Travel Tip: Dar Es Salaam

Published on Feb 5, 2008 by Paul Cleary for Dar es Salaam

As I stepped from the temperature-controlled cabin of the 747 into Dar Es Salaam airport, a tidal wave of damp heat assailed my air-cooled body. I approached immigration where two rotund gentlemen, both sweating profusely, were waiting for me. Having duly handed over my little immigration cards, vaccination certificates and $10 bribe I thought we would be able to pass straight through. Wronnngggg !!!

How long was I staying? Who was I meeting ? How much money did I have? When was the battle of Stamford Bridge? I correctly answered 3 out 4, which wasn't bad.They let me pass into the bowels (I use the word knowingly) of the airport.

Most of the signs were in Swahili but were accompanied by a little drawing to help those of us who were not yet versed in this wonderful language which seems to be entirely made up of consonants and involves severe contortions of the epiglottis if it is to be pronounced properly. I followed the hieroglyph resembling a model T Ford in the hope that it would lead me to a taxi. As I came out of the sliding glass doors into the humid cauldron that is Dar Es Salaam I was pounced on by 10,000 taxi drivers who obviously knew a sucker when they saw one. But they were wrong. I'd read the guide books I knew a thing or three about haggling. Nobody was going to pull the wool out from under my feet.

”How much to the Sheraton? ”, I shouted, hoping to show the threatening masses that I was more than a match for them. A barrage of prices came back at me ranging from 15 to a hundred dollars. I singled out the guy who quoted 15 bucks and he led me, with joyous abandon, to his cab. Although it must have been at least 20 years old, it was immaculately preserved and had little net curtains at the windows. We drove off towards Dar (as the locals call it) at a steady 30 mph.

I began shedding garments fast as the heat of equatorial Africa began to penetrate through my grossly overclad European body. Both sides of the road were thick with people. All were carrying something - that they'd either just bought or were about to sell in this vast marketplace of a town. The name Dar Es Salaam means ”Haven of Peace” - at first glance it certainly didn't look very havenlike and, judging by the cacophony of noise from the inhabitants and the traffic, it wasn't going to be very peaceful either.

About halfway into town the road suddenly disappeared under six inches of water. Nobody seemed unduly concerned and all the traffic calmly drove, rode or waded through the morass without batting an eyelid. As we drove into Dar I got my first glimpse of a ”modern” African city. It resembled post-war Berlin. All the buildings were in an advanced state of disrepair and it seemed like paint was a pretty scarce commodity at these latitudes.

Then we arrived at the Sheraton which looked like an oasis in the wilderness. The hotel is only a few years old with a landscape garden around it making it stand out like a sore thumb against its drab surroundings. The owners of this elucid establishment are obviously aware of this and are charging all pilgrims to their Meccaton over $200 a night for the pleasure.

I stepped from out of my mobile sauna as a uniformed commissionaire wrenched open the cab door for me. Another one opened the hotel door and yet another one grabbed my cases and ushered me to reception where I was wished a thousand welcomes and handed an exotic cocktail. My check-in was handled with super modern technological efficiency. ”What happened to Africa?” I thought to myself.

My room was enormous and looked out over the hotel pool set in botanical surroundings. I had no change to give the porter but offered him a disposable razor out of my British Airways washbag for which he was eternally gratetul. The contents of this washbag were to be the most valuable possessions I had with me throughout the trip. For those that should come after me I would advise you to leave credit cards and travellers cheques at home. Bring a sackful of Bic razors and some dental floss.

It was around 3 in the afternoon so I figured that after completing my ablutions and taking a short siesta, I could do bit of exploring. When I woke up it was pitch dark outside and I thought ”My God, it's the middle of the night !” A look at my 21 jewel, shockproof, waterproof, foolproof Hiawatha chronograph told me that it was only just after 6 p.m. Although I'd only travelled through 2 time zones since leaving London, I had forgotten that I had gone through 50 degrees of latitude, thus losing all the benefit of the earth's tilt.

I went downstairs to check out the facilities the Sheraton had to offer. Two restaurants, a bar and a grossly overpriced kiosk seemed to be the full extent of the amenities. I had a chat with the concierge and asked him where was a good place to have dinner. He just laughed at the thought of me leaving the hotel afier dark. OK, so I guess it was Sheraton or starve. Let's have a drink first. I walked into the Keba Bar to join a pulsating entourage of ex-pats swapping equatorial pleasantries.

”Beer please”, I proffered meekly.
”What kind of beer sir?”, came the reply.
”Do you have draught?”
”Yes please” (sic)
”0K, then I’ll have a draught beer”
A minute later he came back with a can of beer.
”I thought I ordered draught ?”
”Yes please”.

I was to learn that when it came to language the Africans were a bit like the Japanese and never admitted when they didn't understand something. This got to be rather frustrating after a while and led to untold misunderstandings.

All the other guys in the bar seemed to know eachother and there was an awful lot of backslapping and guffawing going on. Judging from the colour of their skin they had been around for several months already. I knew how the albino rhino must feel. I examined my beer can - it was called ”Tusker” and brewed in South Africa. Now that's a good macho name for a beer, I thought. Gives a tough male image, especially when swigged (swug?) straight from the can. Afer one taste I could understand the reference to elephants - not so much the tusks though, more the hindquarters. I left most of my Tusker unquaffed and went to the hotel restaurant.

As I entered, I espied an incredible buffet spread stretching for almost 20 yards with an eye-catching array of tropical victuals. I took a seat at my ”table for one non-smoker please” (the number of times I was to say that during the next 9 days!). I've never seen so many waiters - one shows you the table, one opens your serviette, one pours the ice water, one wipes your brow…I guess labour must be pretty cheap.

”I'll go for the buffet”, I said confidently before Winston (my waiter for the evening) had had a chance to rattle off the specials. And with that I shot off, plate in hand, to the far end of this huge table groaning with goodies. I was like a little boy who’d just been given the run of the toy shop.
”Now, let's see. . . soup, no we don't want that, too European. These salads look interesting...let’s have a bit of that, some of those, oh yes they look good”. And so it went on. With eyes much bigger than my belly, I tried all the main courses (although I gave the goat curry a miss) and, not least, the puddings. I ate so much that they had to prise me loose from the table and wheel me back to my room.

Dar Es Salaam may be a fascinating town at first glance, far removed from anything we are used to in Europe - but there is very little one can actually do there, especially in the middle of the rainy season. I took a taxi to the town centre in the hope of doing some shopping. As the taxi drove away again I stood there feeling ever so slightly conspicuous as the only paleface amid one million locals. There were no shops as such, only crudely erected stalls along the streets. In fact, the majority of trading activity went on in the middle of the road where peddlers walked along the lines of traffic waiting at the lights, selling spanners, oranges, their grandmother...whatever they could make a fast shilling on. I soon discovered that as long as I kept walking, I was relatively safe. Taxis would honk at you because they know that the white man (or mzungu as he is known here) never walks very far and one or two touts would try and get you to change money at black market prices but the salesmen would not follow you. Until you stopped to look at something - once you have shown the merest iota of interest in the goods then you are lost. They come from nowhere, waving all variations of that article in your face. It doesn't help to say you don't like it because in their eyes it means that you just don't like the price. So prices tumbles miraculously earthwards at mach 2 as you attempt to walk away from the seething throng that has gathered around you. If you are genuinely interested in something (which you must never admit), you will be asked how much you want to pay. Think very carefully before you answer because your price may be well above his asking price anyway. Here are a few tips:
- At most only show a casual interest in their wares and never stand still, make them chase after you
- Always show complete and utter disgust at their prices
- Say you have seen the same article down the road at half the price
- Tell them you have 17 children and a football team to support
- Always have the correct money. Don't expect change - they will say they have to go and get some but will never reappear.
- If they go in the back to wrap up your purchase, follow them. More than one tourist has returned home to find he has bought an empty coke bottle instead of an ebony carving.
- Do not feel pangs of guilt whilst hagglng. Remember, this guy will screw you if he gets the chance. Walk away with that sense of achievement. Take pride in the fact that you may have deprived him of his livelihood and that his children may starve. At least you saved 50 cents.

The heavens opened again whilst I was in town and the rain came down in sheets. There is no drainage system in Dar and the water that doesn't evaporate just lies there in enormous pools. The native soil in this part of the world is reddish in colour and when mixed with water resembles huge pools of blood. When splashed upon khaki coloured Levi's from every passing vehicle it makes the owner look like a giraffe.

As I waited for my taxi driver to return, I examined the trafiic. It seems that in Dar you can have any colour/make/model of car you want, as long as it's a white 1979 Toyota pick-up. The alternative is public transport - with the emphasis on public. None of the buses have windows, they are grossly overcrowded and they belch enough black smoke to completely obscure the view of the driver behind. I never saw any trains although I'm sure there were some. The main method of transport in Africa is shanks' pony. Everywhere people are walking - makes you wonder where they come from, where they're going and, most of all, if they ever get there.

By the time I got back to the hotel I was thoroughly drenched, not with rain but with perspiration. The climate in Dar is absolutely exhausting and extracts every drop of moisture from your body. I had to keep replacing my lost fluids with tins of Tusker. I lay in my hotel room with the air-conditioning on at full blast until my temperature came down to double figures again. Ray Charles was singing ”Georgia” on the hotel radio. That's funny, Ray Charles was on this morning as well. And all last night come to think of it. Perhaps it's Ray Charles week ? Now don't get me wrong, I like Ray Charles, but not all day every day as the hotel kept playing. You'd think that for 200 bucks a day you'd get a choice of more than one artist. I have since written a letter to Mr Sheraton himself expressing my disgust. No reply so far.

I looked out of the window and saw the guy in charge of the pool taking in the deckchair cushions for the umpteenth time that day as the latest wave of rain clouds came in from the Indian Ocean. Wonder what he does in the dry season?

For dinner, I tried the hotel's other restaurant - The Raj - which had purely à la carte dishes and where I felt gluttony would not get the better of me. But the menu was so tempting and I am a bit of a gourmand when it comes to Indian food - I know my popadom from my chapati. I ordered samosa, chicken tikka marsala, parantha, onion bharjee, mango chutney and one little side dish I thought was fried potatoes but turned out to be the manager. Well, anyone can make a mistake and Sanskrit is even more difficult than Swahili.

Afier a somewhat restless night where I dreamt of elephants paddling through rivers of blood in tin cans I woke up with a start to the strains of Ray Charles singing ”I Can't Stop Loving You”. Today was a big day. Today I was going to the mystic island of Zanzibar. Watch this space.

Tags for this Travel Tip: africa climate hotel fooddrink shoppingtips

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2008-02-07 23:21:20