I may be in Dar, but unless I leave the cozy confines of my usual routine, it could be Cleveland. Welll, not quite… but it can be just as exciting (sorry Clevelend, just my memories of time spent there in the late 90s on a number of business trips.)
When you leave the peninsula, kinondoni, mikocheni, msasani, Oyster Bay, upanga and city center.. And you take that ferry south over to kigamboni.. Especially at night.. then you slowly gather once again that despite the apparent normalcy, what happens here is far from what my experiences (at least those I remember.. as my sister will confirm, those memories prior to 1983 are quite vague.. one day we’ll explore that…. Maybe.)
The ferry ride.. Waiting for the ferry, only one boat making the five minute trek across the creek.. Running 24/7 but waiting slowly as first 10, then 50, then 100 cars line up.. Music blasting, cold beer in hand (I was not driving).. Wait.. Is that Colombian Christmas music?yep… el pastorcito de Belen.. Followed by shakira, juanes, and el grupo niche.. Ahh.. Radio Maria.. I had no idea they were broacasting Latino music at night on Saturdays as I was only familiar with them as the main broadcaster for the CCR programming for the children… anyway.. We get across, quickly speed through the maze of road side stands, motorcycle taxis picking up rides and bajajs waiting to go.. And head out of town. The sky is starry.. El cielo esta estrellado, quien lo desestrallera? .. Dark night, no moon. Just stars. And it strikes me yet again, that without the stars, or the headlights.. It is dark. Even on the way from masak through town and the ferry.. Although the street lights are there.. Spaced as often as you’d see them anywhere back home.. They stand dark. Mocking. No power. No light. In the kigamboni side.. no street lights, just the silhoute of the palm trees extending over the bushes, the reddish eyes of the monkeys in the trees staring at you as the headlights quickly pass over them, Hamilton flying down the road, no traffic laws to heed, no rule of law to heed at this time, passing cars, motorcycles, bikes and bajajs just the same, narrowly missing on occasion those coming towards us. Reckless? Yeah, a bit. Yet a mentality that keeps you safely enconses in your own – just keep going.
The night ends up being a wash. The resort is jumping.. But it’s the wrong crowd. The bandas are too far from the beach, the bathrooms require a key.. The beer is cold, the popcorn salty and the music is bongo club yet the dj can’t keep the rhythm going, so the crowd on the floor in front of us tries again and again to get into a groove but fails. So we go back. Kuku soup at Watanashi back in masaki… the place is packed, some girls get in a fight, a bottle flies. Good thing we’re outside, waiting for the soup else we’d gotten beer soaked as the guys coming out.. caldo de pollo.. o costilla.. very tasty. Then runway for a drink, see who’s there.. Then off home. Lots to do on a Sunday.. but that’s another five hundred words for another day.
My 40th and beyond 