some days I even adopted a slight limp- I came upon two companies upon recommendation of a good friend.

Map of the Serengeti

The first seemed like a steal, something that should have been a red flag at the first. Usually this points to some sort of shady dealing (though all companies seem to engage in some) that typically means a staff member or two is being shafted. After all, when have you known a company to cut its own profit for anyone? 

Dozens of smiling photos of pre-safari families, friends, and couples posing with one of the lead managers adorned the walls of the office as I entered, though surprisingly there was not a single after-photo to speak of. After three hours of continuous pitching, convincing, proffering of bottles of water and eventually sticks of mishkaki (kebabs), I finally relented, agreeing to send a message to my friends that it looked like we had found a great deal. With indefatigable insistence, he asked if I wouldn’t just sign and make a deposit now, how easy was it just to pop by the bank? Growing both weary and suspicious, I remained steadfast in my refusal upon consultation with the marafiki (friends) who would be joining me. Four more encouraging texts that evening and finally silence.

That night the onslaught of bad press that was uncovered online, including a stream of vicious Trip Advisor commentary (launched by none other than said company against disgruntled customers) cemented our ultimate refusal much to the chagrin of the ever-smiling and persistent operator. After several polite, yet firm, messages of our decision to look elsewhere, suddenly I felt trapped by what I can only describe as a lover scorned. The text messages went from curious to clipped and disdainful to pleading in a matter of hours. It was necessary to stop answering my phone. When I emerged the next day to meet what I hoped would be our last operator (praying at this point, mind you), I was decked out in my wintry best not at all unbefitting the Arusha chill- hat, scarf, two jackets, hair tucked beneath a hood, glasses. No way Mr. Persistent would recognize me. I didn’t recognize me!

With Elia, General Manager of Scandic Safari

When I signed with Scandic Safari after about thirty minutes of explanation and minimal coaxing- though I was offered an icy cold Coke to slake my kiu (thirst)- I had seen all the signs that I had finally met my corsage-toting counterpart for the three-day event that was to be our safari prom: he seemed genuinely indifferent as to whether or not we would sign; every girl's dream of the guy playing-hard-to-get who ignores her instead of asking her out! Actually, it signaled to me that he was not desperately in need of the cash, a sign I took of regular customer flow. He demonstrated exactly where we would go on a map and wrote up a full itinerary with times when requested. He was able to break down the costs of the trip with little hesitation. And the great clincher- he bought me lunch. Call me easy, but I was sold.

Heather and Becca cough up the dough in Tz shillings and dollars. 

Two weeks later, with Becca and Heather in tow, we embarked on our first ever safari through Ngorongoro Crater (world’s largest inactive, unfilled, volcanic caldera teeming with wildlife) and, you guessed it…the Serengeti. I read this warning message on a list of reminders pre safari and couldn’t help but chuckle: “There are some roads that may be very bumpy. Supportive clothing (as in a comfrotable bra) is recommended during these trips.”

Without further adieu, our TOP TEN(ish) MOMENTS ON SAFARI:

#1 Day 1: Somewhat foolish tourist is taken by surprise as these not-so-friendly foes encircled her and one grabbed round her waist to make off with her lunch sandwich. Baboons yikes!

Mmm boxed lunches

Baboon Mama and Baby

Take heed

#2 Day 1: In the middle of the night I woke to what I thought were little mongooses scampering about our campsite, only to learn the next day that wailing and laughing hyenas were not too far away scavenging for meaty leftovers from predators or careless humans. 

Not always laughing, hmm?

Campers beware

Mongooses/Mongeese

#3 Day 2: Two dik diks, creatures that resemble miniature Bambis with mohawks, tee off in a dance-fight mimicry that is part of the mating ritual. These lovely little ones mate for life. Take that nature-induced polyamory!

Dik Dik mating dance 

On the hunt!

#4 Day 2: Crouching elephant, hidden campsite. Daring Dumbo makes his way into the frigid campsite inside Ngorongoro Conservation Area and is scared away by several of the safari driver-guides and porters. Interesting tidbit: Unlike the Serengeti which is a National Park, Ngorongoro as a Conservation Area which means that human inhabitants can be given special permission to dwell there permanently, such as the Masaai people.

Bottom left!

Careful. Elephant Crossing!

Serengeti National Park

Sunrise on the Serengeti

 #5 Day 2: Lions on the prowl between safari cars. These early morning felines seem to take no notice at the diesel-guzzling machines in their midst. Not even in a last minute dash for a Thompson’s gazelle after nearly thirty minutes of laying in waiting in the grass.

Lions prowl between cars

Lioness in waiting

As lunch makes a break for it

Grr baby grr; somewhere Circle of Life is playing on loop

#6 Day 2: And is it? Oh yes it is! A pair of hunting cheetahs!! The speed demons of the wild who run faster than any other land mammal and are much more rarely spotted on safari than their clambering feline cousins, the lions.

Sleek, slender, and graceful. My favorite predator yet. Where were they in Lion King?!

Cheetah prey? Pretty formidable

Safari-ing like a champ

#7 Day 3: Becca savoring a delicious chicken drumstick before she unwittingly becomes the target of a very sharp-eyed (and talon-ed) hawk/falcon/bird of prey that swoops in for a quick lunch.

Lunchtime on the lake

Swooping in for the kill (of cooked meat)!

#8 Day 3: A childhood favorite- lakeside flamingos peppered the waters of Ngorongoro Crater while zebras, water buffaloes, and wildebeest grazed in the distance.

One flamingo, two flamingo, three flamingo, more!

Pale pink flamingos take a drink

#9 Day 3: We may have missed the Great Migration through northern Serengeti, but that does not mean we did not get to savor a few moments caught in the midst of the wildebeest herds just the same!

You killed Mufasa!!

Like a painting, but it's real!!

 #10 Day 3: In what I can only take as an act of love and/or companionship, two adorable zebras nestle neck on neck in a fond embrace. Way to close a truly stunning and spectacular trip.

Play time!

Best image yet. L.O.V.E. Love.

Three gals and a safari car

We may have been completely blind through the night without flashlights and spent most of our time tracking other safari cars equipped with radios, and at times had to goad our guide into sharing his wealth of knowledge on the wildlife, but some of that just adds character to the visit, eh?  For a budget safari, I really can’t complain. How often do you get to say you camped in the Serengeti with hyenas nibbling at your tent? Not too often I’d guess ;)

(More photos to come on Facebook!)

Tiniest Moments, Biggest Smiles

*Note: The past two weeks have been hectic and packed, but never fear, I will make up for being remiss with several posts this week, including safari!*

How to hail a bus in Dar es Salaam

For as long as I can remember-- which dates about back to the time I was three and tottering across a blue shag carpet (ah, thank the 70’s for that ingenious creation) in my grandmother’s high heels and oversized Sunday church hat (incidentally also the time when my family decided I was either bound for the stage or a stripper’s pole)—my parents have repeated that age old adage “Don’t sweat the small things” ad nauseam. I’ve listened, smiled politely like I was listening at least, and continued to be perturbed by even the slightest of hiccups. Go figure choosing a life and career of constant unexpected gems and harrowing moments in development. Keep breathing I would remind myself. It really can’t be as bad as it seems. And usually (usually) it wasn’t. My father, the ever patient man that he is, has carefully reminded me before each nail-biting plane ride to some far-flung land: Remember, whatever happens don’t panic. My brother is typically more direct in his appeal of Chill out. What’s the worst that can happen? For a slightly paranoid disaster-conspiracy theorist/life-is-a-walking-booby-trap believer who has a Plan B for the day before she opens her eyes the morning and who has born holes in her computer screen reading horror stories of abductions, maimings, ill-functioning body parts, and unsavory jail cells (not to mention watching reruns of every Law & Order SVU episode known to man), this usually does not calm my rattled nerves nor assuage the miles-long list of fears locked in my brain. But I digress. Don’t sweat the small things.

As my time in Tanzania grows short with mere weeks creeping up on me, a sunny day suddenly brought to life all the small things and moments that I have managed to not only not sweat, but appreciate and relish about this scenic mountainside town and the country in general.

Having an impromptu dance party in the middle of the night with my housemate and the house guard, with an alternating playlist of Pitbull, Rihanna, Bon Jovi, Counting Crows, and Bongo Flava (Tanzanian style danceable music fusing something like hip hop and Caribbean vibes) in the background. Then afterwards, spending quality time with the twenty-something guard just older than my brother who spends day and night looking over our home and learning that though he has many male friends in the neighborhood, few of the ladies have caught his eye, but who knows what might happen one day? 

Who can resist that face? Little Sharon!

Listening to the field trainer at work tell you how much you remind him of his daughter who surprisingly has the same Kenyan birth name you were granted in your one week exploring- Wanjiku- before buying you a beautiful traditional Masaai embroidered wrap as a parting gift when he leaves.

Cuddling adorable babies as they fall asleep on you time and again; practicing lullabies to keep them that way.

Receiving a text from a driver friend in Dar es Salaam and understanding about 85% of this when I asked for a ride from the bus station:

Sina uhakika, kwa sababu kuna mtu atakuwa na mimi kesho, hivyo sijui atamaliza muda gani- atakuja rafiki yangu au mimi, ahsante.

(I am not sure, because someone will be with me tomorrow, so I do not know how long until it finishes- my friend or I will come, thank you.)

Nap Time for Godwin

Knowing a faithful piki piki driver who not only will wake at 4:30am to carry me to the bus station, but will call the night before to confirm and then text the morning of to ask Uko tayari 5:00am? (Are you ready at 5:00am?)

Spending ten hours on a bus to Dar with a surly young woman beside me who seemed to loathe my very presence for much of the ride (reasons unknown) and then decided at the last minute to be a helpful guide in perfect English, assisting me to navigate which stop to exit the bus where there would be fewer hustlers and I could get a decent, affordable ride home.

Thanking a kind-hearted Muslim taxi driver for finishing his Ramadan fast-breaking early one evening in Zanzibar to drive two girls somewhat stranded on the roadside at dusk in Dole (sp?) village back to Stone Town. This came after a similarly kind-hearted Christian guy waited (with no expectations of compensation) to watch over us until the Muslim prayers were through and the driver was ready, yet before the taxi driver and his friend proffered us a sack full of sweet and delicious tende (dates) to take home for the night.

Kitambaa of choice

Visiting the kind kanga seller on my street and, finding her absent (there was a moment where I sat grinning fatuously for about ten minutes after I swear her son said she was in the loo) and then realizing I would have to ::gulp:: convey to her son and husband what I needed. It wasn’t easy explaining in—albeit broken, but somewhat functional—Swahili that I would like two sketis (skirts) made tafadhali (please). Unaweza kushona? (Can you sew?) One kama huu (like this one) and one a bit fupi (short) from this kitambaa rangi ya kijani (green fabric) and this kitambaa bluu (blue fabric). Eventually, I was led down a small alley through a green-leafed corridor and into a metal gate where a seamstress and a team of several young apprentices sat around a single machine chatting, stitching, folding in an assembly line. With one glance at me and the nakshi (pattern) I held, she took no measurements, asked no questions (except: Lining or no?), and told me to return at saa kumi (Swahili time for 4pm) kesho (tomorrow) to pick up my miniskirts. Errrrrrrr? Miniskirts?? I sighed, smiled, remembered not to sweat the small things, and went home wondering if I would return to a thigh-high mini on the morrow. Ah well, stripper’s pole after all then. 

The next day, I approached timidly just a few minutes shy of the deadline, remembering that whatever she produced, I would pay for, smile, and cherish till the end of time (or until the nearest wastebasket or used clothes bin). Already the day was feeling bright as I approached and found the Mama owner of the kanga fabric shop who had been missing the day prior. She welcomed me in, asked after the friend who had accompanied me weeks past, and ushered me down the little alley to the back. I held my breath as the seamstress produced two folded sketis beaming. Her apprentices stood to watch my reaction as she unfolded the gorgeous pieces. Giggling with them, I spun around exclaiming how vizuri sana (very beautiful) they were. Mama Kanga admired the work, but clicked her tongue at the length of the “mini” which hung just about to my knees. With a promise not to wear it on a mototaxi and only to wear it in Marekani (America), we both laughed and she patted me on the shoulder and encouraged me to come again. Karibu tena. (Welcome again). For less than $20 and two beautiful pieces plus the remaining fabrics for shawls and wraps, I definitely would.

Our street

Thus despite the frequent power cuts and sandstorms of dirt and dust clogging my lungs and nostrils as I walk or ride the crater-pocked road home, or the frigid nights and constant haggling in the market place every time we need new fruit and vegetables to last the week, this country is filled with moments like these that form the gems in my brief experience, reminding me that learning not to sweat the small things means learning to recognize that sometimes the small things can make the biggest difference. When you remember that being here is really about the tiniest of moments that bring the biggest of smiles, it makes all the rest of it that much more worthwhile.

Up next: Safari, Bagamoyo, back into the field, and Zanzibar Part 2!

Lunchboxes and Knapsacks

Thoughts of field trips typically conjure images of small children in matching colored T-shirts bouncing along a path with brown paper sacks or tin boxes glinting in the sun with pictures of Superman, Batman, Barbie, Spongebob Squarepants, or Shrek. Maybe they have those oversized dangling nametags, squinted eyes as they shield them from the sun, and a seemingly permanent painted frown giving them wrinkles in their young age as they complain about their feet hurting, having to go to the restroom, and wanting snack time (all not unlike their wizened counterparts at the opposite end of the age spectrum.) This field trip was a bit different. It was a work trip. Very official. Very…aherm, business-like and all that jazz. Having worked out of the American culture context before, I knew to expect (or perhaps not to expect) quite a number of norms from the American office place. No water coolers, no Starbucks coffee breaks, no automated projection system that lowers from the heavens and clicks magically in place with a blinking blue screen waiting patiently for your Powerpoint or Prezi, no little thingies that remove staples from papers once you’ve stapled them. But with relatively few field trips under my belt, I was admittedly a bit unprepared for exactly what such an outing would entail.

 We were supposed to leave at 8am. Around 9am I started to wonder. At the moment, we were still sipping chai and nibbling on breakfast sambusas (samosas) and hot fluffy rice cake puffs. I wasn’t tooo unhappy at this fact, but still. At about 9:15 the car arrived and we ventured to a shop to make print-outs of the handouts for the day. Finally, ready to go! A welcome ominous sign, the moment we pulled out of the makeshift parking space, boom! Accident. Hmmm. After some back and forth and admission of guilt on both sides (his car looked much worse for wear than our 4X4), we all piled back in and hit the road. The drive was incredible. Up and down winding roads hugging close to the mountains, we made our way down a road cut through the gorgeous Rift Valley, so named after having been created by the tectonic shifts that had given rise to the mountains around us. The view from above was breath-taking and refreshingly crisp to breathe. One of the women accompanying us had grown up in the valley and pointed to squat stone and cement structures that she identified as the valley hospital and one of very few schools. As she demonstrated, children were required to walk up, down, and through the valley for several miles often to reach a school at the far end of the valley away from their homes. Many girls, she informed us, never attended secondary school given the even greater distance from home and the amount of chores needed to be completed in a given day.

We wound on farther and eventually found ourselves in the town of Mbulu in Manyara District. As if on cue, just over a dozen women emerged in colorful bursts from various places around town and followed us to the screening site where we would conduct a series of interviews to select the participants for our pilot project. Eager to get started, I made to pass out the papers we had brought explaining the program—a solar energy initiative targeting rural women who were leaders of a number of local village savings and loans associations (VSLAs)—but was quickly stopped by my colleagues as it was necessary to perform an extended greeting, personal welcome, and introduction first. Strike one against the overzealous American.

I introduced myself briefly in Swahili giving my name and explaining that I was an American working with d.light and was very pleased to meet everyone. As the women approached one by one we went through a series of questions. Excuse me sister/mam, but how old are you? Samahani dada/mama, una miaka mingapi? Do you have a husband? Una mume? Do you have children? Una watoto? We learned that almost all of the women save two had been educated to Standard 7 (Grade 8), were farmers (wakulima) of some sort and entrepreneurs, had no personal means of transport (bikes included), could read and write to at least basic level, and were relatively (professedly) debt-free. One woman explained how she rose at 3am every day to prepare her children for shule (school), take her wares for sale nearly a three hours’ walk away to town, and then return home in time to cook, clean, and set up the house for when her husband returned home. Others, women barely older than me were responsible for families of two and three children and somehow managed to tend farms, prep for market, attends savings group meetings, and still get dinner on the table before dark as few had electricity at home and needed to squeeze the most out of the daylight. When it came to time management, these women were pros.

Consulting my Excel spreadsheet, I tabulated the data, calculating scores for each woman based on traits we thought would embody a strong retailer and community representative for the brand and the project: did she make frequent eye contact? Did she speak confidently? Was she animated? Did she project? Did she understand the role and responsibility? Was she a trusted member of the community? Then we came to the water selling task. As an on the spot demonstration, we asked each women to sell us a bottle of water. She got highest marks for demonstrating the benefits of the water over soda or juice, negotiating a fair price, highlighting the best characteristics of the water, and vouching for it personally as the best drink on the market. Great activity, right? It frequently went like this:

“Okay, now dada/mama, please sell me this bottle of maji (water).”

“You already bought it. It’s on the table.”

“Right. Okay, I know I bought it but now sell it to me.”

“I don’t understand. You have it.”

“No you have it. This is pretend, make-believe so imagine please.”

“Imagine what?”

“That you are selling it. Pretend we are in a duka (shop). I am the mteja (customer). You are the shop keeper.”

“Ah yes. Okay. This maji here is very delicious maji. It costs 600 shillings.”

“That’s expensive and I don’t like water. It’s tasteless. I like soda. Maybe Coca or Tangawizi (a ginger soda).”

“Okay. Wait, can I sell you that instead?”

“Alrighty then let’s go to the next activity.”

Strike two against the foolish American. Silly me, they would be selling solar lights not water. Didn’t I know that? Oof. Imagination is a luxury. When do adults have time for that when they’ve got cows, sheep, children, maize, and wheat flour on the brain? I silently cursed the theater-phile in me for conjuring up the task though my colleagues seemed to enjoy it quite a bit. They were exceedingly patient in managing to explain to each woman just how this activity had anything to do with selling solar products and eventually got through to each one. They were convinced if a woman could sell us this bottle convincingly, she would have no trouble fielding the same questions about the solar lanterns. Activity saved! Task behind us, we moved on and wrapped up the interviews just as the sun sank low behind the clouds and our stomachs told us it was dinner time. The next day we repeated the process first in Hanang and then Babati, two towns also in Manyara district, but not without the foolish American rearing her ugly head inside me again.

Working lunch. \WER-keeng Luh-nch\ Noun. Definition: a meal around midday completed while performing tasks related to one’s job or occupation. Origin: Somewhere due West.

To be fair we were already an hour behind. We were wrapping up the interviews in Hanang which had taken longer than expected as extra people showed up eager to be interviewed and possibly selected. Babati was about 45 minutes to an hour away with bat out of hell race car driving. We were all starving and I suggested calling ahead to the next group to say we were running late and getting food on the other end once we arrived. Negative. My colleagues were bent on getting lunch in our current location. Fine, then, I reasoned, let’s just get it to go and eat en route as we drive. EEEEENNNNNHHHHH. Somewhere a million buzzers went off. Eat as we drive? Eat as we drive? What absurd recommendation was this? What bizarre machinations was I plotting such that we needed to eat in transit? But, but, I stammered. Didn’t we eat en route yesterday? Ah yes, but only to beat the darkness back down the mountain. There was plenty of light now. We would sit. Forty minutes later we were almost two hours late and still an hour from the site. We piled into the car again and took off. Flying down the road. I buckled up and held on for dear life, a silent prayer escaping my lips at some point, and then as quickly as we had begun we stopped. It was time for muwa. I cringed as I looked out the window and saw the man running with the cart of sugar cane sticks. My colleagues pulled over and asked for six. Now mind you, these things are about six feet long and he has to hack them down to manageable two feet size with a machete. That’s six feet and at least two cuts per stick for six sticks. My head was spinning with the math that screamed We’re already going to be three hours late!! I said nothing. Sensing my inner turmoil perhaps, a colleague assured me that a few more minutes would not hurt that much. I breathed. I calmed my Western anxiety, remembered my own role among friends as the erstwhile latecomer, and relaxed…a little. Strike three against the uptight American!

Eventually we made it of course. As in Hanang, the Babati group was a bit more mixed than our first town of Mbulu with men and women, producing an interesting dynamic between the male interviewees and the female interviewing team questioning them. Most men, not surprisingly, had no trouble with eye contact whatsoever and typically barreled through the questions with ease. Like the women, most all were married farmers/entrepreneurs with several children and had completed Grade 8 though a few had gone on to Form 4 (secondary school). As leaders of their VSLAs, like some of the women, they had remarkable reach into the rural community, accessing as many as two and three hundred individuals on a regular basis. Jackpot. This was exactly the rural penetration we desperately needed where our local distributors had no reach. I thought back to the houses dotting Rift Valley and pictured each of these village agents making their way through communities we didn’t even know existed on roads far from any map I’d ever seen. And guaranteed just about each and every one of those houses goes dark when the sun goes down, hauling out smudged and dangerous kerosene lanterns and jerry cans that cost them hundreds of shillings per day to burn. With solar energy, the possibilities were staggering.

We wrapped up the screening, jotting down notes on scribbled pieces of papers and print outs and headed back to Arusha. I was pumped and ready for action. This was why I wanted to be out here in the field doing this sort of work. We had spent several weeks being bogged down in bureaucracy. It’s bound to happen with so many cooks in the kitchen on a single project, too many organizations with conflicting agendas just trying to make sure their best interests are kept in mind. Getting out there reminded me of the people on the other end, miles and miles away from headquarters and conference calls and absurdly long email chains where sometimes very little actually gets done. Instead as the field team, we are the ones getting regular calls from these farmers and entrepreneurs wondering what was taking so long? When were the products arriving? Why had we come and visited them two and three times with no results to show? Would we be like that last organization that came through with so many promises and never followed through? 

I cringed when we had to call them back to notify them that there was yet another delay at HQ and we would be pushing back the training one more week, maybe two. But didn’t we know harvest season would end soon and the money would dry up? Who would they sell to then when everyone was pinching shillings again? Those are the moments that make this work difficult, not just from a logistical angle, organizing meetings and interviews and trainings, but from an emotionally taxing perspective as well. We are here on the ground because we want to help, but how much help can we be when our hands are so tied by donors and board members, country directors and distributors, and the like? The money is not in. The board doesn’t agree. The MOU hasn’t been signed. The team is not assembled. All these are typical development problems, and necessary evils most would say, but it leaves you wondering: is there ever an easier way to just take action? To get things done and provide the services needed without a cadre of squabbling figures like crabs in a barrel, clawing for this interest or that? Perhaps no because we need the funding. We need the support. We need the technical expertise and resources. At the end of the day, frustrating though it may be, perhaps it’s just enough that the work eventually gets done, no matter the creeping road to get there. 

A week later on a flight, I sat down next to a woman in a beautiful colored kanga wrap much like the women we had interviewed. I asked her where she was from. Mama, unatoka ni wapi? She told me Manyara, Hanang specifically. Excitedly I tried to explain that my work was in solar with the sun and did she know of our company? Kazi yangu ni solar, na jua. Unajua d.light? She said that she had not, but was very happy to hear we would be coming to her hometown. She did not have electricity and wanted light at night. She said our work was good, very good, and thanked me for doing it. I paused for a moment. Even though she hadn’t seen the work and had no idea of what our products were like or when she would see them, even so she was grateful the work was being done and that someone wanted to invest in her town. That alone was validating. I smiled and thanked her, adding Mama, nafurahi kukufahamu. (Mama, I am happy to meet you/It was a pleasure meeting you.)

Truthfully, it really was. 

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.