Laws and Lawlessness.

A very quick, albeit naive, observation about life here is that Tanzania is completely lawless. Pure chaos. Yes, examples of corruption run rampant, and yes, people act above the law given access to people with clout or their ability to buy themselves out of most situations. And, of course, these examples emanate from even most prominent of political leaders, in other words, the very people people who should be leading by example, rather than flanking the law and then in turn expecting others to do as they say not as they do. 

Over dinner last night, someone posed the question, if things are truly as chaotic here as they seem to be, why then are there not more examples of people doing "bad" things, or rather people taking advantage of such lawlessness.  While I am in no position to answer such a loaded question with any sense of authority, the longer I have been here, the more I have learned that the appearance of chaos and lawlessness actually masks a deeply ingrained fabric of social and communal norms, where the ideals of "justice" and "retribution" and checks on errant social behavior exist in ways that are too foreign for us to recognize.

By comparison, Thailand was replete with overt rules imposing a strict sense of social order. One of the hotels we checked into in Bangkok, The Atlanta, was adorned with a bold warning on the front door, "sex tourists not welcome".  As if that simple rule was not clearly understood, their check-in procedures made clear the extent to which they take themselves seriously, further stating, "The Atlanta has a 'zero tolerance' policy with regard to trouble-makers and all illegal activities, including the use or possession of illicit drugs. Such miscreants are reported to the police without advance warning, without hesitation and without apology. Those who object to this policy, and those who wish to spend their time in Thailand whoring, indulging in alcohol abuse, drugs or other illegal activities should stay elsewhere."

Get it. Got it. Good.

Around Bangkok, every taxi van was adorned with the below sticker. Yes, yes, we get it, these are the rules of riding.

But on closer inspection, these rules were suddenly not so clear. Our roommate's six year old daughter clarified that the middle picture made a pronouncement against "wrestling" in the vehicle. Hmm, ok. And the last "rule" still leaves us scratching our heads. No horned animals? A good explanation for this one still eludes us.

In Bangkok's SkyTrain system, the exact locations where train doors will be after the train has come to a complete stop are marked on the platform as shown.

Incredibly people queue up in perfectly formed single file lines waiting to board the train until all exiting passengers have departed. Unfortunately, I never managed to capture an image of this. The orderliness of it all was particularly impressive to me, especially as in Tanzania, our immediate baseline of comparison, boarding a bus, or rather a "dala-dala," involves the herculean feat of guarding your valuables with your life and stampede-like conditions to jostle onto the bus first to secure standing space. Admittedly, even public transit systems in America cannot claim such a high level of respect and orderliness.

Within 15 minutes upon our return to Tanzania, en route home from the airport, the conversation went something like this:

Andrei, "Holy sh*t, Matty, I think that there is a huge fight going on over there."

Matty, "Oh really?" [pauses to glance in the direction indicated]

Matty, "Wait, no, actually I think those people are just boarding the dala-dala. Its always a mob scene like that."

Andrei, "Oh right, there is a nice reminder of what we have returned back to."

For better or worse, right?

Service with a Smile.

As most of you know, we recently purchased a "new-to-us" car. It is old and is nothing spectacular. But we love it, if not for anything else, but the new found sense of freedom the car affords us. As I have described in a variety of posts, this is a very difficult city to transverse on foot, bike, or public transit (no matter how loosely defined and laughable that term may be in this setting), and being solely reliant on taxis or tuk tuk drivers, while offering an added layer of luxury and convenience, can be distressing given the need to bargain again and again and again for a fair price. 

 

While the car purchase mitigated a major source stress in our lives, it also opened a new fountain of stress. With the new car, we inherited a mess of paperwork, including registering and licensing the vehicle with the government, securing insurance for the vehicle, and securing proof we were capable drivers. As with most things in this country those tasks were quickly outsourced to a local who better knows how to navigate Tanzania's complicated, bureaucratic systems. A handful of shillings later, we received our vehicle license, registration, and insurance, as well as a drivers license for Andrei. Yes, we were even able to outsource the driving test (the various components of which he "passed" in a satisfactory manner). And with that we were free to hit the streets of Dar es Salaam behind the wheel of our new automobile.

Since that time we have had 4 chance encounters with Dar es Salaam police officials (ie: we are running an average of being pulled over twice per month). The perception that all wazungus (white people) are rich heightens chances of being "randomly" pulled over for a routine check shakedown exercise. Two of these instances have been less than noteworthy, two instances were so hilariously noteworthy that it motivated this blog entry. 

Basically when you are pulled over, the police are seeking to ensure that your car has all proper paperwork and documentation, and that you are prepared for an emergency in the form of two reflective emergency triangles and a fire extinguisher. Of course there is an associated charge with each of these infractions should anything be amiss. When all checks out, there is basically nothing more they can do, barring of course an actual traffic violation. The two times I have been pulled over, the officer ran through the list of necessary things noted above, and then sent me on my merry way. 

When Andrei was recently pulled over, the officer ran through this same list of essentials. Everything was in order, as with the first two police encounters. 

But this time, the officer demands, "Give me 10,000 Tsh." 

"But why?" Andrei asks. 

Her reply, "For my dinner tonight."

Stiffling his laughter, Andrei says, "Well, the problem officer is that I do not have 10,000 Tsh."

"5000 Tsh then." 

Andrei shakes his head no.

"3000 Tsh then."

Still shaking his head no, he says, "I don't have any money." 

She tells him to get out of there. 

You gotta appreciate the honesty and the unabashed attempt at corruption.

While these first three encounters have been largely shakedown attempts, the last run-in with a police officer was actually merited. We were driving through downtown at night, where the streets are poorly lit, there are no traffic signs, and there are directional rules that change depending on the hour of the day. It was no surprise then that we made a wrong turn. We were immediately alerted to our mistake when a very large police officer with an even larger gun steps in front of our car and motions for us to pull to the side.

Andrei muttered under his breathe, "Ok man with a super large gun, I will be pulling over wherever you indicate."

We came to a stop, rolled down the window, turned off the distracting music pumping out of our ipod (made possible through cassette player adapter). 

"Yes-sir," Andrei says.

Puffing his chest, the police officer asks, "Sir, do you know why I just pulled you over?"

"No, sir. Is everything ok?"

"You just committed a traffic violation. Do you see that turn back there? You were supposed to go this way around the turn, not this way."

"Ok, I am sorry, I did not realize that, but I see my mistake now."

"We can either deal with this at the police station, or we can help you out and you can pay us right here."

"So how much will it be?"

"Well since you have committed three violations, it will be 60,000 Tsh total."

"Three violations?!"

"Yes sir, one for making the wrong turn, and there are two of you."

"And the second and third violation?"

"Well you made the wrong turn, and then you ajfkshtiney, and then hgajain haianaina."

Scratching our heads, we are mulling over our best bargaining tactic, when suddenly a second police officer comes running over to our car, and says, "Let us do you a favor, you can pay us right here instead of us taking you down to the police station."

Andrei, "Ok we will let you do us a favor and pay you directly, but I do not have 60,000 Tsh."

Officer, "How much do you have?" 

Andrei relies on his system of haphazardly dividing his money among various pockets, and hopes that he has chosen the pocket containing the lesser amount of small change. Bingo, he opens a fistful of money to reveal that we in fact do not "have" 60,000 shillings. The officer suggests that will be sufficient. 

As we drive away, he requests, please do not tell anyone about this incident. Um, right. We still have no idea exactly how much we paid them, but what we do know is that the pocket with in excess of 100,000 Tsh was left perfectly in tact. And so it seems everyone wins.

Gettings Around.

Today I write with extremely happy news, although to be sure this is may be news that makes my mother’s heart palpitate, I now have my very own bicycle! I am smitten with this new purchase, not because my newly acquired secondhand bicycle is actually anything to get excited over (as compared to my cherished Surly cross-check tucked carefully away in our door-to-door storage box whose exact location remains a complete mystery) but because having a bicycle at my disposal alleviates one of the most challenging aspects of everyday life in Dar es Salaam. While the options are several, it is nightmarish to rely on public transport to get around the city.

The cheapest option is the dala-dala, a mini bus designed to seat anywhere between 15-25 passengers, depending on the make and model of the vehicle. The turnboy, in Dar slang Mgiga debe, is responsible for soliciting passengers, collecting money and issuing tickets. This nickname, meaning literally “he who forces things into a tin can,” is well earned as a typical dala-dala in rush hour traffic carries upwards of 50 people, involving acrobatic twists and contortions of the passengers to accommodate even further passengers. The name dala-dala derives rather simply from a loosely pronounced “dollar-dollar” because the cost of a ride originally was equivalent to one US dollar. Given rapid inflation rates of the local currency, the Tanzanian Shilling, this is no longer the case. Today January 23, 2010, one US dollar is equivalent to 1,347, it was 1,323 when I arrived into Tanzania on October 28, 2009. The price of a dala-dala ride now roughly equates to a little over 18 cents. While cheap, this transport option is less than pleasant. Sometimes my eyes tear up with the intense smell of body odor around me. When idling in traffic, sweat drips from parts of my body I previously thought impossible, including the nape of my neck and the backs of my knees. And then of course there is a fear of people doing you the favor of lessening your load by riffling through your pockets and belongings when crammed into such a tiny space.

Next up transport option is the bajaj. These three-wheeled, motorized vehicles are known as tuk-tuks in most places around the world. Here in Tanzania they have taken on the name bajaj after the Bajaj Auto Manufacturing company. Bajajs have flooded the market to fill demand for a transport option at a median price point between the dala-dala and a private taxi. While efficient and often fun, safe is not a word that comes to mind to describe these vehicles. The typical bajaj driver is a 15 year old boy who much like his teenage peers throughout the world has not developed a mature sense of risk aversion. In their mind, faster is better.

Exclusive reliance on private taxi transport would certainly crush my very modest budget for the year. At 250 Tsh per dala-dala ride the bicycle would pay for itself in a mere 320 rides to and from work. By comparison, for the price of the bicycle I could fetch a whopping 16 rides to work via private taxi at a consertatively estimated rate of 5,000 Tsh each way. One of the most frustrating aspects of securing private taxi transport is the lack of a fixed price – everything must be negotiated. Effective negotiations are enhanced by strong Swahili skills, and patience, including the ability to walk away in search of another taxi driver willing to take you to your desired destination at the price you know to be fair. In the minds of the taxi cab drivers a white face equals money.

A walking city, this is not, given perilous levels of dust, heat, and exhaust fumes combined with erratic driving behaviors and a general lack of sidewalks. But luckily, my route to work is lined 99% of the way with one of the few paved sidewalks Dar es Salaam has to offer. To date, Andrei and I remain carless, which is something we begrudgingly may be forced to reconsider at some point in the future. In the mean time, the search for a bicycle for Andrei begins.