It is 3:28 am, just a few hours before I have to get up for school, a mosquito is buzzing ravenously outside of the guest bed net where I am hiding out, trying not to disturb Zak who is fast asleep in the other room like a normal person. I have no idea why I am awake, maybe I am experiencing 2 and 1/2 month late jet lag or maybe it was the coffee that I drank this afternoon under a grape arbor in the rain, maybe I'm turning into my mom or maybe I'm returning to my childhood tendency to be struck by prolific bursts of late night inspiration- I just hope it's a one time thing and the odd energy of this desperate city isn't getting to me! I tried meditation, focusing on the in and out breath, a montra of "why... because... why... because", the lullaby of the after-rain frog chorus with intermittent traffic codas, reading.... but the hours patiently slugged by and instead of a wink of sleep I am left with a story to tell, so here goes:
Moving to a foreign country, it seems is an act that rests on expectation made manifest in an unusual way, you believe that you are open to anything, as you are giving up everything that you know to enter into a new mindset, practice, language, climate etc. Having nothing to rest your expectations upon, you assume that you will embrace difference and accept growth as your only criteria for a satisfying experience. However, upon arrival you realize that growth and difference can and will happen in any unusual circumstance and that there is indeed a quality which you were hoping would color these inevitable components of change. I was hoping to traverse the gifts and challenges of the lifestyle that is natural for Tanzanians, to see the stories that make up the lives of families and communities of people tied to a history and land that are new to me. I wanted to learn to adapt my daily toils to fit the rhythm of a rooted culture, to hear the woes and witness the laughter that comes from Tanzania, to reach my hand out in whatever way I could to enter the give and take of a vibrant new facet of the world.
The strange thing about Dar es Salaam is that you feel the tension of people living in a developing city who are not yet comfortable within its streets. Few of the people that I have met grew up here, it is a place that people flock to with high hopes and then wrestle with to secure employment. The locals in business are trying to build structures with unripened stones, trying to wield plans knitted with green twine, trying to be steady in the inconsistency of an immature infrastructure. The excitement in this lies in the hope that it is developing, that this city is on its way to being the prosperous place that its inhabitants hoped to benefit from. The frustration lies in the fact that corruption, complacency, expired policy, inadequate facilities and a work ethic and organizational schema that are better suited for rural life leave those working towards progress spending most of their energy treading water.
Colorfully blurring the chasms between the tall buildings and flustered businesspeople are the clanking wares of entrepreneurs who have come here with the sacks and buckets of smaller places along on their backs. They hold trays of cigarettes and candies on their heads, ride bikes with ice cream coolers welded to them, man carts loaded with papaya and banana under shade trees, thrust nets with soccer balls and imported electronics through car windows, or sit all day by the road with naught but a cup in their hand. These people are calling and making kissie noises, clanking stacks of coins rhythmically in their hands and spending most of their energy trying to attract buyers. If you so much as glance you will have to shake them off. Especially if you are white, they are ready to try to get as much as they can out of you, and once one has caught your interest, more will flock, vying for the spot of the lucky one who will seal a deal. This business model works because local people are more accustomed and financially able to deal with market-style shopping rather than the largely fancified grocery stores and transplants quite like this store-to-your-door method. It works, but just barely, survival is the realistic objective of this business model, not progress.
We have met several people on our adventures (talking to strangers has always been our forte, we are slowed a bit by the language barrier, but still try) who express that they migrated to this city hopeful that they would find work and are left hungry and stuck just looking to make their ticket back home. It seems that many find the expectations they built on "city" and "travel" burst by the reality of tough economics and resilient cultural divides. The expectation that I (we) are struggling to reckon with is not so much financial as it is about the currency of cultural exchange. As you may have realized by what I have already portrayed, there is plenty to wrap your head around in this place, I can't complain that I am not being challenged. I also do not mean to paint a bleak picture of our adventure, as it has and will continue to change the trajectory of our lives forever and we are extremely lucky to be able to live such an unusual chapter in our lives. It's just that we have found ourselves in a peculiar slice of Dar which is quite misaligned with the dreams that we had tied to "Tanaznia".
We ride an insulated circuit of expats. We find ourselves frequenting dining establishments where the only local people present are wearing aprons and watching less than mediocre presentations of art and music created by "adventurous adults" who left home without their talent but can flaunt freely in a place where there is nothing else to see. I have gotten to chat with Maasai warriors, but only as they hold an umbrella for me in the rain or help to park our car with their fimbos (cow herding sticks). I've gotten to eat local mishkake (beef) on a stick and cassava wedges cooked over a fire by the seaside, but paid more than a few shillings with the extra tax of the amoeba. I get to be surrounded by people who have lived all over the world, but when I ask why they like to live here, an overwhelming response is "at home I couldn't have a cooking and cleaning staff and take five star vacations with my family each year." I have met some brilliant parents who are revitalizing the local emergency ward, advocating for Save the Children, doing malaria research and trying to open the possibilities of the world up to their children, but am concerned when these children report more time spent at the yacht club than interacting with the city and who poll in the majority for having never cleaned their room because they have a maid.
I continue to poke and probe this place and whomever I can find driving my pijaje, picking up my students, guarding the gate, holding the umbrella or sleeping peacefully in the bed across the hall and I will work to break out of the loop in the small moments that I can find after managing the work in my classroom and my budding home, but I am coming to terms with the fact that I had expectations for intimacy with this place and they have been strangely displaced by a distance that is more complex than my pre-Tanzania Leah could realize.
