And Home Was Kariakoo (22 page)

And so we go look for a bus back to Dar.

The bus we take early the next morning is from a company called Dar Luxe. It is new and fast, and the seatbelts are a good idea, considering the driving. We reach Ubungo station at ten in the night, sixteen hours after departure. I decide to spend the night at a joint in Sinza, outside Dar, where Joseph usually puts up. There’s an open-air bar outside where we have a meal; it’s fairly crowded even this late, and a dubbed Chinese soap opera is avidly watched on the TV.

The next morning we take a dala-dala to the city. I put away my luggage in my hotel room and we decide to tour the city—a certain part of it. We trek along Uhuru Street, reach Mehboob Mansion where I grew up—the intersection is surprisingly intact, in spite of the heavy new construction—take the stairs up to the roof terrace on the third floor. I point out a hole in the chimney made by the fire brigade when they came to dispose of the large beehive that had grown inside. Perhaps the bees were drawn to the terrace by my sister’s potted jasmine plants. We look down over the boundary wall at the length of Uhuru Street, the aorta of my imagination. I point below at the shops and at the apartments across, tell him about the people who lived and worked there. We then come down and proceed
to Msimbazi Street, treat ourselves to cane juice on the way. The entire Kariakoo area has now the feel of an Old Delhi, teeming with people and with every sort of merchandise spilling onto the sidewalks.

We end up at KT Shop, where he simply devours the daal bhajia, kababs, and samosas, saying, “Daktari, I could become a Tanzanian simply for the food.” His second wife, a Tanzanian, always complains that Kenyans are far too thin, they don’t eat well.

We then say goodbye. He’ll be on the plane to Nairobi tomorrow.

T
HEY CALL IT
B
ONGO, OUT OF AFFECTION
, out of pride. If you ask a street vendor why he’s being obtuse, or a bajaji driver why he just ripped off some poor innocent from upcountry, they’re likely to reply, It’s Bongoland, learn to survive. There is a certain arrogance to the Bongo folk, a style; a sense of cool or, as they say in Swahili, poa. It’s been earned. Over the past few decades Dar es Salaam has seen much: the joy of independence and a popular president, massive street demonstrations and socialist austerity, food lines and spy scandals, a demographic upheaval and an aborted coup, war returnees and a period of banditry; it has matured from a come-tomorrow sleepy-town into a major African city of the region, with an identity to match—seeing itself as different and unique, in the way New York does. There seem to be no bounds here, in modern Dar, no limits to growth or possibility—but while there’s some truth to this outlook, much of it is also hype. For Dar retains its essential character, marching to its own casual beat. That is its charm, but also its handicap.

As you come down into the city from the airport, or cross Selander Bridge into the wealthier suburbs of Oyster Bay, Msasani, and Kawe you might easily form the impression that you are in a
world where business and IT rule, travelling is by plane, Internet is high speed, money is transferred electronically, the phones are smart—as are the well-bred kids who go to private schools in English. The billboards conveying this message are hip, not as garish as those of, say, Chennai. Dar’s English-language newspapers speak the universal language of the world’s business pages: stock prices, sovereign bonds, offshore banking, cloud computing, infrastructure development, the GDP
(7
percent).

For the first time after many years I feel that a new generation has arrived, ready to take over. They are aware of developments elsewhere in the world, they want to make things happen here. But the older generation is not quite gone: what world is it bequeathing?

First impressions of Dar are soon quashed by the sight of the jammed commuter buses, the beggars on the streets, the vendors, and the idle. And then of course there’s the rest of the country behind Bongo. According to a Swahili paper, the World Bank puts Tanzania as the second poorest in the region, with 68 percent of the population earning less than $1.25 per day; 80 percent live on subsistence farming; more than 80 percent spend their nights in total darkness, without electricity. The national debt has tripled in the last few years, standing at 50 percent of the GDP, and the public education system is crippled, the health system rudimentary. In rural areas schools are either empty or overcrowded; there are no teachers or textbooks. The final-year failure rate for the nation’s high schools in 2012 was a shocking 60 percent. For those fortunate enough to be connected to the electric grid, there are frequent and frustrating blackouts. There’s a thriving business in electricity generators, which you can hear thrumming in all sizes along the top of Morogoro Road.

Three years ago a new word was introduced into the Swahili language: vijisenti, meaning “little cents,” that is, mere pennies. It
was introduced by a former, highly placed politician who was questioned by the media about the several million dollars found in his bank account during an investigation into corruption. Mere pennies, he replied, arrogantly. The politician was connected with two major scandals, one of them called “Kingston,” in which a large contract was handed to a foreign company to fulfill the capital’s electricity needs. A fraction of the power was delivered, and thus the power shortage. The American Secretary of State was in town recently and promised help.

The Auditor General reports mass corruption in government: money from pension funds loaned interest-free to politicians and cronies; money allocated for development not released; lavish and unnecessary spending, “embezzlement of public funds … outright forgery … salary payments to ghost workers.…” The list seems endless, and is endlessly and quite wonderfully—you have to have a sense of humour—creative. Says my friend Kumar, a contractor, jestfully, “I can get you a permit to build on the grounds of State House.” Someone else repeats an adage to me, apparently a piece of advice that was given in all seriousness to a former president: Corruption is necessary for development.

And this I overhear: We are governed by wahuni, meaning tricksters, and they go about shamelessly sporting a newly acquired title of “Doctor” before their names. When did they get the time to work for their PhDs? It’s embarrassing to possess a doctorate now.

The situation is explosive, says Shivji, a professor with a real PhD.

It’s explosive, says Charles, a consultant for a foreign NGO.

You look at the desperate-looking, idle taxi drivers—there are hundreds on the streets—and you think, The situation
could
be explosive.

Of course there’s hope, says Walter with a sardonic smile. There’s always hope. Where can it go from here?

We are at his son Mkuki’s flat for a brunch—there are some young people, with a handful of us older folks around. We could be in Toronto or Boston, for the smart, cultured discussion, the wine and good food; Miles Davis in the background. The wine however is Dodoma, which Walter insists is good, others beg to differ. Very soon I feel irrelevant in this company. I’m in the wrong place this Sunday morning—living abroad, an Asian, and of the wrong generation. I’m jet-lagged too, and that could be a metaphor. The young people act young and cool and hip, they talk about jazz—which they rather sweetly assume we don’t know about; they speak about tweeting and Facebook visits; having lived abroad they’ve picked up the mannerisms and phrases. There’s a certain studied weariness in them about local conditions, a cool cynicism. I can’t tell if they are on display or natural, but we seem to have no place in their world, there is no overlap. I’m being unfair, perhaps, and they simply know each other better.

I think it’s Walter who, with a glance at his son, throws a spanner in the runaway exclusivity. The talk turns to writing—Gracie has a well-known column in the
East African
—and the lack of confidence in their age group, a lack of book culture in the country. Can’t she compile some of her blogs? Include a sample of local writing in her blogs? Is there a difference between writing a blog and composing a piece of writing as art? Gracie wonders if what they need are a few socialites to bring the artists together, someone who doesn’t need to work. A sponsor. I somewhat hesitantly put in that artists traditionally, judging by elsewhere in the world, have been poor, especially when starting out, and movements are created and maintained with much effort and sacrifice. Perhaps—I take a risk—people here are too used to things being done for them? What they need,
I say to myself, is a gentle kick in the backside: Get moving! Don’t wait for something, in typical Tanzanian style! Be more like the Kenyans!

Mkuki, who is a graphic designer and commissions artworks, says yes, the foreign NGOs, by paying exorbitantly for commissioned art, have brought the quality down. Artists give the NGOs only what they need to be able to collect funds. A kind of pornography. You can get better art cheaper in South Africa.

The ice is broken. Everyone complains about the Kenyans who come to work in Dar. They are arrogant know-it-alls who stick to each other. The Zimbabweans are so much nicer—and when they speak Swahili they speak like you and I. Not the Kenyans, their Swahili has a rough edge and stands out.

Gracie surprises me by saying that the only racial slur thrown at her in the United States was by some African Americans cruising on South Street in Philadelphia, when they called her a monkey and to go back to the motherland—because she doesn’t have straight hair. She was at Bryn Mawr. Omar, who was in Scotland, speaks of soccer rivalry between Azania and Tambaza schools, which turns violent. I could tell them of a time when the rivalry between these two schools was in cricket and academics—but these young folk, I fear, will get distracted and start to tweet to each other.

Walter has a story about Dodoma wine from his days as a junior diplomat in Addis Ababa, and how Tanzania was once the second most favoured nation in China (after Albania), where he got fat because there was no social life there except eating out lavishly. Mkuki has a smile on that says, déjà vu, he’s heard it all a dozen times before. Never mind, all is forgiven. Walter brings out a Scotch. I tell Mkuki he should collect his father’s reminiscences. He’s trying, he replies.

This is modern Dar. Down below is Sea View; a short walk away is the Palm Beach Hotel; this was once an exclusive, almost white
area. Only a few days after independence, the manager of the hotel was expelled from the country for a racist comment. These young people don’t know that. Their problem is not lack of confidence but ennui. Their resentments are local. Their moment is passing, yet nothing is quite happening for them. They need something to lay a grip on, to be a part of; they need to produce something. It’s a cruel thought: we were here before, not as long ago as you like to think. It seems like yesterday. We had ambitions and we pursued them, we took risks, and we gained some and lost some; lost a lot, actually. There was no safety net, no guarantee. Your world is ready-made, you cannot afford to gamble it away for mere ideals or ambitions.

Gracie talks about having been sent to South Africa and being tempted by its many possibilities. How many of these young sophisticates will persist, I wonder, how many will be drawn away? One feels that here is not the creative edge of Bongo; that must lie among those who are closer to the masses, those who make outlandish videos and display them at public halls and inside long-distance buses; and those who write in Swahili, a language that is closer to the heart for everybody and goes deep without fear.

A few days later I sit down with Mkuki at the coffee shop of the Serena. It happens to be his birthday. He gives me his version, the subtext to our Sunday brunch.

All the people you met the other day, he says, are connected with foreign organizations. I could guess that, of course. He admits to the frustration. You return from abroad, you want a certain lifestyle. This is the only way—you consult with foreign organizations, you write reports. A joyless occupation, but the money is good. There’s a measure of disappointment when you return. You want to go to an art gallery, listen to serious music. The art scene in its serious
sense is almost nonexistent. You see paintings that would not hang in a gallery elsewhere. Those who write in English are a pampered generation, but there’s no creativity. They’ve not lived. Which is why he has greater hopes for Swahili.