Dar es Salaam

In Iraq you have the suicide bomber; in Tanzania you have the bus driver. They are both disillusioned, albeit by different reasons. Most importantly, they are both suicidal. This may come as a surprise, but don’t fool yourself. The bus driver is equally lethal and loyal to his cause.
The bus driver is not afraid to force his way into incoming traffic. In fact he relishes such moments. “Off limits” is not part of his vocabulary. The sidewalk is simply another lane, and the pedestrians are target practice.
If you are a Tanzanian, the bus driver plays an important part in your life. He will try his hardest to get you to where you want to go even if it costs him his life (and the life of his passengers). With the bus driver, you can always be sure of a destination, although it isn’t always clear what that destination might be. The afterlife isn’t quite what I have in mind though (at least not at this point in my life). And don’t imagine for a second that you will have a comfortable mechanism under your now well pounded tush. Quite the contrary, you will for the first time in your life, realize how boney your ass is (evolution seems to have missed this most important element to bus riding). Of course, this is only if you have procured yourself a seat. If not, then you can rest assured that you will have your face jammed up someone else’s not-quite-deodorized armpit. You will then realize that this may very well be the last breath you will ever take. If you are seated, your parting wish will be to have been granted a well endowed behind (this applies mostly to white men, of which I am proud to have been denied membership, fingers crossed). If you are standing, and your face isn’t where it belongs, your last breath would bring with it that fresh flavor you have only begun to grow accustomed to, and, which, you hope will grant you favor with whichever God you pray to.
Now, sometimes you will never get to your destination. Oftentimes, the buses run on empty, and the only thing that is pushing it forward is the engine that has undergone some serious readjustments making it resistant to periods of drought (African style). There are times when even the most resistant of engines will fail, and the driver’s assistant will run off with an empty plastic tank, only to return five hours later to find all the passengers have left.
There are also other times when you won’t reach your destination. If the driver realizes that it is not in his favor to continue his route he will politely, but firmly ask everyone to get out and find another bus, at which point you would like to end his life with one swift blow.
Such is life in Dar. It can be quite frustrating for any law-abiding visitor. Despite this, it is important to note that in the midst of chaos there seems to be some sort of organization. The buses are all tagged with their particular destinations, there are bus stops (although they look like any other street corner), there are traffic lights that magically work, garbage collectors, a fire department (which I will have to describe at another time), and occasionally you will see a street name.
There are Japanese restaurants; not one, but two Subway’s (sadly yes); a myriad internet cafes; a Persian art store; numerous Indian neighborhoods and restaurants; and so many other things I cannot think of right now.