Following is an excerpt from my diary of my trip to Tanzania five years ago:
July 13, 2003
Arrived late yesterday evening (10:55 p.m.) at Dar airport. Learned a quick lesson: I was asked by a man shorter than me, with a pudgyness like a young child, to fill out a special form -- a SARS report. Having done this, I ended up being in line with no one ahead or behind me. Then Jelly Man says, "there is a long line, how are you going to get through?"
I say, "A long line?"
"Yes, there is a queue." I wait a few seconds, looking confused and realizing that Jelly Man wants to help me out, so I can help him out.
So I say to him, "Can you help me?"
He: "I can help you, can you help me?"
Me: "What kind of help?"
Jelly Man looks at me confused, maybe just frustrated because my questions seemed so mis-placed. What I meant to ask him, in a slightly hushed tone, was, "How much?"
He goes on to say, "you can help me?" Somewhat as a question and as a statement.
Finally, I say, "How much?"
He says, "$20.00."
Me: "How much is a Visa?"
Now events start to get very complicated. Ridiculously complicated and tangled. I don't have any cash. I have traveller's cheques. So Jelly Man escorts me past the line with the White faces, past the immigration officers and their Kalashnikov carrying army guy, to the "National Bureau of Exchange."
Jelly Man translates for me but the lady behind the plexi-glass has no U.S. dollars. It seems that the "National Bureau" is tapped out.
Outside the airport building is a man encased in glass. A small Indian man, shirt, tie, thin moustache. I go into his booth and ask if he can exchange my cheques for cash. He says, okay, except Jelly Man has my passport and gave it to a female immigration officer inside the terminal. Now, I don't have my passport. Thus, no way to change my traveller's cheques and I am drawing interest from the taxi drivers, the soldier (now standing outside the booth), and the immigration officers. And the Indian seems like an inadequate ally.
I tell the Indian man (an Ismaili who happens to speak Gujurathi) that I will be back.
Jelly Man is right outside the door and is very curious. I tell him my dilemma. As he walks me into the main building, various immigration types stop us to ask Jelly Man what is going on and why am I being escorted and most probably, they are also smelling blood. My blood.
The lady with my passport can't be found at first. We finally find her, he talks to her and I realize (a little too late) that my friend, the Jelly Man, is, like myself, out of his depth. He seems to be a clerk and not an immigration official. So, even though he is blustering his way through and past various checkpoints, he doesn't have the necessary juice to issue a cut-rate visa.
I finally get my passport and go back to the Indian man with the U.S. dollars. He is very helpful and kind, let's me make a call or two into town and gives me real money. Fifty U.S. dollars and a million shillings ($50 U.S.).
Now, Jelly Man and soldier (who is smiling) are both outside the door to the booth. I have now taken on the attitude of a man who expects to jump the line, go past the usual formalities. I have to because I am scared that this will all go wrong somehow but I can't allow myself to show fear. It is one thing to smell blood, quite another to see and taste it. Seeing and tasting leads to frenzies.
On the way into the airport building we are stopped by an immigration officer. Jelly Man says this and that and we move on. I am now put at the front of the line of white faces (all six of them). Jelly Man, I think, could not talk his way into or out of a wet paper bag.
Now we start our stilted conversation again.
He: "Can you help me?"
Me: "Let me get my visa."
He: "Your visa is coming. Can you do something for me?"
Me: "You didn't do anything for me!"
He: "I helped you!"
Me: "My visa is costing $50."
He: "Yes. Now you help me."
We go back and forth like this for 5-7 minutes. It's hard to say exactly how long because I don't keep good track of time while sweating in fear. Finally, I tell him he can wait if he wants -- at the front of the line, in front of the immigration officers and all the glaring black faces -- but I can't help him. He persists. I raise my voice and say, "I don't have anything for you!" Then decide to just ignore any more pleas from him. Jelly Man eventually walks away grumbling. While I have been chatting with Jelly Man and waiting for my documents, everyone that was behind me has been served and exited with their papers
I get my visa and tackle the next problem that has been gnawing away at me: My contact has not arrived to pick me up. No foreigners are at the airport. It is midnight. I have spent the better part of an hour on the visa and now go through immigration to be questioned once more and then try to phone my contact to see if I can still get a ride.
Indian man it is. Three phone calls later, I find my contact on his cell phone. They were not expecting me tonight. Some kind of miscommunication between here and my dad in Canada.
I then talk to an albino woman inside the information booth and manage to get the first genuine smile from a Tanzanian since landing. She has, despite her albinism, green eyes. I tell her her eyes are beautiful and my sister has pink eyes. She smiles and we chat.
I have a smoke while sitting on a bench by the curb with three Black men who look at me but simply do not see me.
Indian man is locking up for the night and calls his security guard (Askari) with a kiss-squeak. The security guard is not a boy, he is well into his 20's. Now I know why the Blacks are treating me with disdain. My ride arrives after twenty minutes and I am whisked away in an air-conditioned Benz to the enclave of Oyster Bay. An area replete with embassies and missions.
On the way to my host's residence, we bust every single traffic light we come upon. My host only slows down long enough to make sure we won't get into an accident and then barrels on through the red lights for fear that we might be robbed while waiting at a red light.
Nearly 30 years after leaving Dar-es-Salam, I have finally arrived.
clipped from www.dogpaddlingadventures.com
The
