The smell of death and the call to prayer

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Dar Es Salaam is a very strange city, the kind that is neat to experience but you would never want to stay for any length of time - at least in my eyes. It is the capital city of Tanzania and is so full of contrasts.

As we arrived into the ferry port at Dar Es Salaam, I was pleased to see that it wasn't quite as chaotic as I had been told it was. As a matter of fact, only one taxi driver approached us to offer his services, and even quoted the correct price when I asked him "How much to the Peacock Hotel". I always know ahead of time how much it should be and if they try to rip me off by doubling the price, I refuse to use them. It is a small win in the game of "Lets rip off the tourist", but I love telling them "You just quoted me double and I will not use your service for that". I like seeing them desperately following you saying "Ok, ok, mamma, special deal for you" and then telling you something much closer to the price it should be. You just keep on walking saying, no, you tried to rip me off, go away. For all the times they get away with it, it is nice to give a little back in denying the rip-off artists. It also gives the honest guy a better chance.

On our way to the hotel the taxi driver is full of questions. I am hot and tired and not feeling very chatty, but this is part of their job of seeing what your future plans are so they can solicit more business from you. Jordan mentions that we are going to Morogoro in the next couple of days and the taxi driver becomes oh so helpful. "I can give you a ride!!" he says like he has just had the most creative invention known to man. He has way too much energy for me. He starts telling us that the bus is hard and it would be much easier for us to get a ride with him. It is an hour and a half drive to Morogoro he tells us and he will take us for the low, low price of $300 US. I have been mostly quiet until now, just looking out the window and listening, but with this figure I laugh out loud so hard that I catch him off guard. The man who is actually driving the taxi is looking at me through the rearview mirror now and he is laughing himself. He gets it that I get it.

As usual, his friend says "ok, ok, for you - special price" - like you don't see that line coming......... "I take you for 150 US dolla, you know, gas expensive, time, all these tings....." he says as he states his case and doesn't stop. I am not interested I tell him. "ok, ok, how much you want to pay me, any price, any price"......I am so tired of this game, I want to scream. I am tired of people selling me things, I am tired of the famous three line combo: "Hello, what is your name? Where are you from? (always pretending like they are your best friend) You want to buy .?" I have wished so many times that anyone would talk to you as just a person instead of a walking cash machine, but it doesn't happen.

On and on this guy goes, he is now insisting that I make him an offer - he won't give it up. "Look", I say, "I don't want a taxi to Morogoro for any price. Not $100US, not $50US, not even if it was free. Look, you pay me money - I still don't want to go." Man people are persistant here in Tanzania - more so than any other African country. He then moves on to small talk about when we are leaving and what time is our flight tomorrow, like we didn't even have the conversation about Morogoro. I just tell him straight out that I am tired and don't want anymore questions. This statement doesn't phase him at all, he continues talking and trying to ask questions while my head is resting against the window of the taxi with my eyes closed.

We arrive at the Peacock Hotel - more bartering to do for a room now, great. I am standing at the front counter, dealing with three reception staff - in Africa it takes a team, if one person doesn't understand what you are saying, maybe the next one will - maybe...........we are discussing what price, what kind of room, should a child be full price, what does it include, etc, etc, and as all of this is going on, the taxi guy is still buzzing around me still trying to talk and ask questions and solicit more business from me. You have to realize that it is about 32 degrees outside, I have travelled with heavy bags all day, I am tired, I am trying to deal with reception and barter while my arms are so full that things are falling out of them. I hear taxi guy and it seems like he is starting to give up a little, I hear him say, "Can I just give you my number then?" I tell him ok, just so he will finally be off my back - way too many distractions at the moment. I go back to dealing with the hotel team and everything comes to a head when taxi guy taps me and says "Do you have a pen and a paper?????" AAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

"GO AWAY, I MEAN IT!!!!!!!!" I said loud enough for the hotel staff to hear. Taxi guy just kind of looks around to see if anyone heard - if they didn't, I am still fair game. As the manager starts walking over, the tout finally went away - many more to come I am sure.

I finally get the bartering for the room finished and I am excited to be on my way up to lay and relax in an airconditioned room. Air conditiong......such a luxury. I finally get up the elevator, yes I said elevator (first one in Africa), open the door to my room, and.......sweltering hot - no air conditioning. S%#t. I am irritated at this point. I phone downstairs and tell them that the a/c is broken and they ensure me that within 15 minutes it will be working - at $80US per night, it certainly better be. This assurance in Africa is commonplace and does not mean a thing. Two hours later (you must be patient in Africa), I phone down to tell them that noone has even shown up to look at the a/c and I would like a fan because it is sweltering hot in the room. No problem, a fan is on it's way and the a/c should be fixed within 15 minutes. Another two hours goes by - nothing, not even the fan. By this time it is almost 5:00pm, and the heat of the day has been upon us. I phone down a third time to see what is going on and the man on the other end of the phone sternly shouts at me "MADAME!!!! You must be patient!!!" (5 hours later).

This is a pattern in Tanzania. Whatever you ask, people just lie and agree with you - it makes no difference what the actual answer really is. It gets so tiring. About a half an hour later, our room was cold, cable was on, and I was lying down on my king sized bed, mesmerized by the call to prayer that was ringing out over the entire city. I loved listening to the call to prayer over the next few days. Five times a day, this islamic voice would ring out and call everyone to prayer, it was such a cool, different, foreign experience. There was this huge tower with eight loud speakers right in the middle of the city that would send the call out. What a different way of life, my senses are on overload again and I love it.

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This morning I was bored so I decided to take a walk. I had no idea where I was going, so I just simply turned right as I left the hotel. Wow. What a strange world. As I walked down the street there were many, many stalls on the side of the road with huge baskets of dried goods like rice and beans for sale. The language was foreign, the energy chaotic and the streets and stalls filthy. It really brought be back in time. There were barely any women on the streets and absolutely no foreigners. The streets of Dar Es Salaam. As I turned down a small street packed with people, there was a real bustling energy. It smelled and everything was so pushy and crammed. Horns were honking and vehicles were trying their damndest to squeeze past all the people that were clogging the narrow road. There were tonnes of little "hole-in-the-wall" shops selling a bunch of useless items. It looked like they had gathered anything they could find and just nailed it up onto a wall of a 10 square foot hut to see if anyone would buy it. I looked and looked but there was nothing familiar in any of these shops. To have even found a bag of Dorito's or a Snickers, something that reminded me of my world, would have been an unthinkable treat, but it did not happen.

So I'm walking down a dirty road and to my left I see a sort of "pit" like market. It reminds me of an underground parking lot but with a dirt floor. I went in. It was dark, gloomy, dirty and smelly. There were stalls and stalls of vegetables everywhere. "Mommy" I hear being called at me. I hate being called that. Men calling me, looking at me like meat. I am sure they are as unfamiliar with me as I am with them - only more. I am a woman in an Islamic city, I can't see any other women around me and feel quite out of place at the moment.

As I walk towards the back of the isles, there is a smell that is getting stronger. I am surprised at how nice the vegetables look considering how disgusting the market is. As I come to the end of the isle, the smell is making me dry heave. All of a sudden I look and notice a cage at the back with so many skinny chickens and one with ducks. "Momma - you wan a cheekin?" Aaaagh. Yeah I want them all - to save them. "No, asante" I say and turn down the isle ahead of me. As I look forward I see a death chamber of anorexic chickens, scores of cages of chickens piled up on each other in metal cages, barely able to breathe and stay alive. Some are not alive - it is the smell of death that is making me gag. As I am walking, my eyes met the eye of a skinny, white, suffering chicken that was finding it hard to breathe. He was breathing really shallow and fast and gasping for air. I hated it so much but could not act "out of sorts" at all. I remind myself that this is their way of life and I am a woman in a muslim society. The men are wearing their prayer caps and pilgrimage robes and as I walk past these dying chickens, I can hear the call to prayer.

Again, it is like a scene out of a foreign movie, only this time I am in it. I am so far out of my comfort zone and I love it and hate it, but I love it more. I must turn around before I throw up - it is a close call. The sun beam is making a stream of light as I make my way out of the market past the rows and rows of chickens. In the air you can see feathers, dust and chicken particles. It's all I can do not to vomit. As I try to leave, the men try and sell their suffering chickens to me. I finally end up out of the market and back on the little side street. On the way down the street the first time, I thought it was dirty, but after being in that dark, smelly, dirty market with those men trying to sell me their dying chickens, the street now looks like a new found paradise.

It is strange, there was a certain amount of culture shock when you first enter an extremely poor African village, but it is nothing like the culture shock of a really dirty, poor capital city. The type of shock is so different. I think especially because it is so muslim, I also feel unwelcome and vulnerable. In the villages I feel so welcome and it feels peaceful - not here. I much prefer the villages but I am glad I experienced both.

I reach the main road and turn left, back towards my hotel. I pass the dirty stands with the people in dirty clothing selling beans and rice from the big bushels and walk a block until I reach the big glass doors of my 5 star hotel. The automatic doors open as I approach them and I feel the cold air from the a/c and breathe fresh air again. So close to such poverty and filth as I press the button to go up in the glass elevator to my seventh floor suite complete with airconditioning, cable and internet. I still have a hard time with this. I still don't quite get it. Hopefully I never will.

It was a relaxing night. We layed around, watched movies, surfed the internet, and listened to the call to prayer.

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