We kicked off our latest travel adventure with a new and
exhilarating experience: we stayed at the Hyatt. TK’s folks booked us a couple
nights for his birthday, and – I know this sounds bratty – it was the highlight
of our two days in Dar es Salaam. We arrived at night and awkwardly plodded up
the plush red carpet, into the chandeliered lobby where our scraggly clothes
and dirty backpacks raised some eyebrows. But we got over feeling out of place
and relished our chance to recharge in luxury before two months of camping and
hostels. After a night of room service, bubble bath, and cable tv, we ventured
out into the city. The first thing we noticed was the heat. Sweltering,
exhausting heat. The second realization was that I was inappropriately dressed.
In my meticulous efforts to pack lightly, I considered only the weather and our
activities. I forgot that we’d be travelling through Muslim areas where women
cover their shoulders and knees at the least and everything but their eyes at
the most. I felt like a whore walking the streets in a little summer dress.
We thought that slinking into the National Museum would be a
nice escape from the heat and stares, and a good introduction to the country.
Alas, the two-room building was hotter inside than out and the exhibits were
pretty dinky. Sweat dripped from our
noses onto the glass cases of Swahili artifacts, and the pitifully translated descriptions
failed to captivate us. We crossed the street to the botanical garden, which
was basically a plaza of hedges and benches where we sat and warded off a series
of touts offering safari deals. Where could we go to cool down? None of the
nearby cafes, restaurants, or shops had air conditioning. It was noon. The
Hyatt lured us back. Its powerful AC blasted us before we were even inside and
once in it was hard to leave again.
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| I didn't feel safe using my camera outside of the hotel, so this is my only picture of Dar. |
It’s difficult to discern how dangerous a city really is,
but certain places just make me uneasy and Dar is one of them. Maybe it was the
general pushiness of people. Everywhere we went people insisted on helping us (to
find a place, to help with our bags, etc.) and then demanded money in return. We
always had to talk down cab drivers from overcharging us with muzungu (white
person) prices. We decided not to explore the city’s nightlife and instead
enjoyed a second night of room service at the lovely, clean, predictable Hyatt.
The next morning we took a ferry to Zanzibar. A dozen
different agencies sell tickets for the ferry, so a dozen different guys
scrambled to pull us to their respective offices, each promising the best
prices and special VIP seats. They shouted over each other and interrupted us
when we tried to speak to another guy or even to each other. Another
exasperated muzungu couple approached us for help, and together we sifted
through the scams and rip-offs until we eventually got a fair price. The four
of us waited together for five hours until the ferry actually left. The couple,
from Denmark, also had an unfavorable impression of Dar es Salaam (“Haven of
Peace”), but with more reason: right off the plane they got mugged in a taxi.
The driver picked up some buddies and they drove the couple to an ATM, told
them to take out money and hand it over or they’d kill them.
So we were all eager to leave the hot, cramped waiting area,
board the ferry, and watch Dar disappear from sight.
