Ripping the night fantastic...

We were stuck in traffic en route to the camp site situated along the coast to the south of the city of Dar es Salaam when suddenly the driver of a light delivery truck jumped from the cab and charged between the cars. After a few minutes he returned despondently and walked around the passenger side of his vehicle before climbing into the cab with his air filter. Someone had stolen the cover.

Later that evening I was returning to my tent after a shower when frantic screaming from the beach drew my attention. One of the guests was charging her phone just outside her tent when one of the locals walked by and casually unplugged the phone and charged down the beach. Needless to say, she was in a state.

Welcome to Dar es Salaam.

Crime was just another part of growing up on the Cape Flats and although I was cautious, I was not too concerned. Shit happens after all: no matter where you are. A few nights later I was asleep when I heard a ripping noise and upon waking I discovered that someone was cutting through the mosquito mesh of my tent. “Jas naai!” was all it took for the fucker to run off into the predawn darkness and by the time I stood naked outside my tent the would-be thief was nowhere to be seen. Pretty much like the security who came ambling up wiping the sleep from their eyes. After a brief investigation, they confirmed that they suspected the guy in the tent next to mine. He was a local who had spent a romantic night with his wife and even though I knew that it could not have been him, they badgered him for more than fifteen minutes and all because he did not get up to investigate when his wife told him earlier that she had heard someone sneaking about outside. Talk about racial profiling. At least I was up in time to watch the sunrise and listen to the boom of the local fishermen using explosives to collect the morning’s catch.

The Sunrise Beach Resort is one of more than a dozen such concessions scattered along the coast and with legislation preventing the fencing off of the beach, the lukewarm water was filled locals enjoying the ocean. This was a welcome sight when compared with South Africa where so many beaches have been privatised and where access is controlled by private security companies. To the right of the fancy resort where day visitors pay 5000 Shillings to enter, was a tiny ramshackle Rasta bar where the inferior strain of local ganja was readily available and where a couple of beach boys and girls hang out every day waiting to be picked up by tourists who come here especially to purchase the endless array of sexual indulgences on offer.

But the flesh trade paled in comparison to the amount of micro enterprises lining every major thoroughfare and side road. Tiny hovels selling every conceivable kind of goods and service. Some with just fresh fruit or a single vegetable while others stocked a wide variety of clothing or foodstuffs with restaurants and pubs and repair shops in between. And every one making some sort of living.

And having shared my blood with the mosquitoes, and sweated through the steaming nights, we prepare once again to depart this sub-tropical paradise where the wind and the waves and the humidity will remain to fan the insatiable desires of foreigners and locals alike.