A Walking tour of Kariakoo

So I’m heading out to Kigoma, in the far west of the country, early on Sunday morning! I’m really excited. I’ll be there for at least two weeks, meeting up with the aid organizations working in the refugee camps in the region. I’ll write more about that later, but in the meantime, keep an eye out for increased political instability in Burundi following the sham elections, from which most if not all of the opposition parties have withdrawn and there are rumors that the main opposition leader may start fighting again. Chances are that more refugees will be headed my way, since Tanzania has always been the main destination for Burundian refugees. This time, however, Tanzania is threatening not to let them in, which could be a big problem.

In the meantime, I’m spending my last day in Dar (for now) soaking in as much of the craziness that is Kariakoo as possible, relaxing on the beaches of Kigamboni (paradise), and trying not to finish the new books I bought for Kigoma (likely devoid of any sort of decent bookstore) before I even get there. Fortunately the memory of the crap I had to read in the refugee camp in Uganda is enough to make me put down the book… I doubt there’s a worse book than Ben Carson’s disgustingly narcissistic autobiography (I mean really, the guy gives “autobiography” a bad name), but I’d hate to have to find out.

It’s strange to me that I’m already leaving Kariakoo. I feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface here, though I could probably live here for years and still feel the same way. Yet another way in which it’s like NYC.

There are two downsides to having a really nice camera. The first is that other people don’t know how to use it, and the second is that it’s really hard to be subtle about taking pictures. Especially in a place where I stick out like a sore thumb anyways, where such luxuries are rare, and where people are suspicious of anyone taking their picture. The point is that there are some pictures I just can’t take, and it’s driving me crazy. Since I can’t show you Kariakoo, and it’s really a place worth seeing, I’m going to try to walk you from one side to the other. I can’t possibly do the neighborhood justice, but it’s the best I can do for now.

We start by exiting the apartment building where I’m staying, and greet the building’s security guard. We walk carefully into the street, which is dirty and a little bit wet, so watch where you step. It was paved not too long ago, but the rainy season destroyed it—to the left, there is a hole big enough to swallow a small car (Luke and Christiane have videos from their balcony of cars and buses getting stuck in the mini lake). Merge into the stream of pedestrian traffic and try to avoid being run over by a car—it’s technically a two-way street, but sometimes fitting two cars can be a tight squeeze. Across the street, there’s a stand selling phone credit and other random knick-knacks, and a row of large wooden carts. Wedged between parked cars on the side of the road is a man selling slightly under-ripe oranges from a tray on his bicycle. He peels the zest off with a knife and the smell of oranges fills the air as we walk past.

We reach the taxi stand at the corner, where at least ten taxis are parked and their owners call out “Jambo, mzungu! Taxi?” from the stoop of the corner store. This is one of the busiest streets of Kariakoo, traffic-wise. Dust and gas fumes make the air murky. A constant rush of two way traffic (technically it’s a two lane street, but there are usually at least three lanes. The intersection here can be really interesting, since stoplights and right-of-way rules are laughable ideas. Two lorries try to turn down the same street at the same time, as a dalla-dalla comes up from the other direction. The three stop and yell at each other, blocking the roads in all directions, so a taxi drives into oncoming traffic to get around the truck as a motorcycle weaves in between all of them. Now that the cars are busy working around this blockage, it’s a good time to cross the street—otherwise, you just have to walk into the taillights of a car and hope that the upcoming driver is patient in case you mistime your jay-walking. There’s a large gas station with tacky light-up palm trees and a bunch of employees in official-looking uniforms hanging out, joking with each other and trying to catch the mzungu’s attention.

After walking through the gas station, we reach an unpaved, bumpy road, which happens to be one of the most exciting in the whole city. Most of the Kariakoo-bound dalla-dallas stop along this road, so there are throngs of people waiting for their bus. The buses pull over wherever they get a chance (it’s loosely organized based on where the buses are heading), cutting each other off and keeping other drivers and pedestrians on their toes. In the evenings, there’s a crush to get out of the city (thank god I live in the middle of everything, and travel against the traffic most of the time) and the fight to get onto a dalla-dalla gets really brutal. I am now fully trained to participate in the Filene’s Basement wedding dress sale. Men meander through the crowds and buses with boxes of cold water bottles or trays of roasted nuts and cigarettes on their shoulders clinking coins loudly in their hands and/or making a garbled, nasally sound to attract the attention of people waiting for the bus to squeeze its way through the traffic.

We have to walk in the street, even though there are sidewalks, because the sidewalks are taken up by parked cars and motorcycles, people selling stuff, people sitting on benches, people waiting for buses, food stands, etc. etc. The shops along the road sell clothes, new and second-hand, plastic shopping bags, spare (possibly stolen) car parts, sodas, cooking oil, phone credit, snacks, tools, pirated DVDs, and just about anything. Outside of the big indoor market, there’s another taxi stand of some 20 taxis who offer me a ride every time I walk past, even though I turn them down every time, at least once or twice a day. There’s also a big sidewalk area, with a couple of carts selling herbal remedies and rows of vegetable vendors who lay their small tomato pyramids on mats on the ground. It’s an exercise in agility to weave through the shifting streams of pedestrians, around the vegetable mats and over a rolling onion that’s escaped its bright kitenge-clad seller.

A couple of days ago, as I was walking down this stretch of road, I heard some shouts directly behind me, and turned in time to see a crowd gathering around a would-be thief. Young men began to pour out of the surrounding streets to cheer on the fight, but I got myself out of there quickly. You see all sorts of people in this area, but not many police, except those who blast through traffic on their motorcycles, or the secret police, in their pick-up trucks (we can tell because we see their Kalashnikovs from our balcony).

The side roads behind the main market place are narrow dirt paths lined by market stalls and more vegetable vendors. Here your feet can get caked in mud, and people are usually quite surprised to see me wandering around. As we walk further down the road, away from the dalla-dalla stands and the vegetable mats, the pedestrian traffic thins. There are fewer carts selling sugar cane or blasting music and most of the women aren’t carrying anything on their heads. There’s still a trickle of people walking around the parked cars, and of course shop owners and their friends and customers sit out on the stoop. We reach Mnazi Mmoja park and there’s a tent where I think TVs and radios and electronics are sold, though to be honest, the ring of people surrounding it tend to obscure what’s going on, so I can’t be sure. There are usually one or two crippled beggars here, and another cart of herbal medicine. Cross another busy street, and we’ve reached my favorite street in Dar (though technically Kariakoo ended at the park).

To the right is a covered market selling grains and along both sides of the street is shelf after shelf, and cart after cart, all heaping with a panoply of delicious fruits and vegetables. Pineapple, papaya, passionfruit, mangos, grapes, oranges, bananas, tomatoes, avocados, limes, bell peppers, carrots, onions, and some I don’t even know the names of. A feast of colors and yumminess. Cars don’t typically turn down this dirt road because pedestrian traffic is so dense, so we only have to think about not bumping into people while staring at the fresh produce. We are starting to move into the oldest part of the city, and there are still some beautiful, run-down and crumbling old buildings with intricate carvings that have yet to be torn down and replaced by the ugly new monstrosities.

The call to prayer rises from the mosque to the left, and as we reach the end of this garden of Eden, there’s a book seller, with stacks of books four of five deep on the two large tables and displays along the back wall as high as I can reach. Ever wonder what happened to that old book on, um, anything (no, really, anything) that you gave away but weren’t sure if anyone would ever want it? It’s here. Along with every other obscure, misplaced, unusual and battered old book that no one wanted.