The plan was to spend one night in Dar es Salaam, then take the long ride down to Malawi. Heh. Misfire. First of all, once I'd waded through the throngs of "helpful" folk looking to lead you to the office (for a tip) I was told that no buses were leaving on Monday. Fine. Two nights in Dar. Well, not fine, but workable. I asked a taxi driver to take me to an affordable hotel.
Dar es Salaam is like a furnace, but my room had air conditioning, so the obvious first step was to strip down and stand under it, then get down to some serious time wasting. Unfortunately, the hotel was in such a bad neighborhood that I couldn't leave without a driver. Also, the hotel was having some problems with basic stuff working- like toilets, or water in general. They moved me four times- and this is without me putting up a fuss! I'm not a complainer, but they were such basic issues each time that they had to move me. Although my fifth room was a marvel of functional appliances, by the time it came to my second night, I was more than ready to leave. I ordered a greek salad for dinner, and went to bed early. Briefly woken up by the mosque next door which bellows its chants five times a day on a megaphone, then back to sleep.
Only I didn't sleep. Nausea set in early on, and by morning I had to accept that I was going nowhere that day. The driver who had taken me to the hotel, Shabbani, was waiting for me outside, and I managed to explain the problem to him. He started patting my stomach and rubbing my neck and telling me he was sorry, and would help. We drove to the station- very slowly, despite the clear roads. He was telling me something about how he likes me, and he will give me god. Meanwhile rubbing my neck. I was getting nervous, and told him I don't like being touched. Which only stopped him for a minute or two, so I repeated it.
By the time we got to the station, the nausea was worse, and I was having trouble standing, so Shabbani explained to them what was wrong. I might have been grateful, except that every time I tried to stand he grabbed my wrist and wouldn't let me go anywhere. They gave me an "open date" ticket, meaning supposedly that I could come any day and get on the bus to Lilongwe. "Fine," I said, "But you don't go on Mondays. Are there other days with no bus?" "Yes, yes, open date," they beamed, nodding. I tried this several times, varying the words, with no success. Stomach churning, I gave up. We stopped at an ATM on the way back to the hotel, but first I had to throw up in a small park, with Shabbani pounding my back- for future reference, don't do this to anyone. It's unpleasant. He offered to take me to a hospital but (a) I knew he was overcharging me and (b) I was making it a priority to get away from him, at this point. When we got to the hotel, he dropped the best line: "I will come to the room to help you sleep." Seemed surprised when I said no and fled.
After resting a while, I asked the hotel front desk to call me any cab but Shabbani. My new driver was lovely- content to let me sit in the back, while he ran the AC and radio, and he charged less than half what Shabbani did. At the hospital, the doctor told me that I most likely had a bacterial infection, and never to eat salads in Africa. Lesson learned, with a big red check-mark. Bring on the Cippro- and since Cippro has the reputation of killing everything in your digestive tract, I also invested in some active-culture yogurt.
My stomach felt better by the evening, and I told the new driver, Allan, to come for me in the morning to take me to the bus station. When I got downstairs, a bit early, Shabbani's car was there. Uncalled. But I remembered from the first morning that he's a heavy sleeper while he waits, so I lay low in the dark office until Allan came, then crept around him. But we hit another snag. "No bus today" they told me at the station, after I'd waited in a sweaty office almost an hour. I was ready to scream. Not trusting this "open date ticket" rubbish, I made them write me a new one for tomorrow, and promise that there would be a bus. Then I had a cab take me to a new hotel, where Shabbani won't be able to find me.
So now I'm waiting until they're allowed to check me in. My opinion of Dar es Salaam, and the bus station in particular, is somewhere below mayonnaise on the dislike scale, and if you've eaten with me, you know what that means. This whole city smells like dead chickens, and is about as efficient. Say TIA ("This is Africa") all you want, but come on! I feel sorry for my contact in Malawi, who has gotten daily messages explaining that I've been detained yet another day.
If they're true to their word, however (big If), and if I avoid salads today, I should be able to get out tomorrow and head Malawi-wards, where they'll have something useful for me to do.
Stay Tuned!
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