Lung of Darkness: a tale of tuberculosis
in tanzania

It is my third full day in Tanzania, and it feels like I’ve been here weeks. The days have been packed and the emotions and experiences are swimming in my head (already some forgotten); I’ll try to give you the highlights. The following is a bit long, so the key points for those without a lot of time—

We’re living the good life and getting our researched started up.
The people are noticeably happy, though some in serious poverty.
Food here is super cheap.

The more full version—

Night of Arrival:
I love how all places have their own subtle, unmatchable scents. Amsterdam’s Schipol airport made me lightheaded with it’s smell of luxury. My flight, which was crowded more with 60+ safari-clad white couples than natives (it’s $$$ to fly after all), unloaded most travelers at a stop in Kilimanjaro, and touched down over the isolated sparkle of Dar es Salaam right on time. I was ecstatic to see my pack’s arrival and a man holding a sign that read “Mr. John.” After shaking hands with the my driver Allih, I was sped (on the left hand side of the road, through darkened streets, with pedestrians running across within inches of the side mirrors) toward the ferry I would cross to meet Tom and Sam. Allih was a driver and part-time farmer who had lived in Dar his whole life and had never traveled beyond the borders of Africa. He was a cheerful guy and said he loved it here. We cruised on through the night past shacks and fires and the stench of the fish market, and after meeting up with the duo, who were straight out of South Africa, I unpacked my bag of heavy-duty mosquito net, paint-decaying bug repellent, and starvation’s-edge sunflower seeds into our 3-bedroom stay. I had prepared for an inner-city, sketchy-as-hell hostel and was greeted with marble floors, spacious bedrooms, and a lush courtyard with pool. All for less than the rent of that old Evanston apartment above Buff Joes. Incredible. And so, safe in paradise, I caught up with friends and went off to dreams.

Day 1:
A right-angle neck bent daladala (bus) ride from house to ferry due to typical overcrowding and we were floating off to town. Tried my Swahili with a little boy named Fabian, who held my hand in the rush off the boat. Before I knew it he was swept off into Dar es Salaam to meet his sister. Strolled the tree-covered street to the heart of town, passing countless vendors and businessmen and women with sacks balanced on heads. Everyone had somewhere to go, but I couldn’t ignore the relaxed and friendly vibe. Said hey to the firefighters sitting in their field passing the day. Ate rice and beans for lunch at the Mansaer Cafeteria—it was unbelievably cheap, delicious, and sustaining like any great meal. Told the owner “watawaona kesho” instead of “tutawaonana kesho,” saying “they will see them tomorrow!” over “we will see you tomorrow!” He smiled and understood all the same (we did go back the next day). Went off to our real estate agent’s house to ask a printing favor, and took almost an hour of her time after which she was still all smiles and would not take our apologies for the inconvenience. People taking the time to help (or even stop and greet) other people and asking for nothing in return makes the world go ‘round. Grabbed beers at the NBC Club, swarmed by shoe/hat vendors all the while, and off to the supermarket to grab the usual spicy foodstuffs. On the ferry back, met a 25-year-old American from Seattle who had come by way of poverty work in Zambia. Talked about how microfinance cannot save the world, but it can make the world a bit better of a place (something that large-scale government to government aid is NOT doing a lot of right now). Sad conversation, but hopeful. His friend’s 4-month-old baby died in Zambia several weeks ago due to a doctor’s strike. The problems across Africa are so complex and unsettling. I just hope to help in my own tiny way. White person count for the day: 21. Soccer, swim, beans and hot dogs, all chased by beer to swallow the day.

Day 2:
Woke up at 7:30 to roosters crowing; sweat beaded on my face as I stepped out for a morning run with Tom. Escaped the exhaust of the main Kigamboni road to the open beach, lined with beautiful houses and run-down shacks on one side and the glittering Indian Ocean sparse with beautifully crafted fishing boats on the other. Took a dip and met some odd-vibed guys living out of one’s sister’s house while she was out of town. Was invited to one of the many offshore islands and a night bonfire drum circle, but passed on account of a feeling that Tom had (and I, deep in my gut). I plan to boat to an offshore island one of these days. Cooked a hearty breakfast, cooled in the pool, and set off past a man and his travelling livestock parade to downtown Dar. After errands and sucking a fish off the bone (at Mansaer), we were invited to a table at a filled outdoor bar. These locals spoke great English, and after a warm first impression, we found that one had a German girlfriend who interned at a main hospital and could help us out in our research. He was indescribably genuine, claiming he was a “hustler” teaching people in the world how to love life and company, and we made loose plans with him for later in the night. Back home to steaks, beer, and homemade coconut rice and we were filled the the brim and ready for the night. We set out to meet our new friend, Fary, at a bar he was at with friends. So it turned out the bar had partially become a high-class brothel, which was as interesting as sad to watch, but we stirred up great conversation and spirits and had a great night. Fary gave us a lift (DD-ing for those of you who would get nervous reading this) to the ferry and I found sleep after a bumpy bajaji (motorbike/cart combo) ride home through the black night.

Day 3:
I’ve remembered my dreams here every morning, vividly; time will tell if it’s just happenstance. Slept in and watched Al Jazeera until early afternoon—apparently there are evangelical Christians in the US army who think they’re fighting in a jihaad. Walked to the market to buy Bitter Lemon sodas and beans for dinner, learned why you have to pick beans over (they were filled with bugs), and strolled to the beach. We all went buck-wild taking pictures/video because the scene was beautiful. Waved and exchanged, like we often do outside of downtown Dar, with passersby. Couldn’t hear what some chalk-makers said when they waved to us, so I walked over. It turned into a long conversation with friendly people about life in Tanzania and Chicago. They were such happy people, but when one explained the poverty there, he seemed deeply uneasy. The same man was taken aback when I said that English was spoken both in the city of Chicago and in my village in Chicago. (This isn’t indicative of the whole population—it really does seem as if the richer are getting richer and the poor, poorer.) We explained in broken Swahili-English that we students researching kifua kikuu (tuberculosis). We explained that the documentary we were making, that now included them, was to be shown to Americans with the hope of inspiring them to do good. He asked, “how are you going to help Me?” It didn’t even enter into my mind that it wasn’t my responsibility to help this man. Instead, I searched for an answer and came up with only… a stare. I cannot explain the situation, but there was so much emotion stirring from the path of conversation. I almost teared up, but held back, playing that I was searching for the right Swahili words. At length, we wished them good luck (vizuri sana), because it was all we could do, and said an extended goodbye. One man bought us all peanuts from a travelling boy vendor with his own money, which was surely scarce, and we waved off. The peanuts tasted good after our talk, and I ended up giving the rest to a baby girl we had frightened to crying with our glowing whiteness. She cheered up a bit at that as we told her family kwa herini (goodbye all/with good fortune). Walked to a pub and onward home, cooked up some bean and vegetable curry with rice, took a swim after our power went out mid south african tv’s showing of sixth sense, and now I’m about to nod off. Goodnight!

Last thoughts:
Travel surely lets us know and love the things we cannot help but take for granted at home. (please email me with updates! I want to know what you’re up to)
Hakuna matata! (straight out of the Lion King, but means “have no worries” in Swahili, and has never let me down)

All the best,

John