On the fifth day of March, I landed Julius Nyerere International Airport Dar es Salaam via Addis Ababa. There was no tube channel to walk from aircraft into terminal, so we disembarked into a scorching sun. The atmosphere was a humid as hell itself, but there was nothing strange about this at all. Certainly not for me. If anything, it reminded me of the many times I landed at the Ercan Airport in North Cyprus as an undergraduate student. I was just happy to have finally reached my destination, after what had been a long and tortuous journey. In Abuja where it all began, I had been nearly harassed like a common thief. All airport authorities seemed to cast incredulous gazes at me. I couldn\u2019t tell why the sight of a young, well-dressed Nigerian heading to Tanzania for a two week holiday attracted so much interest. My bag had been ransacked to check for any trace of hard drugs, and just before I made my way to the waiting lounge, some officers of the NDLEA (National Drug Law Enforcement Agency) checked me into a room where those suspected for trafficking hard drugs are x-rayed.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you going for an official journey?\u201d one asked. It was, to me, a very stupid question and I did not border to respond.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy are you going to Tanzania?\u201d he rephrased.<\/p>\n
\u201cHoliday, sir.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat do you do?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m a businessman. I work in my dad\u2019s company as his Personal Assistant. We import used trucks from Europe and sell in Nigeria.\u201d<\/p>\n
They continued to gaze at me with a curiosity that got me seriously peeved. I began to wonder what was strange about anything I\u2019d said. That I was off to a two-week vacation? That I was a businessman, or that I was too young to afford either status? It was obvious that a mentality of wretchedness was at play for them, and it must have accounted for their nonsensical suspicion. I have been to a handful of international airports, but only in the ones in my own country do I suffer such abrasive heckling and shameful unprofessionalism.<\/p>\n
***
\nIn Dar es Salaam, the cab man skids off the asphalt down to the dusty pedestrian path. The car bounces against the potholes as he tries to manoeuvre against the traffic.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry about that\u201d he said, \u201cDar has a very terrible traffic and we would not arrive early if I don\u2019t do this.\u201d
\nIt was obvious he had mistaken my shock for censure whereas it was only a moment of discovery. They break traffic rules everywhere in Africa! I found it interesting how traffic wardens were stationed beneath dysfunctional traffic lights. Pray, what is the cost of simply repairing them? Just like in Nigeria, I saw in Addis Ababa, and now here, that these wardens, despite their best efforts are often undone by an army of unruly and impatient motorists.<\/p>\n
As we drove on, the cab man who had now introduced himself as John takes time to point out the important buildings or places he thinks I should know in Dar. With the state of the roads, the hawkers in the streets, the rickety tricycles, a picture of the political situation in the country was already beginning to form. But since John looked pretty excited for a conversation, I asked him what he thought about the political leaders in his country.<\/p>\n
\u201cThieves. They are all thieves!\u201d
\n\u201cI often thought corruption was only rife in my country, and that most other African countries where better off\u2026\u201d I said, goading him to say more.
\n\u201cNo!!! Here\u2026 I think here is the worst.\u201d
\nAs we arrived the hotel, a cosy bungalow apartment with a serene beer garden, John hands me his card. When I flip to the other side, I see he\u2019s also a Real Estate agent. I smile. Everyone in Abuja is a property agent too \u2013 from penthouse office bosses down to the roadside vulcanizers. I pay him 45,000 Tanzanian Shillings; 5,000 more than the agreed price for being excellent company.<\/p>\n
My friend Mr. Kay arrives in the evening to take me out and give me a proper welcome to the city. When I had told him a week before my arrival of where I found a budget hotel with a gym and swimming pool\u2014a place called Masenze, he screamed in horror.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can\u2019t stay there, Mitt!\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t think it\u2019s very safe. Street gangs are rife over there. Please, I\u2019d recommend somewhere else for you, tell me exactly what your budget is.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mr. Kay is the sales manager at the Double Tree Hilton Dar es Salaam and generally well versed in his country\u2019s tourism and hospitality sector. When I arrived Msasani village and moved around, I understood exactly why Mr. Kay had recommended it. Coco Beach was less than 10 minutes away, my own hotel had been just overlooking the Hilton, and just around the corner was the Oyster Bay, which featured exotic streets and an array of foreign high commissions.<\/p>\n
The Double Tree Hilton was magnificent, especially at night \u2013 when the outdoor dinner tables were lit with candle lights as they overlooked the shore of the Indian Ocean.
\nMr. Kay brings back the Masenze discussion.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf you were in Masenze now, I swear bro, you\u2019d be crapping in your pants\u201d, he said and then laughs heartily.
\nI smile and tell him how much I\u2019ve grown aloof to such stories of violent neighbourhoods, and how exaggerated I find them. I had after all lived in Catford, Elephant & Castle, and worked in the Morrison Supermarket by the Peckam Rye. All three were among London\u2019s most notorious areas; yet despite staying there for a year, only on one occasion did I see someone get stabbed with my own eyes.<\/p>\n
I was however very pleased to be in that part of Dar, where remarkably, and to my utmost surprise, every restaurant, chicken & chip stall or beer parlour had high-speed WiFi. It\u2019ll be a miracle to get high-speed WiFi in many majority of Abuja\u2019s three or four star hotels.<\/p>\n
Over the next few days, I met, first with Jo Msafiri, and then with Quintus Salehe. The first was a childhood friend of my friend Albert\u2014with whom I studied together in Wales five years ago, while the later was his uncle. I had requested for Jo to take me to a normal bar where ordinary citizens had their fun, because everywhere I had been to before then\u2014Hilton, Capetown Fish Market\u2014were all filled with white faces. I felt I needed to see how the locals spent time, how they unwounded, if they were as noisy as Nigerians, how they partied, and whether their girls were as audacious on the dancefloor as ours.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou are my guest. You let me take to where I want to take you first, and then we can discuss the rest later\u201d, was Jo\u2019s reply. His girlfriend looks at me in a I-think-he\u2019s-right manner, and I could say nothing else. I sensed it was the age-old African hospitality tradition at play.<\/p>\n
As we ate, I told Jo that I had gotten around the last few days and not only have I fallen in love with Tanzania but was now thinking of buying a piece of land where I could build a holiday pad in the future.
\n\u201cI learnt also, that doing so is only possible if I find a local who can co-own with me, and must have at least 50% stake.
\n\u201cMaybe you should marry a Tanzanian girl\u201d, his girlfriend cheekily interjects, and then smiles.
\n\u201cThis is my problem with this country. Socialism is killing us. Seriously, I keep telling them down here, they don\u2019t know how money works. This year, I bought a piece of land in Uganda and another one in Rwanda. None of this co-owning stuff exists over there. But I tell you, even for us locals, you never truly own a piece of land here, because the government can re-appropriate it after a certain period of time.\u201d
\n\u201cThat\u2019s ridiculous isn\u2019t it?\u201d, Jo continued, \u201cbut the people fucking love it, and that\u2019s what I do not understand. Same way they were happy that our President built for them a giant stadium to watch football when that money could have been injected into our comatose healthcare sector.\u201d<\/p>\n
His girlfriend argued that his many years of being in American has made him incapable of understanding why socialism worked best for their people.
\n
\nWhen I met with Quintus at the Slipway Restaurant, which by far, I would say, the best place in Tanzania to watch the sun go down, he had a totally different view. He was an Audit at the Tanzanian Education Ministry, and had returned from London to Dar some six years ago. We spoke about our times in London, even though they were of different generations. We agreed that resettling back home after many years of studying or staying in the West was a particularly arduous challenge. I put to him the question of socialism, land rights, and its inhibitions on economic development.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo\u2026no\u2026no. I do not see it that way. First, you need to understand that for many years now, our country has been by far the biggest custodian of refugees in East Africa given the strife in the countries bordering us.\u201d
\nHe thought neoliberalism was a contributory factor in those wars, though never comfortably explains why.
\n\u201cHere, people feel without lands, they have nothing. They have no problem if they aren\u2019t rich, but having a land gives them a sense of wealth, of owning something of worth, and that alone is sufficient for many. If we liberalize things the way you suggest, yes, more investors would come in, the lands would be hurriedly bought off \u2013 with countless structures erected on all corners, but\u2026people would begin to feel dispossessed. And before you know it, the class barrier widens, and so will crime and social strife.\u201d<\/p>\n
He sighs deeply and adds \u201cI think things are fine the way they are.\u201d<\/p>\n
Quintus drove us to a Night Club later on, at about 11.00pm. The place wasn\u2019t looking as lively or bubbly as I would expect; and my dismay was clearly written on my face.<\/p>\n
\u201cActually, in Tanzania, the clubs are filled only at the end of the month, when salaries must have been paid\u201d he tells me.
\n\u201cHmmm\u2026 I see. Obviously I have no right to think everywhere was Abuja where people partied every day.\u201d
\n\u201cYou have oil in your country, why not?\u201d
\n\u201cYes\u2026 not just oil though\u201d, I cut in, \u201cthere\u2019s just too much unearned money to throw around\u201d, I said as we both laughed.<\/p>\n
***
\nThree days before the end of my holidays in Tanzania , I travelled to Zanzibar. It would have been unforgivable to be in Tanzania without seeing Zanzibar. So on the fourteenth day of March, I set forth at dawn to the harbour. As we made our way into the ferry, I was struck by the massive number of white people who were marching in; British holiday makers, Americans, Serbs, Croats, Turks, and others whom I couldn\u2019t catch a glimpse of their passport. It was reminiscent of what I witnessed on the flight to Dar; I could count only about ten black people in a flight of nearly 200. White folks obviously have a serious liking for this place. I must admit, that emotionally, I felt a little jealous. How come they don\u2019t like my own country just as much? White people visit Nigeria only come there to make money, not spend it. I can\u2019t blame them too much. I understand exactly why. When the ferry docked at the Zanzibar port, I feared I may not be allowed into the city.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere is your yellow card?\u201d The aged woman, dressed in mufti asked. I could see everyone pulling up their yellow card; how then was it that only I did not know I was entering a new territory? All my life I had known Zanzibar was part of the Tanzanian territory.
\n\u201cI left it in Dar es Salaam, Ma. I showed it to the Airport authorities when I landed there, and wasn\u2019t aware I\u2019d be required to bring it here with me.\u201d<\/p>\n
She takes a look at my passport, sees my Tanzanian visa, and saw the stamp in on it. My heart now raced in a frenzied manner as I awaited what she\u2019d say next. I had paid $80 for the trip and getting turned back would have been a personal tragedy.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is Zanzibar not Tanzania. You need to come with your yellow card next time.\u201d<\/p>\n
I thanked her profusely and quickly made my way out of the port and into Zanzibar\u2019s Stone Town.
\nI get into the Maru-Maru hotel, a small but supremely clean lodge. On stepping in, I saw a picture of Bill Clinton, proudly displayed on the stairwell. It was taken when he lodged here while attending a UNESCO event in 2012. At the of the top of the building was a very fancy bar which features a gorgeous view of Zanzibar, though one needs to have at least a 20x optical zoom camera to see beyond the thatched roofs and rickety buildings within the immediate surroundings. Zanzibar was a contradiction in many ways. Naturally, it was obviously a place of extravagant beauty, but the locals barely had the means to enjoy the fullness of it. And so everywhere I looked, I found it hard to reconcile beauty and the squalor that lay on the other side of it. After the colourful evening at the promenade in front of the House of Wonders \u2013 adjacent to the shore of the Zanzibar coast, I knew my time there had to be called short. It had been a wonderful twenty-four hours of meeting new people, good food, drinks and tasting different varieties of grilled meat. The next morning, the ferry\u2014named Kilimajaro III arrived at the dock. As the vessels sailed back to Dar es Salaam, I roamed helplessly on the vessel\u2019s balcony, casting what would be some of my last gazes at the beautiful Indian Ocean, as the ferry sailed on.<\/p>\n
***
\nOn the nineteenth day of March, two thousand and fifteen, I landed back at the Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport Abuja. After making it past the immigration, I took my baggage from the carousel and made my way to the exit.<\/p>\n
\u201cOga, where are you coming from?\u201d the NDLEA official asks, quite abrasively.
\n\u201cTanzania. Please my taxi is outside waiting for me\u201d I replied with a tone of impatience and dissatisfaction.
\n\u201cFollow me\u201d he replied.
\n\u201cTo where?\u201d
\n\u201cUpstairs.\u201d<\/p>\n
D\u00e9j\u00e0 vu. It was to the damn x-ray room again.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Remembering Tanzania<\/b>
\n On the fifth day of March, I landed Julius Nyerere International Airport Dar es Salaam via Addis Ababa. There was no tube channel to walk from aircraft into terminal, so we disembarked into a scorching sun. The atmosphere was a humid as hell itself, but there was nothing strange about this at all. Certainly not for me. If\u2026<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":785,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[11],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-104","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-creative-non-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/104","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=104"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/104\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":863,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/104\/revisions\/863"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/785"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=104"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=104"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=104"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}