I Take A Bus Ride, A Taxi Ride, and A Daladala Ride

October 19^th: Monday

Crawled out of bed at 5:45. Pulled on some cloths and made sure I had everything. I had packed everything in a small backpacking pack my dad left from our assault on Kili. Unity and Grace gave me a ride to the Dar Express office where the bus would pick me up. Before I got out they prayed for me. The bus was scheduled to leave at 7:30 so I was surprised and delighted that we were on the road by 8:00.

The bus itself was very nice. Comfy seats, clean, and they served complimentary sodas which for 25,000 Tsh I think was called for. I sat right in front behind the driver next to the aisle. The bus driver looked upsettingly tired. I decided to keep an eye on him so if he started dozing off I could douse him with my coke. I soon fell asleep and dozed for a couple of hours.

Driving in Tanzania always interests me. There seems to be only a few driving rules. First driving on the left side of the road. Second, right of way is decided by the size of the vehicle, not by any traffic rules. So we being in a huge travel bus always had the right of way. Top of the food chain. Oh the other rule is that matatus, or daladalas don’t have to obey the traffic rules, but at their own peril.

We arrived in Dar Es Salaam shortly after 3:00. We pulled into a large bus station and as the other passengers and I clambered off the bus we were immediately assaulted by taxi drivers. I dodged behind the bus and made my escape towards the exit. I called the McBrides who are old friends of the Tricaricos and who I planned to spend the night with. They said they would pick me up at the Mwenge Carvers Market at 6:00.

I decided to take a taxi to the carvers market since I couldn’t find a daladala that was going there. I spotted a slightly built young taxi driver who I figured I could take in a fight if need be and asked if he could take me to the market. He replied in the affirmative and I got in. as we started of I asked him if he spoke English. He gave me a confused, bewildered look that I took as “no”. He had a stuffed elephant hanging from his rear view mirror that upon my saying “jina” (name in Swahili) and pointing he confided its name was Omar. Using the same sophisticated technique I learned his name was Harry. We stopped for gas and then he promptly took me to what looked like a strip mall. I reminded him I wanted to go to the carvers market. We left the mall and drove along several roads for some time. Finally we stopped at another gas station where the young Harry sought the knowledge of his fellow taxi drivers. After several long minutes of rapid discussion where I learned that none of them spoke English and they consulted my tiny map of Dar that was noticeably lacking the location of the carvers market harry pulled into the street, pulled a U-turn parked on the other side of the street. We had found the market. I stepped out and looked back at the gas station where we had just spent the precious ten minutes trying to figure out how to get here. The Taxi drivers who had helped us waved.

The carvers market was made up of at least 50 small shops each selling nearly identical souvenirs. Carvings of animals, masaai, bowls, utensils, beaded jewelry, knives, and artwork. It amazes me that all the tourist shops in Africa that I have been to sell nearly the same identical things. I wondered trying to kill some time and finally asked someone which daladala I should take if I wanted to get to the Zanzibar Ferry. I was told the Mwenge Posta. Armed with this knowledge and a sense of adventure at around 4:30 I hopped on the correct daladala and paid my 250 Tsh, about 20 cents.

I struck up several conversations on the ride. One with a painter, another with a student studying medicine in the Dar University. I was told I needed to tell my Swahili speaking door man I wanted to get off at posta zamani. For those not familiar with daladalas they are very small buses, or rather large vans. Equipped with approximately 14 seats they can hold more than twice that number. The crew consists if the driver and the door boy. The door to the daladala is a large sliding door like on a van. The door boy stands by the door, pulling it open and closed, shouting the destination of the daladala, and collecting the fare from the passengers.

I finally made it to the water front and the ferry office which thankfully was still open. I was happy to be back in a big city. Although it could never be confused for say Portland it still gave that impression of a large, bustling, almost western city. After I finally bought my ticket which was much cheaper than my research had indicated it was approaching 5:30. I called the McBrides in order to see if they wouldn’t mind waiting for me to find a daladala back so I could still stay with them. After several missed calls, failed text messages, repeatedly buying of airtime from a drunk (or high, I wasn’t really paying him a whole lot of attention) Rastafarian the McBrides finally just told me to wait where I was and they would come and get me. Well I was feeling pretty stupid at this point. I had wandered off and gotten myself in trouble and now these adults had to come rescue the kid. At least that is the way I felt. However I am glad that I was able to spend the night with them instead of a guesthouse.

They rolled up and after handshakes I got in and we headed to a favorite Chinese restaurant because the traffic out of Dar is so bad at night we would have been stuck in traffic for hours. Waiting out the traffic while eating good food seemed like a good plan to me. The McBrides, Dan and Janet, have been missionaries in Dar for 17 years. They are about the same age as my parents with four kids, all of similar ages as our family. Being able to spend the evening talking with them was an amazing blessing. They are an interesting, wise, and godly couple. Also they have great taste in food. We ordered several delicious dishes but the best was “inside out fish” in some mango sauce or something. It was delicious.

When we arrived at their house that night the power was out due to the electricity rationing. I met their two kids who still live at home and also was introduced to their shower which I was very thankful for. Then I fell asleep and when the power came on at midnight I cranked up the fan they had given me and slept in a cool breeze.