Last night, after dark, we arrived in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. While the terminals were indoors, once we left security with our baggage we were in a vast open-air building in the nighttime heat. We were avidly pursued by a taxi driver as we withdrew Tanzanian shillings and purchased tickets to Zanzibar for next week. He said his name was John, and he took us to our hostel. It’s run by an Italian NGO called CEFA, somewhat outside of town. It’s a lovely white building of tile and plaster, with airy verandas, a gorgeous rooftop view of the water, mosquito netting over all of the beds, and (our personal favorite, we must admit) air conditioning!
This morning, a delicious breakfast of bread and guava jam, we caught a daladala to Kariakoo market in the city proper. Daladala is the Swahili name for a phenomenon we have noticed in many a foreign city, a minibuses that go from place to place, cramming as many locals into their seats as possible while a barker hangs out the sliding side door shouting the name of their destination. We rode the half hour into town shoulder-to-shoulder with several locals.
Kariakoo market is a large collection of shops and stands selling just about anything you could want or need. It was not the beautifully organized display our guidebook implied, but instead a fantastic chaos of people, sights, and smells. I must admit, we felt more than a little out of place. We were definitely the only mzungu there, and while many people encouraged us to look at their wares, others gave us uncomfortable stares. We passed over most of the practical items, but we were quite excited to buy a kanga, a cloth worn by East African women with a Swahili proverb written on it. We still aren’t sure what ours says, except that the first word is “wife.”
We walked from the market to the Scandinavian bus terminal to purchase our tickets to Arusha for tomorrow. Then we walked along the coast the entire length of the city, from the bus terminal to the Kivukoni Fish Market. The looks and stares we got on the way were much friendlier than those we encountered at the market. Many people smiled and told us “Hello!” or “Jambo!” We paused along the way to step into the Catholic Cathedral, and also to buy some fried plantain and roasted meat from street vendors. We asked one of them what his name was, and he said, “John.” The day was very, very hot. We were dripping with sweat after walking for only a few minutes.
Finally, we came to the Kivukoni Fish Market, a collection of large open-air structures filled with interesting sights and sounds. As we walked through, people called to us, offering us all manner of seafoods, from fish and prawns to squid and lobster. Everything was freshly caught, and some of it was still alive. We had not gone far when we were cornered by an eager man who brought us out near the water to show us his catch. “Very fresh,” he kept insisting, pointing out the clear, moist eye of a large silver fish. He told us he “had fire,” and we gathered that if we purchased the fish, he would cook it for us. As it seems we often do before our best travel experiences, Tommy and I looked at each other and shrugged. “Okay!” we said.
We followed the man to a table where he gutted the fish right in front of us. People all around him were doing the same. There were many large pink fish on the table, along with some raw squid. One man came up and tried to get us to buy his prawns, while another offered us two live crabs, which he said he would kill immediately if we asked for them. Most of them spoke at least a little English.
Once our fish was gutted, it got a thorough wash and then the man beckoned us to follow him across the street. We passed some more large stands selling beautiful seashells and assorted fruits and vegetables. The seashells were amazing, but we regretfully shook our heads at the vendors, since we have read that gathering them is endangering coral reefs. We came to another open structure where lots of seafood was being cooked. It was dark and filled with smoke and heat. We could see brightly-dressed women sorting and frying tiny anchovies. Our fish was liberally salted and then tossed into an immense pan of oil fed by a wood fire. When it was done, the man doused it in limon and wrapped it up for us in a bag. He told us his name was John. Three Tanzanians, three Johns… Tommy and I were beginning to suspect at that point that we were not receiving real names when we asked. We took it back to the waterfront to eat with our fingers. The salt and limon had fried the skin crispy and delicious, and we picked every bit of meat off that we could. It was absolutely wonderful.
Walking in the heat had been draining, and there was not much left of Dar that we were eager to see, so we headed back to CEFA early that afternoon.