Mzungu

In Swahili it translates to white person, foreigner. Personally, to the Tanzanian, I feel that it translates to mean savior. At least that is what my experience has come to be. Walking through the city of Dar es Salaam this weekend it was hard not to see the blatant poverty stricken lifestyles that is the harsh reality of so many of the citizens here. It seemed that at every street corner there was someone selling something. One person in particular approached me out of the blue with a backpack on his back, well groomed, and spoke English remarkably well. My immediate impression was that he was a tourist as well, or at least he did not immediately reside within Dar. He was very friendly, told me how he enjoyed meeting tourists and especially loved Americans. Then he started telling me about how he was an orphaned child early on, that he was then sponsored by a wealthy Canadian man who was arranging for him to move to Canada but passed away before things were finalized and was thus forced to re-enter the standard way of life in Dar once mar. (Misspelling intended for pun purposesJ). So to make a living for himself he started spatula painting on canvas, depicting Maasai life. He asked me where I was going to be going that afternoon, to which I replied I was simply out for a walk and had no place in particular in mind. He suggested going to the botanical gardens and offered to show me the way. Now “the way” was “out of the way” for where I intended in going that afternoon despite my having no particular destination, but I had marked it in my Tanzania book purchased back in the states prior to departure as one of the places I wanted to visit while in Dar so I entertained the young man (learning later that he was 22) and allowed him to take me off my course of meandering and directly to this secret garden. I quickly had an overwhelming sense of apprehension as we weaved off the main highway onto some roads less traveled. I don’t want to come across as being racist/prejudice/biased but with the number of tourist muggings that happen every hour within the city limits I wasn’t too eager to become just another statistic. Each and every time we crossed a street I hesitated slightly to survey the surroundings, figure out what street I was on, and refresh in my mind which way it was back to the highway in case I needed to high tail it out of there. Finally we arrived. I was happy I took his offer as the ‘garden’ was worth the venture. I quickly returned to ease as my guide walked me past tree after tree, each being completely different than the last, each having a unique gift to offer, be it medicinal, fruit-bearing, or simply for beholding beauty. Peacocks flocked together on the grassy grounds, running from one patch to the next as people passed by; what sounded to be thousands of their smaller, more flight-friendly relatives sat perched in the variety of greenery. The natural beauty was further enhanced as it was the first and only place in Tanzania thus far that wasn’t littered with garbage. The garden was actually very well maintained. I learned from my guide that some of the locals are very protective of the garden and do their best to make sure that it stays that way.

Now, back to the topic at hand at the beginning of this post. My guide, having me at our final destination, relaxed and with my guard down after taking in this charming center within the city, really starts to reiterate the fact that he is poor, starving, and homeless. He pulls out his roll of painted canvas (to which he told me he purposely doesn’t frame so as to enhance its portability while traveling – making it ideal for tourists such as myself) depicting Maasai life. The paintings are all very nice, he does great work. He tells me that he sells them for a very expensive price but for me he will give me a deal. I stop him there. I tell him that his paintings are nice but that I don’t carry any money on me when out walking and that I have no way of paying for any of his paintings. I lied. I just didn’t want to buy any of his work, mainly for the fact that I felt that I was being used. He acts like he’s a friend, takes me to these places, goes out of the way, acts very nice, and then expects me to ‘rescue’ him from his condition by buying one of his paintings or giving him a cash handout so that he can go and eat. This is what really kills me, though. Upon hearing that I have nothing to offer him he packs up his belongings and says he’ll take me back to the highway. I told him I knew the way. He never said another word to me. He wanted nothing to do with me now that I had nothing to give to him. I felt even moreso like I was being used. I got back to the highway, said goodbye to him as he kept on walking without giving a reply, rounded the corner and bought a mango and some bananas to enjoy later in the week. Heartless.

But then I rounded the corner again and was met by, what would you guess, another starving artist. No shaking him, tells me the same story. I tell him not to waste his time.
The next day I was out walking near where I live, taking some pictures to remember where home was while I was here, and out runs this young guy from one of the nearby shops. Not as well groomed as the other two guys were yesterday. He just wants me to come into his shop. Since I was trying to find some phone vouchers (basically cell phone minutes – all the phones here are pay as you go) so that I could call home later that night I decided to go in and check out his shop. I ask him for the vouchers but learn that he doesn’t sell them in his store. He tells me he’ll take me to a shop down the road where I can get one. We need to stop by his house first. He takes me into his dingy yellow, dilapidated single level house where his sickly-looking mother, sister, and cousin are sprawled out on severely stained and torn red couches watching a program in Swahili on a fuzzy black and white television. It smells terrible. The house is a mess. It’s a very sad sight. Makes me feel grateful for where I’m staying. The boy runs out to grab a pen and paper as he wants to write me some words to learn in Swahili. He tells me to have a seat and watch TV with his family. I sit. 5 minutes go by with the family all staring at me squirming in my seat from where I’m sitting on watching the TV but not understanding a thing. I think the family can tell I don’t want to look at them. When he comes back I tell him I need to go and that my dictionary will suffice in teaching me the Swahili I need and quickly head to the door. He follows me and tells me he wants to show me his room. He takes me to the garage off the main house, opens a shutter on the side, opening to his room. The smell almost made me hurl. Inside the small room were two small beds without mattresses and some dirty clothes in the corner. Come to think of it, everything was dirty; dark and dirty. It make me feel all that more lucky.

Enough of the house, he decides to take me to the store. I buy my Tigo cards (Tigo is the cell phone provider for my phone). The change goes into my wallet, into my pocket, the boy notices. We head back toward his store on the way back to my house and run into one of his friends. They want to take me to the beach. Since I love Coco beach and had nothing else to do that afternoon I decide to walk with them down there. We talk about how I want to climb Kili. He tells me that he just recently climbed and that he knows some people that I can contact to get a good deal. We head back home and once I’m about to depart from their path toward my house the boy unloads his story once again. He wants to be a film director, to make documentaries and take them to the states to show Americans what African life is like. But how can he make movies when he cannot even eat? He asks if I can give him the change from my Tigo cards so that he can buy some food or some minutes of his own so that he can use his phone. I told him that I need that money for myself so that I can continue to eat. I never told him the extent of my debt and that I basically used the last of my money to come to his country. Still it wouldn’t dare to resemble his definition of “poor”. But once again I felt used. He seemed very friendly, caring, went out of his way, talked so sweetly, and was going to help me out in return that I would help him. That I would give him my money. That I would be his savior.

I thought that I had seen the last of him that night. Tonight, shortly after I returned home after work, the gatekeeper knocked on my door and told me I had a guest at the gate. I walked out my door to see him standing there. I don’t know how he found me. Maybe he followed me. Maybe he knocked at every gate from where he last saw me asking for me. Regardless, he wasn’t going to let me go. He wanted to come in and teach me some more Swahili. I told him I was terribly busy and that I didn’t have time. Then he told me that he needs for me to write him a letter when I go back to the states, inviting him to America so that he can apply for a visa and come to America as well. He also needed me to come with him to tomorrow to help him get a job selling gemstones; I was to be a customer and buy some diamonds or tanzanite from him in front of this guy to demonstrate how good of salesman he could be. Maybe I should have told him my level of poverty so he’d understand that I could not possibly afford to buy gemstones at this point and time in my life. I finally was able to send him along his way. I told the gatekeeper that if he should ever come to the gate again to send him away. I didn’t want him coming back. I’m sure Karma will bite me in the butt for that.

I just find it infuriating that I can’t go anywhere here without trying to be taken advantage of or used for personal gain. Doesn't anyone just want to be my friend? Don’t get me wrong, I truly wish that I had the luxury of infinite wealth that I could freely throw money at anyone who asks. But for now I can’t. For now I’m nobody’s savior. For now I’m simply mzungu.

More to come. Stay tuned.