AWIB & DINKWA - Arusha

Robert Edwards Sep - Dec 2008

What hit me on arrival in Arusha in Sep. were the colours and vibrancy amidst the obvious struggle for daily existence by so many locals. I soon learnt to deal with the hassle on the streets and to enjoy instead the chats you can have with any and everybody, whilst walking, waiting, eating or riding the dalla-dalla around town.

The dalla-dalla is the minibus that runs around town to the villages, but also for the longer journeys out of town. Fares start at 15p. The conductor jingles his change in front of your face as a sign to pay your fare. No words are exchanged. To get off, you bang the inside bodywork and the conductor repeats this for the driver. No words exchanged either. Seating capacity is about 18, but there are flop down seats which block the gangway and room for another 8 or so standing inside the sliding side door. The aim is to keep the d-d brimful, so if you’re standing expect to duck your head and have it nestling in a fat lady’s arm-pit. As the d-d hits the speed bumps or lurches over yet another pot-hole on the dirt road, you get the full whiff and a banged shin. So getting a seat is bliss.

Don’t think about Health and Safety because, as I said, the gangways are blocked by bodies or buckets of tomatoes etc. The conductor hangs out of the window of the sliding door shouting out the final destination, so hoping to find more passengers en route to be scooped up and crushed in. The driver takes pleasure in carving up every other road user, from donkeys to barrow boys, certainly pedestrians and cyclists.

I work as a micro-business advisor on two business projects in and around Arusha and the dusty villages; on one project I have been given a 406 page tome to plough through so that I become knowledgeable about Early Childhood Development prior to conducting field research about it. My other challenging task has been teaching English to adults, my goal being to stop my students using their deeply ingrained –i endings, as in “I’m justi coming”.

Walking the streets I have felt safe, even though in my village as the only Mzungu (white person) 1,000 eyes follow me, the children calling out “Good Morning, Mzungu”, even late afternoons. I once had qualms as I was surrounded by a group of Maasai men in full tribal regalia wanting me to sniff snuff with them. I was able to decline and, wondering what they wear beneath their loincloths, got the complete answer later from a blast of wind in the street. Mzungu are not allowed to roam outside after the dusk curfew at 6.30pm and I do find this cramps my style.

My homestay is comfortable enough, though taking a bucket shower during one of the many sudden power cuts, knowing that I am sharing with a giant cockroach, is testing.
At first I missed my music stand, but soon learned to prefer the laurel bush to support my music book and practise my harmonica outside, with the mountain view to boot.

When I return home for Christmas, I won’t miss the dust, the interminable waiting and the ubiquitous stench of human sweat. But I will miss, and treasure, those colours, the local friendliness and the much simpler way of living in Tanzania.