Luckily, the area where I live (Kijenge, close to the Impala roundabout) is fairly close to town so I can walk to work, the pool/gym, and various restaurants. I soon learned from several sources, however, that the small bridge I have to cross in order to get to town has been dubbed “Muggers’ bridge” because men have been known to hide underneath and then jump out and grab a mzungu’s handbag, which soon took walking out of my Arusha modes of transportation.
Luckily (or unluckily) the UN provides craptacular transportation to and from work every day in a big UN bus or SUV, which arrives either 20 minutes late or 10 minutes early, so you either wait outside in the cold Arusha morning for half an hour, or miss the bus completely.
In the evenings it isn’t safe to be out walking in Arusha, so if I go out anywhere I have to call a cab. Taxis here are different from home in that they are more or less freelance. From what I understand, drivers have to be licensed with the city or something, but they own their own car and work for themselves, so I don’t call a taxi company, I just had to get the cell phone number of a good driver, call him, and hope he can come pick me up when I need picking-upping. I soon discovered the need for two drivers, someone who works during the day, and someone who works at night. On the topic of night drivers, we once made the mistake of not calling someone we knew and just grabbing a random driver outside Via Via, the local nightclub. I walked out of the gate in the lead and was immediately swallowed by a mob of taxi drivers all clamouring for me to get in their car (ok, maybe I wasn’t exactly swallowed by a mob, but that’s how it felt). We made it home ok, but never made that mistake again.
On the rare occasions that I am travelling across town by myself, my preferred mode of transportation is the motorcycle taxi. I first discovered the joys of motorcycle taxi when I was going to meet Marie and Kevin for church. There is a taxi stand up at the intersection of my road and the road leading to the chapel, not only with cars, but also bikes and motorcycles. I really wanted to try the bike taxi actually, but didn’t have that much faith in my own balance, Arusha drivers, or the bike taxi driver’s ability to haul me all the way to Mianzini. So the next coolest option (or possibly cooler option) was the motorcycle. It is quite a bit cheaper than a car and a whole lot more fun. After negotiating the price (which for me means asking how much they want and then saying ok), I clambered rather ungracefully skirt and all onto the back of the bike and away we went. Although this wasn’t the first time I had this realization, sitting on the back of a motorcycle reinforced the impression that everything I do as a white person in Arusha is highly entertaining to everyone around (i.e. mzungu on a motorcycle taxi, mzungu running to catch early UN transport, mzungu attempting to speak Swahili, and as you will see in a minute, mzungu riding a dala dala). On another occasion I randomly ran into a motorcycle, which may or may not have been a legitimate taxi, just outside my gate on the way to work (after missing UN transport) and so pulled up to the ICTR in style with my hair more or less blown dry to boot (my blow dryer functions very poorly, if at all, here).
The public transportation in Tanzania is called the dala dala and it is basically a 12 passenger van brightly decorated with pictures of Bob Marley and motivational phrases that make no sense like “God is One”. I learned that the owner of the dala dala rents it to the driver and the conductor for a certain fee every day and the profit is whatever remains from passenger fares after the cost of gas and the daily fee. There is no centralized dala dala system, meaning if I wanted to buy or rent a dala dala and start up a route I could, and to be honest you end up getting to where you want to go much faster on the dala dala than any organized public transportation I have taken. Since the driver and the conductor are trying to pay off their fee and make as much money as possible, they often drive on the sidewalk, create a third lane into incoming traffic, and/or cram in as many people as possible (I have counted up to 20). The conductor, who is really more of a hustler than anything else, hangs outside the window or open door calling out the name of the destination and trying to get people in the van. He then takes your money and bangs on the outside of the van or the ceiling (depending on how many people are inside) when it is time to stop. Usually I tell the hustler where I want to get off when I get in and then yell out “Shusha!” (stop) or “Hapa! ….Hapa!” (Here! ….Here!) when we arrive.
When I first got to Arusha I observed the dala dalas with a kind of fascination mixed with terror and thought that although it would be cool to try I would never get up the nerve to cram myself in a moving vehicle with that many people. Around the same time I learned the reputation of Mugger’s Bridge, however, I was also feeling quite gutsy and decided to give it a go. So on my way home from the gym I hopped into a relatively empty dala dala, figured out the payment and stop system and got out feeling totally elated. I also saved a considerable amount of money, considering that a taxi ride would have been about 2 dollars but the dala dala ride was less than 25 cents. Armed with my newfound independence, I soon took the dala dala again and this time got the full experience. As the dala dala swept towards me I noticed the hustler hanging outside the van hanging on to the door while inside was a tangle of bodies. I told him my stop and then was packed inside with my armpit in someone’s face, my feet hanging outside the edge of the van, and my head bent over at the ceiling. No one else seemed to mind the close proximity, although they all stared at me with the same general amusement of seeing a mzungu doing anything. (Actually, the only sign of annoyance I have ever gotten from someone in a dala dala was when I was just coming back from the pool and my wet hair kept dripping on the person in the seat I was hunched over... which I suppose is perfectly valid). It was the day after Michael Jackson died so appropriately “Don’t stop till you get enough” was blaring on the radio and everyone was sort of bobbing along to the music. It was really a great moment.
The final mode of transportation I have experienced (still haven’t gotten up the courage for a bike taxi) is the day Jeannine learned to drive in Africa. Nicolas, who I met in Arusha and have been dating for a little while now (proper introduction in future post), owns a car here and for one reason or another decided it would be a good idea to give it to me for the day (as a side note, Nicolas is a pilot so I am gunning for “Flying Across Africa” as another future post… keep your fingers crossed for me). So off I went in the car from Sakine to Arusha with absolutely no conception of how close I was to the side of the road seeing as Tanzanians drive on the left. This left-handed driving also resulted in me turning on the windshield wipers when attempting to turn-signal seeing as everything on the car is backwards. Often, however, finding the side of the road isn’t really an issue since it is occupied anyway by people walking, people biking, dala dalas trying to pull in front of you, donkeys with loads of sugar cane on their backs, and my personal favourite, people pulling large pieces of furniture in wheelbarrows. By the time I got to the one traffic light in Arusha I more or less had the hang of it and even managed to smoothly navigate Arusha’s many roundabouts and block out dala dala drivers driving alongside me in made-up lanes
By the end of the day I was pretty confident and awfully proud of myself, which is exactly when it immediately became pitch black due to the fact that for some reason dusk lasts about 60 seconds in Arusha (maybe the sun sets behind Mount Meru?). Street lamps here are only located right in the downtown so the drive out to Sakine in the dark involved hitting lots of speed bumps at high speeds, almost hitting various people on foot or bike, and then finally pulling over into a gas station and calling Nicolas in hysterics because I couldn’t find the dirt lane that is his street. After getting directions I promptly pulled out in front of a dala dala, which honked aggressively at me, and turned on the wipers instead of the turn signal again. I managed to make it home without any further incidents, however, which completed my baptism by fire into an experienced African driver.
Luckily (or unluckily) the UN provides craptacular transportation to and from work every day in a big UN bus or SUV, which arrives either 20 minutes late or 10 minutes early, so you either wait outside in the cold Arusha morning for half an hour, or miss the bus completely.
In the evenings it isn’t safe to be out walking in Arusha, so if I go out anywhere I have to call a cab. Taxis here are different from home in that they are more or less freelance. From what I understand, drivers have to be licensed with the city or something, but they own their own car and work for themselves, so I don’t call a taxi company, I just had to get the cell phone number of a good driver, call him, and hope he can come pick me up when I need picking-upping. I soon discovered the need for two drivers, someone who works during the day, and someone who works at night. On the topic of night drivers, we once made the mistake of not calling someone we knew and just grabbing a random driver outside Via Via, the local nightclub. I walked out of the gate in the lead and was immediately swallowed by a mob of taxi drivers all clamouring for me to get in their car (ok, maybe I wasn’t exactly swallowed by a mob, but that’s how it felt). We made it home ok, but never made that mistake again.
On the rare occasions that I am travelling across town by myself, my preferred mode of transportation is the motorcycle taxi. I first discovered the joys of motorcycle taxi when I was going to meet Marie and Kevin for church. There is a taxi stand up at the intersection of my road and the road leading to the chapel, not only with cars, but also bikes and motorcycles. I really wanted to try the bike taxi actually, but didn’t have that much faith in my own balance, Arusha drivers, or the bike taxi driver’s ability to haul me all the way to Mianzini. So the next coolest option (or possibly cooler option) was the motorcycle. It is quite a bit cheaper than a car and a whole lot more fun. After negotiating the price (which for me means asking how much they want and then saying ok), I clambered rather ungracefully skirt and all onto the back of the bike and away we went. Although this wasn’t the first time I had this realization, sitting on the back of a motorcycle reinforced the impression that everything I do as a white person in Arusha is highly entertaining to everyone around (i.e. mzungu on a motorcycle taxi, mzungu running to catch early UN transport, mzungu attempting to speak Swahili, and as you will see in a minute, mzungu riding a dala dala). On another occasion I randomly ran into a motorcycle, which may or may not have been a legitimate taxi, just outside my gate on the way to work (after missing UN transport) and so pulled up to the ICTR in style with my hair more or less blown dry to boot (my blow dryer functions very poorly, if at all, here).
The public transportation in Tanzania is called the dala dala and it is basically a 12 passenger van brightly decorated with pictures of Bob Marley and motivational phrases that make no sense like “God is One”. I learned that the owner of the dala dala rents it to the driver and the conductor for a certain fee every day and the profit is whatever remains from passenger fares after the cost of gas and the daily fee. There is no centralized dala dala system, meaning if I wanted to buy or rent a dala dala and start up a route I could, and to be honest you end up getting to where you want to go much faster on the dala dala than any organized public transportation I have taken. Since the driver and the conductor are trying to pay off their fee and make as much money as possible, they often drive on the sidewalk, create a third lane into incoming traffic, and/or cram in as many people as possible (I have counted up to 20). The conductor, who is really more of a hustler than anything else, hangs outside the window or open door calling out the name of the destination and trying to get people in the van. He then takes your money and bangs on the outside of the van or the ceiling (depending on how many people are inside) when it is time to stop. Usually I tell the hustler where I want to get off when I get in and then yell out “Shusha!” (stop) or “Hapa! ….Hapa!” (Here! ….Here!) when we arrive.
When I first got to Arusha I observed the dala dalas with a kind of fascination mixed with terror and thought that although it would be cool to try I would never get up the nerve to cram myself in a moving vehicle with that many people. Around the same time I learned the reputation of Mugger’s Bridge, however, I was also feeling quite gutsy and decided to give it a go. So on my way home from the gym I hopped into a relatively empty dala dala, figured out the payment and stop system and got out feeling totally elated. I also saved a considerable amount of money, considering that a taxi ride would have been about 2 dollars but the dala dala ride was less than 25 cents. Armed with my newfound independence, I soon took the dala dala again and this time got the full experience. As the dala dala swept towards me I noticed the hustler hanging outside the van hanging on to the door while inside was a tangle of bodies. I told him my stop and then was packed inside with my armpit in someone’s face, my feet hanging outside the edge of the van, and my head bent over at the ceiling. No one else seemed to mind the close proximity, although they all stared at me with the same general amusement of seeing a mzungu doing anything. (Actually, the only sign of annoyance I have ever gotten from someone in a dala dala was when I was just coming back from the pool and my wet hair kept dripping on the person in the seat I was hunched over... which I suppose is perfectly valid). It was the day after Michael Jackson died so appropriately “Don’t stop till you get enough” was blaring on the radio and everyone was sort of bobbing along to the music. It was really a great moment.
The final mode of transportation I have experienced (still haven’t gotten up the courage for a bike taxi) is the day Jeannine learned to drive in Africa. Nicolas, who I met in Arusha and have been dating for a little while now (proper introduction in future post), owns a car here and for one reason or another decided it would be a good idea to give it to me for the day (as a side note, Nicolas is a pilot so I am gunning for “Flying Across Africa” as another future post… keep your fingers crossed for me). So off I went in the car from Sakine to Arusha with absolutely no conception of how close I was to the side of the road seeing as Tanzanians drive on the left. This left-handed driving also resulted in me turning on the windshield wipers when attempting to turn-signal seeing as everything on the car is backwards. Often, however, finding the side of the road isn’t really an issue since it is occupied anyway by people walking, people biking, dala dalas trying to pull in front of you, donkeys with loads of sugar cane on their backs, and my personal favourite, people pulling large pieces of furniture in wheelbarrows. By the time I got to the one traffic light in Arusha I more or less had the hang of it and even managed to smoothly navigate Arusha’s many roundabouts and block out dala dala drivers driving alongside me in made-up lanes
By the end of the day I was pretty confident and awfully proud of myself, which is exactly when it immediately became pitch black due to the fact that for some reason dusk lasts about 60 seconds in Arusha (maybe the sun sets behind Mount Meru?). Street lamps here are only located right in the downtown so the drive out to Sakine in the dark involved hitting lots of speed bumps at high speeds, almost hitting various people on foot or bike, and then finally pulling over into a gas station and calling Nicolas in hysterics because I couldn’t find the dirt lane that is his street. After getting directions I promptly pulled out in front of a dala dala, which honked aggressively at me, and turned on the wipers instead of the turn signal again. I managed to make it home without any further incidents, however, which completed my baptism by fire into an experienced African driver.
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