In Tanzania there is always a place to wash your hands – 8 April 2013

In Tanzania there is always a place to wash your hands.  The toilet may be a stand-up; the room may reek of urine or strong disinfectant.  Toilet paper will be the type that disintegrates promptly on contact of any kind, if it is not altogether absent.  The floor is as likely to be freshly mopped as it is to be muddy and there will be something at the threshold to wipe your feet on before entering—an old sack, a scrap of towel, a rotting coco fiber mat.  You may encounter a flock of tiny black moths, like soot on wings, or a fat cockroach the size of a Brazil nut, but there will always be soap in the dispenser and fresh running water at the sink; if there is electricity odds are there’ll be a hand dryer too.  If there is no sink in the room you will find one just outside, and if there is no sink at all a great stone jar or aluminum jerry-can full of water (sometimes heated from below by a small candle or Sterno) will stand ready in a frame of wood or wrought iron.  There will be a spigot, a basin, some soap, and a piece of clean towel.

I am sitting in a low-slung chair, curving wrought iron with a thick cushion covered in cool white canvas, my laptop on a small round table made from an old dhow, no longer seaworthy, its wood still sound enough as furniture.  The lowering sun throws long shadows across the beach from behind me; before me the Indian Ocean is beginning to ebb as evening comes on.  From the terrace at the Hotel Mediterraneo I watch a non-stop parade of locals and tourists walking along the shore, swimming , wading, hawking souvenirs and buying them.  A boy rides a bicycle; two men pass on a motorcycle.  White sails glide on the horizon between the sea and a strata of pale cloud, and three green islands lie calm and still.  A warm breeze is blowing from the water, keeping the ever-present flies from alighting and creating a pleasant sensation on my skin—not exactly cooling, but a relief all the same.  The music is a mixture of Tanzanian and light jazz, not too loud, and people all around me are chatting in English, Hindi, German, Kiswahili, Italian.  It’s just about perfect except for the idiot smoking a cigar nearby.     

What I am trying to say here is that Tanzania is a beautiful and welcoming place when you know what to look at and what to ignore.  You cannot come here with your usual set of expectations; you will be disappointed and, worse yet, you will miss the wonderful parts, which are many.  I say this as one who carries everywhere a great load of expectations, doubts, fears, and what-ifs.  And while decades of travel with Jim, the restless, eternal optimist, have increased my tolerance for last-minute changes and surprising turns of event, I remain reflexively anxious and self-defensive in unfamiliar surroundings.  Fortunately I am also extremely susceptible to the Exotic—easily distracted from self-preoccupation by the sights, sounds, smells, and flavors we encounter as we explore, and I love meeting people whose lives and experiences are vastly different from my own, even when we can exchange just a few words in their language. 

So, although I have been physically and psychically uncomfortable to one degree or another since arriving in Africa three weeks ago–although all my clothes are damp and every meal has been attended by flies, though I have showered and slept in places that did not seem entirely clean, in spite of journeys by small boat and toy airplane—this trip has been a rare privilege from beginning to end.  

I will need weeks to process our experiences in Addis Ababa, Lalibela, Dar es Salaam, Zanzibar, Moshi, Arusha.  I’ll spend many hours sorting and captioning photos, remembering, reflecting, and writing.  But now, while we are still present on this continent, before the spell breaks and returns me to myself, I want to send these words and a few photos from our time outside of Dar.

Hotel Mediterraneo Lounge, Dar es Salaam – Photo courtesy Hotel Mediterraneo