Day 187 Arusha to Dar Es Salaam

We’ve lost count of how many terrible bus experiences we’ve had. This one joined the list. I didn’t have enough leg room, which means, Andrew had it even worse. And for some reason, bus drivers in select countries around the world seem to think blasting music is mandatory for journeys clocking in at twelve hours or more, even when these journeys begin at six in the morning.

Gospel music with close up booty shots were on the menu this morning. It only got worse as the day continued with a low budget African movie full of slapstick “comedy” and one man cutting off his own toe. Strange? Not to all of the other passengers on the bus…

We arrived in Dar around dusk and immediately ran into two of our new friends from Arusha. After dinner, we all crashed. Dar doesn’t offer much to do by day, and it’s advised not to go out at night. It’s nights like these that make me grateful for Andrew’s hard-drive of movies and television. We watched Project Runway (All Stars. Is it just me or is Heidi’s replacement, Caroline kind of annoying?) and crashed.

Day 186 Mt. Meru Market

Andrew and I woke up squeezed into one dorm bunk bed because the hostel had overbooked and half of us partnered up to make room for guests who had arrived with a reservation and no room to sleep. I felt like we had been transported back to college waking up to so many squeezed into one room and giggling over the night before.

There was a karaoke machine in the club. Andrew and I may (or may not have) killed it with our own rendition of Mr. Big’s “Be With You.” Not to mention the dance-offs that took place between middle aged tourists and Tanzanian b-boys workin’ the floor. It. Was. Fun.

The day after wasn’t as much fun. After breakfast, Andrew and I busted a move back to town to figure out how we were going to get down to Dar or if possible, straight to Zanzibar. We had our fingers crossed for a really cheap flight, like all of our new Arusha best-friends said we would find. But… unfortunately none of the cheap flights were available the next day.

We stopped back at the tourist market for some earings and shukkas (Masai shoulder wraps) but I couldn’t be bothered with haggling whilst hung-over. The market is a gauntlet. Everyone asking you to come in their shop. Everyone telling you to slow down. I knew I was going after earings and shukkas which made things a little easier. I also had ice cream that was melting, so we didn’t stay long and instead headed back to the hostel to lounge with the smart ones who stayed in all day.

Day 180: Moshi International School Festival

If you can believe it, we were on the fence about going on another safari. Obviously we both really wanted to, but… the Murchison Falls safari trip in Uganda put us over budget and the safari trips in Tanzania are significantly more expensive. We debated. And then I realized we couldn’t be an hour or two away from the Serengeti and the Ngorongoro Crater and NOT go on safari… even if it meant returning home a couple of weeks early. Andrew agreed. Now, with our last minute decision, we had to wait for another couple to book the same safari so we could get the lowest price. (We definitely couldn’t afford a private safari for two- and we like people, so we wanted to go with others. You know, if they were cool…)

Luckily, a couple came through, we just had to wait one more day before we could go on safari. So, we joined a group from our hostel who were going out to explore the possibility of an International Festival. We weren’t really sure where it was. Or if it really was happening… But with two taxis full of people, we were on a mission.

We stopped at one school, where there clearly was nothing happening. The taxi drivers talked to the school guards and learned of another school further down the road. When we arrived at the second school, there were cars and balloons and people! The festival existed!

As we walked around the back of the school, we were suddenly transported. We weren’t in Africa. We could have been at any International School around the world. It felt like America, only with a more diverse crowd than would attend in my hometown. We honed in on the food booths. Andrew and I sampled vegetable samosas and chicken tikka… peanut butter cookies and margaritas… and even the Zanzibar mix.

“I’m sorry, what’s the dish called again?” I asked.

“Zanzibar mix.” The woman replied.

“What’s in it?” I asked.

“Zanzibar mix.” She replied. Okaaay… I was weary as I looked at the lime green mixture with bits of what I assumed was bread and crackling on top… I figured I’ve tried worse. And it ended up being surprisingly very good. I still have no idea what was in it though.

We didn’t stay too terribly long, and headed back into town to withdraw a ridiculous amount of bills (the equivalent of $6.00 for each bill) to pay for our safari. And then had movie night with all of the girls at the hostel. I had movie night with the girls… Andrew studied Spanish or something sans girls.

Day 179: Arusha Cultural Heritage Center

The beauty about having breakfast with fellow travelers at the hostel you’re staying with, is not only in having someone else to talk to (as much as I love Andrew, other faces are a delight!) but having another person tell you what there is to do around the town you just arrived to! The Arusha Cultural Heritage Center was suggested, and wanting a little art in my life, off we went.

We went by foot, which might not have been the best idea, as it took nearly 45 minutes to get there under the blazing Tanzanian sun. Whew. When we arrived, I didn’t even care how much the cafe was going to cost, all I wanted was something cold and shaded. The milkshake was definitely not worth the five dollars. The avocado tomato salad was worth the three. So, I guess despite the menu being in dollars (usually a bad sign in a foreign country) we pretty much broke even.

The Arusha “Cultural Heritage” Center is a glorified shop/art gallery. In my opinion, I’m assuming, it’s where rich people go before or after their safari to browse for “cultural artifacts” that are factory made. Ok, not everything is factory made… But not everything is made by Tanzanians either- and considering it’s supposed to be Tanzanian Cultural Heritage, I found this a little disappointing.

BUT. There were some good pieces that were made by local, er, African artists, that both Andrew and I did appreciate. We just would have appreciated it a bit more if it was only African artists featured in the gallery and perhaps if Tanzanians were employed in the gallery as well. (It seemed to be operated by Indians only) Our favorite part of the visit was the bottom floor featuring masks, furniture, and African carvings. (Photos weren’t allowed, otherwise I would have a plethora of images for you to see.)

I was also completely enamored by the “trees of life” that were outside and inside the gallery. As in, I want on and would totally track one down and send it home to sit next to my dragon IF Africa wasn’t as crazy expensive as it is and we weren’t over budget. Bah. I snuck a photo of the information plaque because I thought the story behind the trees is just beautiful.

If your eyes are as bad as my hearing: “The more traditional pieces represent clambering masses of people, reaching eternally upwards, as if struggling to grow and move forwards… they depict extended families of past and present generations, gently supporting each other in the journey of life…”

Isn’t that beautiful?

We grabbed a dala dala back into town. Genius modes of cheap transportation- and much more fun than a taxi. Vans slow down on the side of the road when they see you standing there and you pay less than twenty cents (USD) to jump in and get out where you want to go. We’re never sure where they are going, so we ask first before jumping in. They’re not made for anyone taller than myself- Andrew wasn’t comfortable in the least, but I enjoyed watching the Masai woman watch him during the ride. When she caught me smiling at her amusement towards Andrew, she eyed me skeptically as well, until she eventually deemed I was ok to talk to. Fortunately, I was sitting next to a super nice Tanzanian who spoke both Swahili and English and helped us converse.

At first, she clasped her ears, full of intricately beaded earings and a few gaping holes (one in her lobe, and one in her upper ear). She eyed my own ears (one lone piercing in each) and asked where my earings were. I raised my finger up to say that I had one piercing, and told her my jewelry was at home, save for my one, lone, Arabic necklace. I may as well have been naked sitting across from her. She pointed out the holes in her ears, and again, asked where mine were. I made a face like “Ouch! Pain!” and she shook her head and told me it didn’t hurt. Then she counted on her fingers, at first I thought she was trying to tell me how old she was, but then my new friend told me she had twelve children. Again, she asked about me. I made a zero with my hand and told our translator that I was too young! He laughed. (I don’t blame him. I’m in Africa. No one is too young to have a baby here!) She told me she wanted me to take one of her children. I smiled and told him to tell her that I was still a child. He laughed again. I’m not sure if he told her that. I think he translated what he liked throughout out conversation. I’m pretty sure the woman got frustrated with me as well for not speaking Swahili. Although my new friend wouldn’t tell me in so many words that was so… She definitely asked me why I didn’t speak Swahili though. I told her it was the first time I needed it. She ranted a few Swahili words I couldn’t understand, and my new friend didn’t translate. I assumed it wasn’t mean spirited and smiled.

Ignorance is bliss, and I continued to believe the older Masai woman liked me and had enjoyed our conversation as much as I had.

Days 177 & 178: Kampala to Nairobi to Arusha

We were told to be at the Kampala Coach office a half hour before our departure time at 3:00. We arrived a little before 2:30 and waited. And waited some more. Moved outside next to the bus, and waited some more. Men were packing the undercarriage of the bus, shoving as much as possible into the storage cabins, kicking the door shut, and then gathering additional men to help secure the latch so it wouldn’t bust open on the road. It was amusing at first, but after an hour of the same routine, it became annoying and we were ready to go. Our “business luxury” bus was as dirty as an overnight bus in India and was two hours behind schedule. We wouldn’t arrive in Arusha until at least 22 hours  after we left Kampala.

It was close to midnight when we reached our first border crossing (Uganda/Kenya). I feel in a small (small) way that I’ve grown accustomed to sketchy border crossings at this point in the trip. While everyone crowded in the brightly lit Ugandan passport control, I took in the long line and shoved my bag into Andrew’s hands and went out into the dark to look for a ladies room. This is a bit tricky. When there are no lights and people milling about in the middle of the night, it’s a gamble of who you’re going to ask for help or directions. I always assume my ‘I ain’t scared’ face and sometimes hum I won’t deny it, I’m straight rider, you don’t want to mess with me… (only Tupac didn’t sing ‘mess’ and neither did I)

I settled on the two guards outside of the ATM booth. This might have been a mistake as they proved to be creepier than their uniforms deemed them to be. I politely asked where the toilet was. They didn’t look up until I repeated it a few more times, a few more different ways, making it clear that I wasn’t going anywhere until I got an answer.

“Money” One of them eventually replied. (Sometimes bathrooms do cost money, and I gladly pay – when they are clean and there’s tissue. Ok, they are hardly ever clean, and only sometimes is there tissue. But I’m almost always prepared with my own.) I was in a bit of a rush and was slightly annoyed that they were informing me that there was indeed a bathroom, but it cost money.

“Yes. I know. Where. is. it?” I tried to ask patiently.

“Money.” The one demanded again. At this point I realized he was asking for money for directions. He obviously didn’t realize who he was talking to. I became indignant, and considered briefly what would happen if I peed inside his ATM booth. Ok, not really. I wouldn’t do that. But I might have made him a little bit nervous standing in front of him not handing over any money knowing full well I could go wherever I wanted, if I really wanted to. He sighed and waved his arm behind him. Which really, didn’t help at all, but I went and eventually found where I needed to go and got back to Andrew before he started to worry- er, more than he probably already was, but didn’t admit to. I relayed my story briefly before the Israeli guy on our bus relayed his story of almost getting ripped off exchanging money. I think we were all more surprised by the fact that none of us were surprised by the antics of the men loitering around the passport control.

Crossing into Kenya was not only sketchy, but turned frustrating on the Kenyan side when we learned we couldn’t pay for our visa in American bills printed before 2005. This is advertised nowhere and I pity the fool (me) who rolls up to the counter with a perfectly crisp $100 with 2004 stamped on it. Luckily, Andrew had a more recent bill and we were able to get back on our bus heading to Nairobi.

I didn’t think it was possible for dirt roads to be any worse than they were in Uganda… But in Kenya, they turned out to be much, much worse. We stopped in Nairobi for a brief twenty minutes before riding all morning towards Tanzania.

The Kenya/Tanzania crossing was uneventful, save for the giant groups of Americans standing in line and shouting their conversations all over the place. I leaned over to Andrew and whispered, “I get it. I get why people don’t think we’re American now…” We aren’t traveling in a pack of upper middle-class white people. We aren’t wearing American sports jerseys. Our gym-shoes aren’t bright white. We don’t have a guide with us to help us fill out our visa forms. Our backpacks are dirty. And not ‘Oh we just went on safari, look at this smudge of dirt on my awesome new travel pack.’ They. are. dirty. Like a dog peed on mine in India, I washed it in the UAE, but I’m pretty sure dogs would mark their territory on the front pocket if I let them. dirty. Maybe sometimes not looking American is a bad thing… but as proud as I am to be ‘merican, I’m glad I don’t come across the same way the obvious Americans do.

We arrived in Arusha early in the afternoon and after getting settled in a room at a busy hostel just outside of the downtown ‘Clocktower’ area, we walked into town for lunch. Along the way, a middle-aged western woman approached me and said  “You need to wear your backpack on both shoulders. This is a dangerous area.”

“Oh, thank you. I know. I’m just terribly tired and we’re not going far, but thank you.” I responded, knowing full well it could get stolen, but that I was a big girl. who was tired. But she was just trying to be nice. At least, until she reached around my back and pulled the strap up over my other shoulder and said “No. Really. You need to wear both shoulder straps here.” She walked away sighing, no doubt, at what she assumed was how dumb I was.

My initial reaction was along the lines of ‘that was weird.’ And then I ate a meal for the first time in 24 hours.

“What. just. happened out there? Did she really reach around me to pull my backpack strap up over my free shoulder?” I asked Andrew.

I can understand someone being nice and suggesting care over one’s self and bags. Not that I would ever do so in the same manner that she did… But I can see the motivation for doing so, wanting to be a good samaritan of sorts. But I am 30 years old. THIRTY! I think I can take responsibility of my backpack on one or both shoulders by this point. But I KNOW she walked away judging me as I eased one strap off my shoulder again.

I wondered how old she thought I was. Would she have treated me differently if she knew I my age? If she knew I’ve been traveling around the world for six months now. After traveling for two months by myself throughout S.E. Asia. After living in foreign countries (four in total, if you count the two from studying abroad in college) for six -maybe seven- years.

“Don’t you know I have my head on a swivel, motherfunny?” Andrew said (only he didn’t say ‘motherfunny’) once upon a time in India and it’s always stuck with me. I wish I would have said that to this woman. I wish I would have told her not to talk to a thirty year old like myself, as if I was thirteen. I wish I would have asked her what made her turn into Little Ms. Bossypants with another white girl in the middle of a small town in Tanzania.

“She’s probably gone home to her husband complaining about the stupid young tourist who is probably going to get her bag stolen today…” I sighed. “And now, my bag probably will get stolen…” I thought out loud after my tangent to Andrew about all of the above…

It didn’t. It still might. But at least it didn’t in Arusha.