My Tanzanian "Boyfriend"

I often joke about my Tanzanian "boyfriend." I first met him while waiting for the boys at the taxi stand to head to Dragonaires. The handshake was long and not wanting to misinterpret cultural greetings I let him hold it for a few minutes, after which I tried to squirm out of the firm grasp he had on my right hand. Commenting on the fact that we had mutual friends, he asked to borrow my phone and I obliged. He called himself...ingenious way of obtaining my number.

The first bit of conversation was seemingly normal. He asked the usual questions: Where are you from? What are you doing in Tanzania? Why did you come here? What do you hope to get out of the experience? When he offered a room in his house to me, I started to Zacharia asked for my hand in marriage, claiming that white English girls are of a purer character than their African counterparts. I was taken aback, offended even, by his statement of hatred for "stupid African women" and his assumption that because I'm mzungu I have money and a good education. His lack of respect for African women, Tanzanian women in particular, left me speechless.

After our first conversation he called me on a daily basis, multiple times each day even. I ignored all of his calls but my subtle rejection was obviously not a strong enough social cue. He would find me as a walked to work and scold me for not keeping in touch with him. Was I sick? If I did not answer the phone how was he to know that I was not. He would ask for money or work, neither of which I would give him.

Yesterday Little Mango was introduced. He found us as we were heading to town. Keeping my hand in his for many minutes, I had to struggle a little to remove it. Later I asked E about him and the stories poured out. Antidotes about his alcoholism, his drug problem, the mess he has created for his family, the lack of respect for women.

Needless to say, I don't think it's going anywhere.

Back to Dar

After a quiet ride with the owner and operator of Peponi in his Land Rover, we got dropped off at the Tanga bus station. If I never have to take a bus (or grace a bus station) in Tanzania again, I don't think I'd be too devastated. The guy who shuffled us into the dalla dalla somehow recognized us and offered us another ride and followed us in our circle around the bus station until we booked our tickets.

We did a short circle around Tanga, in desperate search of the ice cream parlor. Of course, we were followed for literally 2 km by a guy who had requested a cig. Do I look like a smoker? Finally, after lots of angry attempts to get rid of the guy I yelled Niecha! (Leave me!) at him. We found refuge from the heat and the pesky follower in another ice cream parlor that from what I could tell hadn't opened yet for the day.

Warning: I'm about to complain about another sweaty bus ride. We were called to board the bus, along with everyone else sitting in the back two rows. B's backpack didn't fit in the overhead compartment and neither did mine. Sweaty with pushy Tanzanians anxious to sit in their seats all around, I managed to squeeze mine under the seat. Unluckily for B she sat with hers on lap for almost the entire trip.

Ah...finally in Dar! Again, mean and hypoglycemic we made a quick taxi drive over to Sweet Eazy for happy hour and overpriced vegetable stir fry. The calamari made my day but also made me miss DC and my usual calamari consuming companion. (Hope you're reading this Gatto)

Then after a much needed boost in my blood sugar levels it was out to the airport to fetch Little Mango, the newest American arrival in Tanzania. Another great night and the Swiss Garden Hotel, Nutella crepes at Seacliff Village, and another thrilling trip to Shoppers Supermarket. Also picked up North of South and The Yiddish Policeman's Union at A Novel Idea. Set me back 40 bucks but worth.

Back to Morogoro!

The Peponi Routine

Another adventure at the Arusha bus station ensued before B and I began another six hour bus ride. Destination: Tanga...actually Pangani...better yet, Peponi--a small and secluded beach resort. Having eaten breakfast at 7 AM, B and I were all but famished. We were pushed toward a dalla dalla on route to Pangani but after 10 minutes of waiting with my backpack on my lap (the honey I purchased from Mama Anna all over the left strap) and a pest of a man harassing me for money, B and I decided to splurge and take a cab. Luckily before hand we had looked up the Swahili for Piss off! and Leave me alone! so I better equipped to get rid of the guy who insisted on tapping me a little too close to my chest for comfort. When we finally arrived--arrive a taxi ride almost entirely on the wrong side of the road where the road was "better"--we were told we would have to wait until 8 PM to eat the first meal of the day. I almost went into major hypoglycemic fit mode but showed a little restraint and ordered a brownie and a beer instead.

B and I made a b-line for the beach and had a nice walk on the beach, still anxiously awaiting seafood salads and crab pasta.
Later at the bar we practiced Swahili from the social sections of the phrasebook titled "going out," "pick up lines," "getting closer," and "love." The little girls in us definitely glaringly apparent. Little did we know that we'd already fallen into the Peponi Routine: eat breakfast, hang out on the beach, cool off in the warm water of the Indian Ocean, eat lunch, take a nap, shower (hot water is on from 5:30 to 8:30), eat dinner, play cribbage, pass out, repeat.

Pictures are here for those of you that like to be green with envy. Again, the artsy, well-lit ones are B's.