Living in an African slum

I had my suspicions, covered in all that lush vegetation it was quite hard to tell. But it took good a week to confirm to myself that, yes, I was indeed living in a huge slum. I had researched Dar Es Salaam (a bit) on the internet before coming. Aside from the information on hotels and the odd back packer blog, I had read on wikipedia (that fountain of all knowledge, be it true or not) that Dar was one of Africa’s largest ports, that it hosted a multitude of cultures and communities, that it had a city center with supermarkets and post offices and, due to a government decision to push rural people into urban areas, Dar was suffering from overpopulation. I have seen overpopulated urban cities, like Tokyo, but I had never seen one in a (so-called) third world country. Africa is poor beyond words and Dar Es Salaam, 50% slum, is a true representation of Urban life in Africa.
The bustle of Dar consists of busy commuters and peddlers. Every third person on the street is selling something from broken shacks or street stalls: clothes, fruit, water, shoes. And the markets will sell everything else under the sun including the kitchen sink. Everything here is a commodity. You find people selling plastic bags for those markets goers who need something to put their goods into: if it has a value it has to be sold.
The Dalla dallas (public transport) will cram as many people as possible onto their broken, over used vehicles (which have a tendency of running out of petrol whilst on the go) in order to get as much money out of their round trips. One ride is half of 25p. The roads jam up at peak times, drivers show no qualms at driving the wrong way down the roads, habitualy cut each other up, and the tuk-tuks wheel their way in and out of the congestion making everything that much jammier. Whilsts stuck in the heat and the dust of a jam, you would be forgiven for mistaking the kissing noises numerouse peddlers make drawing attention to the bottles of water they are trying to sell through open car windows as they weave their way through the traffic, with the sounds of cicadas.
Putting your trust in a Dalla dalla to get you to your desired location is just plain foolish. They pick their routes depending on traffic, heavy rain and whims. One of my main frustrations here is having my night life cut short. I have been strongly advised by all to never attempt walking the streets at night. And the risk of a dalla dalla taking me several blocks too far from home after dark is too high to attempt. Even though I call it night, it is safe to say this is a city that never sleeps. There are no street lights off the main roads, only the thrumming vibrations of the light, life and music of the bars and the odd glow emitted by the single candle burning in every night peddlers' shack. Of course when I say it is a city that never sleeps, I have to omit my self from that equation. I am safe in bed. (what a wuss.)
Looking after your things is a must do. Every time I turn my back someone is trying to get into my bag. You must keep your bag on your front at all times and only carry the bare necessities. So going out with a camera or iPod is a no go. Try not to over pack it as they will think you have lots of stuff to take and try not to look white as they will assume you are filthy rich. Oh wait! I can’t rectify the last one so I have to double my attention. We’ve already had one successful bag snatch, one break in robbery and one nicked pack of fags.
Being Muzungu (white/strange man) is a source of great entertainment for passing toddlers, which is great, but it is also a cue for every tenth male in this patriarchal society that (mostly) thrives on rap (god help me) to make cat calls. You can’t swim in the water without having at least three guys come up to you and ask you what your name is, where you come from, where you are staying in Dar… One even hinted to Laura that he needed help with his tuition fees. I think they are looking for sugar mamas.
Having had my eyes opened for me to the utter shit Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania and hence the rest of Africa is living in has been quite an experience in itself. Running water here is scarce let alone drinking water. Children are being trafficked into the city for prostitution (i work with an institution that saves them). Apparently Kenya has the same crime rate but it has taken it up a notch to gun point robbery in broad day light. Zanzibar has suffered from a power cut since… wait for it… November! Apparently its electricity comes from just the one pipeline from mainland Tanzania and it is fucked. Hopefully it will be fixed by March. How nice.
Most people here share the school of thought that this poverty crisis is all the fault of "white" people (due to colonization, the slave trade and variouse trade agreements) and that we owe them a massive debt. Whilst this statement isn’t exactly fair, I can’t help but compare the two societies and agree that something here just isn’t quite Kosher.


NOTE TO MY MOTHER: don’t worry, I may be living in the heart of darkness but I am being completely and utterly protected from its evils by the combine power of my overprotective host family, my paranoid counterpart and our dutiful program supervisors. I can’t fart without a being risk assessed here and have at least twenty emergency contact numbers tattooed onto my person.

bongo a go-go

It was only when the plane landed in Dar Es Salaam airport that i suddenly realised i was going to Africa. better than that, i was already there! After six months of waiting i had grown used to the wait. the heat was the first thing i noticed. I stood sweltering in my high tops, boiling my feet, for a good thirty minutes before i was able to change into my sandals. After being greeted by the TYC officials (Tanzanian Youth Coalition, the Dar version of Foyer) we piled into an old, second hand Japanese minivan. The city is over populated with these small vehicles, or rather "dalla dallas" as they are called, which serve as the local bus system, and have no particular route, and only cost 25p a ride. You actually have to phsyically fight your way through to get onto one. If you want to queue, go back to England. Lucky for us and our oversized luggage, this one had been booked. No air con was available but the windows were sufficient as long as it kept moving. I peered out the window (or, rather, jammed my head right out to get as much air effect as possible) as we pull out of the airport and in the first minute I see three men on bicyles loaded with hundreds of eggs. It is seven in the morning and they are out-a-delivering.
To get a good idea of Dar life, one only needs a short bus trip down a main road. A two lained road with a seperate dirt track on either side (for the bicycles) seperated by a small stretch of grass and palm trees . These grassy bits are taken up by small huts and stalls, fruit carts, corn sellers, actual smalls plots of corn, the odd bike repair man, the occasional goat, hen or cockerel, garden furniture for sale as well as hudreds of animal statues and plants (i even saw three huge fish tanks filled with tropical fish,) drinking dens, women gossiping and men playing checkers. As you approach one of Dars millions of markets, the stalls and people thicken, the rate of crime goes up and you find yourself clutching onto your belongings for dear life. The people are poor (60% of women live in complete poverty) but everywhere you go life is vibrant. Off the main road, down the side streets, children are playing everywhere, women are braiding each others hair, and people hang outside tiny colourful barber shops (the size of Brighton an Hove beach Huts) and soda pop stalls . They smile and wave and chat to you and teach you swahili as you walk down the street. Being Muzungu (white person) we are novelties to be poked at, but they will also chat freely with tanzanian strangers. Strangers have no qualms with talking to each other here and children are completely free to roam and pull faces at you. Also tanzanian toddlers are so cute, I might just have to do a Madonna.
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Next Blog: 3 pounds to watch Ivory coast vs Tanania- The madness and hayhem of an international football match in Dar.