Also, in preparation for my father and brother's visit to Tanzania in mid-August, I have been reading a LOT of safari manuals, learning about the shyness of elephant shrews and antelope migration patterns and watering hole congregating during the dry season. There's a characteristic pattern to those books that I thought might fit my transportation post nicely. Thus, I give you:
A Field Guide to Transport in Dar es Salaam:
The Pedestrian (Impala) : So clearly the lowest rung in the hierarchy. Traveling around on foot in Dar is a constant excercise in not getting smeared by the next passing vehicle; it doesn't help in my case that I'm constantly confused about which way the traffic is coming (stupid British driving system). There are crosswalks, in the sense that sometimes white lines are painted across small sections of road, but these are actually death traps for unsuspecting wazungu who foolishly assume cars will slow for them. Pedestrians even move like impala - we congregate nervously in the medians of the big roads, hovering on the curb as traffic whizzes by, then leap gracefully en masse onto the asphalt when traffic slows, darting between vehicles. (There actually are traffic lights in Dar, which change color and everything, but relying upon them to actually stop traffic will only lead to sorrow. And smushed toes.)
The Bicycle (Honey Badger): Slow, strong, and tenacious. I love the way bikes fit into the culture here. There's no road or mountain bikes, of course - everyone's got a low-riding one-speed with big curved handlebars and a once-cushy seat. And, of course, the essential bike rack. My friends, it turns out that what we can carry on a bike rack is only limited by the scope of our imaginations. A bike is not a one person vehicle. No no, dear reader. A bike can carry at least three. It seems like every other cyclist here has a friend or family member casually riding along on the back, sometimes side-saddle but usually astride. Sometimes it's an older female relative, often it's a pair of 10-year old male friends, and I even saw a dad riding along yesterday with his little girl who could not have been more than a year old. She was completely cool. The diaper cushioned her ride.
And even if you lack a bike buddy, you can carry SO MUCH STUFF back there. Jugs of petrol. A five-foot pile of laundry. Two enormous baskets full of live chickens. A bundle of sticks that must weigh at least 60 pounds. And despite the crazy car drivers, the bikers seem so serene. They ride along steadily, in no hurry, wearing their typical collared shirts, trousers, and flip flops. (Most riders are men, though I did see a skirt flapping around a bike seat today.)
I've only seen this Biker Serenity break down once, which also happened to be the only traffic crash I've seen since my arrival. Many men use their bikes as mobile fruit stands, usually with two enormous baskets full of produce counterbalanced on either side. One of the other bike variations is the hand-powered bike, where riders with disabled legs/feet are able to sit in a low chair while pushing a chest-level set of pedals in a circle - very clever design, really. In any case, I witnessed a very slow crash between a fruit stand bike and a hand-powered bike. No one was hurt, but oranges were rolling all over the road and everyone was seriously grumpy.
The Bajaji (Hyena): This is by far my favorite way to travel in the city. You know that game Mario Kart? Bajajis are Mario Karts come to life and zooming around the streets of Dar. There's a 3-person bench in the back, a little canvas over your head, a total of three wheels approximately 18 inches tall, and no doors. I find it absolutely impossible not to make "vrrrrroooom" noises under my breath the whole time I'm riding in one, and I often end up giggling uncontrollably as we bump up and down over potholes. It's just hilarious.
The bajajis ("tuk tuks" in Kenya) generally like to lurk in packs near big intersections, hoping to pick up some fares from folks that would otherwise go to taxis (bajaji fares tend to be cheaper). They're scavengers, really. And their owners tend to deck them out in bright solid colors and soccer team emblems. Very festive.
The Car (Wildebeest): Big, ubiquitous, but kind of boring, in my opinion, though occasionally necessary when trying to get somewhere far away after dark. Cars get right of way over bikes and pedestrians easily, but often end up thwarted by daladalas. Lots of folks drive SUVs in this city, which I've decided is actually more of a necessity than a luxury; trying to navigate unpaved potholed streets in a sedan makes you just cringe for the undercarriage.
One funny thing: there are certain corners in town that have been designated official kituo cha taxi (taxi centers), and every time you walk by all the drivers will call to you, hoping you need a ride. What I didn't understand, however, was why some drivers offered me a "taks" when gesturing to their vehicles, rather than a "taxi". Linda the Kenyan finally explained it. In Swahili, every word ends in a vowel, and English words are often made Swahili by adding an "i" at the end - doctor becomes daktari, for example. So Swahili speakers often assume the English version of a word is just the Swahili version minus the "i" - hence, "taks". Apparently some people will also try to sell a soft drink called a "Peps."
The Daladala (Lion): Ah, king of the road! The daladala knows no natural enemy. I've written a bit about them before, but the basic idea is that daladalas form a semi-regulated, semi-private bus system for the citizens of Dar. Most are these beat up, 15-seat Toyota Hiace vans. They have both their terminal destinations painted clearly on the front, with the sides and back painted with whatever strikes the driver's fancy(I've seen everything from "Praise Allah" to a very detailed drawing of Spiderman). And then, shuttling back and forth between those destinations, they haphazardly pick up and drop off passengers along the way. It's a two-man operation: one man drives while the other man collects fares and leans out the open door of the moving vehicle, eyes peeled for potential riders. Two open-palm slams on the side of the van signals the driver to stop; another two slams and they take off again.
They also tend to be ludicrously crowded. It is often flat out impossible to scratch your nose in a daladala because your arms are truly pinned to your sides. It's really shocking just how many people can fit inside (or if not inside, at least on board - sometimes the door has to stay open to accomodate). Luckily these close quarters make it less likely that you'll fall down when the bus screeches to a halt. Usually you can't actually see where you are in the route, so you have to wait until the fare collector announces an upcoming stop and yell "Shusha!" if you want to alight there.
But hey, for 20 cents a ride, can't be beat. And there's nothing for that "among the people" feeling like a daladala, particularly in rush hour.
The Coach Bus (Elephant): The real buses (ie, not daladalas) tend to do their own thing. Rarely do you see them among the inner city traffic, but they're everywhere outside, migrating in long lines all over the country. Trains in this country are hilarious slow (if they were in this guide they'd probably be porcupines), so buses are really the only way for the non-flying traveler to go long distances. Most, though not all, entertain their passengers with a constant stream of loud rap music for the duration of the trip. Perhaps the thinking is that this distracts them from the lack of toilet.
And that is how I've been getting around. I do miss the El, but in the meantime this is pretty fun.
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