A Farewell to Tanzania

I’ve been neglecting my blog a bit recently, in part because I haven’t been doing anything particularly blog-worthy, and in part because everything here is somehow absurd or challenging or worrisome or thought-provoking etc—from the Nakivale forced repatriation disaster, or my long, eventful busride back from Kigoma to dealings with the various forms of justice here, or my evolving opinion of the state’s role in development. So it turns out that suddenly it’s the end of my journey, as I’ve passed safely into the hands of Swiss Air, and I’m left trying to articulate a goodbye. Goodbyes are not one of my strengths.




There are a lot of things not to like about Dar es Salaam. It’s a hard place, gritty with dirt and crime and poverty. The city is mean in a way that I will never be. These characteristics can seem particularly harsh in the early days of culture shock, or when you’ve just had some of your most valued possessions stolen, as happened to me a few days ago. But despite all of the reasons to dislike Dar, it has won me over, and, as I sit in this bizarrely clean and air-conditioned airplane seat, I am deeply sad to leave.



So instead of thinking about the things I’ve lost, or whining about the fact that I was a mere twenty pages away(!) from finishing Mamdani’s Citizen and Subject, which I’ve been studiously underlining and marking for future reference, but which is now probably lying in a ditch somewhere since no thief would likely see the value in a scribbled-in book he can’t read, I’m going to focus on the wonderful things I’ve found here, the things I’m going to miss, the things that have changed my mind about my not-so-positive first impressions, and the things that will probably pull me back here some day in the future.




I will miss the brilliant, aquamarine blue of the ocean at Kigamboni, which makes you wonder, “How could I possibly want to be anywhere else in the world?” as you watch the waves crash gently down along the empty beach and contemplate whether you’ll buy a ridiculously cheap ice cream from the ice cream bicycles (or “bice creamsycles” as I think of them) now or later (or, in my case, both). I will miss sunset strolls down that beach, past the locals who cartwheel into the water and call out to the muzungu, to go back across the main road to the village where Bree and Alex live and where one small girl always approaches me to shyly grip my pointer finger while boys call out “give me money!”, or to catch a dalla-dalla back to Kigamboni town, which is lit at night by the candles of street vendors selling fresh calamari cooked in front of you on your way to the ferry back to Dar.




I will miss the smells of Africa. Multiple, conflicting, impossible-to-describe smells (the English language has fewer words to describe smells than any other senses) that fade as you adjust to them, and sink into your subconscious awareness. The smoky smell of morning in the village, cool with the promise of later heat. The stink of sewage, and garbage strewn in a muddy street. The distinct smell of body odor. The faint, elusive perfume of a flower in the humid evening. And more that I can’t distinguish or name, but which flood me with the contradictory thrill of being here, in Africa, and of their comforting familiarity every time I take a deep breath.




I will miss the faded, worn beauty of Dar’s old buildings. Celebrated neither for their history nor for the hodge-podge effect of old and new side-by-side, the pale blue or salmon pink buildings dating back to the 1800s are mostly ignored, orso it seems, coexisting with their uglier replacements and the newer, equally beautiful mosques. The dark lines of weather-worn age, the architectural equivalent of wrinkles, remind you of their pending demise—due either to lack of care or deliberate destruction to make way for new development.




I will miss hearing the Muslim call to prayer.




I will miss the fruit!! Do they even sell passionfruit in the US? And don’t get me started on the pineapple… Actually, let me amend that: I will miss all of the produce, its prevalence and the process of buying it. If I was charmed by places like West Side Market and Garden of Eden displaying their produce on the sidewalks of Morningside Heights as the sun seemed to draw out their aroma to entice passers-by, it’s nothing compared to the fruit and vegetable sellers here. It’s all so fresh and flavorful and adds even more color to the already-saturated scene of day-to-day life, laid out on mats on the sidewalks like a rainbow sea. I will miss the candles on the food stands at night, which make me think of those candles in churches.




I will almost miss the adventure of public transportation. It’s funny: when I was squeezed into the very back corner (where the window had come out, blowing such a thick layer of dust over me that I looked more orange than the cast of Jersey Shore) of the bus that rescued us when ours broke down, three hours into the journey from Kigoma to Dar, and I was worried about my backpack, which didn’t fit between my legs and was sitting in the aisle out of my sight, I texted Bree, “I hate traveling in Africa!!” Her response was, “Don’t worry, soon you’ll be back home and everything will be so easy and you’ll miss it.” And it’s sort of true. Fortunately, the MTA is doing a good job of cutting back on the number of subways in NYC, creating dalla-dalla-esque levels of cramped-ness – yay!




I will miss Kariakoo.




I will actually miss rice and beans. Is that weird? Wait, don’t answer that. But seriously, I’ve kind of been craving it… And pilau is now one of my favorite things ever. YUM!




I will miss the open, giving hospitality of the people who helped me—people who made my research and my travels possible, like Robert, Bree and Alex, Luke and Christiane, Obadiah, and others.




And many other things, I’m sure, that I won’t notice until I get home and don’t have them any more, or maybe even until I return. Like most experiences, my trip to Tanzania has had its ups and downs. My research was much less successful than I’d hoped, for several reasons, and I’m definitely leaving with many more questions, doubts and uncertainties than I came with. Overall, I’d say the experience has been humbling, in every possible way… but that’s a good thing! People like me (i.e. privileged and full of themselves) need to have humbling experiences more often! In the end, I’m really glad I came.