Dar es not quite Salaam

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.

I didn't feel safe using my camera outside of the hotel,
so this is my only picture of Dar.

We waited until late afternoon to give Dar a second chance. (I adjusted my outfit, even though it felt preposterous to wear a cardigan in such heat). We strolled down a street of wall-to-wall mosques, temples, and churches. It was interesting to see the pictoral jumble of Muslim half-moons, swastikas, stars of david, Krishnas, and Jesuses. We braved the chaotic Kariakoo Market, reminiscent of Mercado Cuatro, for those of you who know Asuncion. Salesmen beckoned us to peruse their cluttered stalls, stacked with everything from shoes and stolen cell phones to fly-covered meat or kitchen tables. Others were mobile, balancing boards of sunglasses, socks, and combs – “Buy two, one free. Very special price for you, my friends.” We didn’t need any of that so we squeezed through the crowds and into a dark restaurant/bar. A chalkboard menu listed twenty Swahili words we didn’t recognize. Through some charade-like gestures we managed to order “what that guy’s having” and shared a pretty tasty plate of traditional chicken, rice, and spinach. After a beer we elbowed our way into a taxi. The driver jerked the car through a messy intersection of people, carts, donkeys and motorbikes. We realized he was drunk. “Ah, Americans,” he slurred. “Children of Barack Obama!” We buckled up and gripped our seats while he sped us back to the Hyatt.

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.