Me and Blanche Dubois

I went into the city today with a friend who is leaving Tanzania early tomorrow morning. After a nice lunch and some shopping for treats for the orphanage staff, I decided it was time to head for home. And therein hangs a tale.

I was going to walk back to the same spot that I had gotten off the dala dala at, but my friend insisted that I ride in the taxi since they were going right past it. The taxi driver felt that it would be safer to take me to a busy station on a main street than to leave me in the relative wilds of that neighbourhood, so he dropped me at Morocco Station.

After a short wait, a dala dala arrived with the sign indicating it was going to Mbezi station -- my ultimate destination. The ticket tout was saying something in rapid Kiswahili and when I asked if this was the Mbezi dala dala he nodded his head yes. I got on, got a seat, and got comfortable. The vehicle drove back over an unfamiliar route, but I was not concerned since I had only gone that route once before (in the morning) and that was going the other direction.

When it stopped in the middle of an unfamiliar neighbourhood, I got concerned.

I asked where we were I was told it was the end of the line. I spent five minutes trying to find out what was happening before a gentleman named Allen got on the bus and was able to translate. It turns out the dala dala was the Mbezi vehicle but it did a different route (presumably because it generated more fares). Allen got off the dala dala, escorted me to the place where I could catch a bus to a station from which I could get to Mbezi, and waited until it actually arrived.

When I got on the new dala dala I asked the fellow sitting next to me if it was going to my station. He replied yes in English and didn't say anything else the entire ride. However, when we got close the the station, the traffic was so jam packed that they told us it would be faster to get off and walk. My new friend told me what was happening and told me to follow him. I did know this area, so I knew I was close to the station, but he insisted on taking me to the very bay where the Mbezi dala dala departed from. When we got there the next bus just arrived, so he pushed me into the crowd so that I could get on the vehicle, thus avoiding a wait for the next vehicle. I never got a chance to thank him.

Once I was on the dala dala, I found myself standing squished in the crowd with barely any room to put down my backpack. A fellow in the seat next to me grabbed my pack, got up, put the pack on the seat, and motioned for me to sit down. I motioned for him to keep his seat, but he replied in rapid Kiswahili. I did not understand much of it, but I did recognize the word hapana (no) so I sat down.

There was no reason for these people to go out of their ways to help me. Two of them walked me distances even though it complicated their travel plans and probably kept them longer in the Friday night rush hour. The third was forced to stand for 20 minutes on a bus crammed with sweaty people. They just did it out of pure hospitality. That is what I love about Tanzanians and that is what I will really miss.

I know that I once had my pocket picked while riding on the dala dalas of Dar Es Salaam, but overall my experiences have been positive and pleasant. Whenever I had problems (or even looked like I might have problems) someone or some people have offered assistance. Like Blanche Dubois, I have come to rely on the kindness of strangers.