PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION OF TANZANIA

How to Ride the Dala Dala

by AMY J. GANSER, staff writer

Fumbling through my bag for 250 shillings, I wiped the perspiration from my brow as I pathetically attempted to cross my legs tightly enough to avoid sitting on two complete strangers' laps. In spite of my meager Swahili lessons, even the simplest phrases baffled me-- in this case, I had forgotten how to proclaim that my exit was approaching. Thank Christ for my moleskine, in which I had illegibly scribbled 'shusha!' with arrows drawn all around it, as if that was supposed to aid me in my attempt to behave like a local. The conductor passed me the change, giving me the correct amount for the first time... I had learned to carry coins with me after getting short-changed innumerable times. I shoved it in my pocket and thanked the driver. With local music blaring through the scratchy speakers behind me, I jumped out of the dala dala making sure to avoid the bicyclists and motorbikes whizzing past me and into the narrow alleyways. Number 115 soared off, with the conductor hanging backside-out of the sliding door, only to leave a trail of exhaust in its wake. Being an aficionado of public transit, I would like to think that I've experienced a vast array of transport. None however, have been as rich of a cultural experience than Tanzania's dala dalas.

In the duration of my stay in East Africa, I encountered two types of dala dalas. There are those that resemble Japanese-manufactured minivans popularly seen around the United States in the early 1980s, always in ashen colors, and there are the others that consist of a truck with wooden benches installed in the back, and an open top to give one a sense of 'security.' My rigid, American ass was fiercely clenched in the extent of my transit in the latter, as with every turn the school children who were made to stand in the center would slip and slide on the slick truck's surface. Nevertheless, the other passengers always remained safe, and found amusement in my terror.

Each ride I took from town to my home-stay family's house was fascinating. I felt like an audience of one to a mysterious and secret ritual. That is, until the rides where people began interacting with me. More often than not, locals would ask me inquisitively if I was lost, and where I was going. Or perhaps, if I'd like to practice my Swahili with them. It seemed that the dala dalas were limited to natives, as tourists or visitors would frequently hail taxis or simply walked. There were other times like the incident in Zanzibar where my sweat stained jeans clung to my legs as I crouched to the side of my dala dala, the 110, only to reveal 1/3 of my pale derrière to the gasping Muslim women behind me. They giggled through their headdresses as one of the more courageous women reached out to pull my t-shirt down covering up the offense.

Although every journey on the dala dala was interestingly unique, there were certain consistencies I experienced. With each ride, the vehicle was saturated with countless people. I never saw less than 12, and as the seats would fill, more would congregate in the aisles and edges. Dala dalas house a diverse range of people, with children in their adorable school uniforms sitting alongside of business people in more formal attire heading out to their jobs. The driver virtually never interacts with the passengers, yet there is a conductor of sorts that hangs out of the open door taking exit proclamations and fare money. Until I was more confident in my route and the language, I would always pick up my dala-dala at the central station, requesting that the conductor let me off at 'Bizirhedi,' my neighborhood mosque. After climbing in, hands would protrude from each window offering peanuts and scarves from the nearest marketplace. Besides the vendors, I rarely saw the same person twice on my dala dala-- even when it came to the driver.
Other aspects of each route, on the other hand, I found more difficult to understand. It appeared that if the majority of passengers desired to reach a destination that contradicted the typical route of that particular dala dala, the conductor would sporadically change the vehicle's direction, eliminating half of the standard future stops. Upon my inquisition about this, my host-father simply laughed, shook his head, and offered to accompany me in forthcoming journeys. Sometimes, other unusual things would occur, like the man who nonchalantly led a goat in next to him. The miraculous thing to me was not that a goat was riding the dala dala, but that to the goat, this was nothing new. It appeared perfectly calm and collected and pranced off at the appropriate stop.

Tanzania's dala dalas are moving vestibules of life. While sitting on the torn upholstery or sanded benches, one experiences some of the most poignant elements of East African culture. The particular smells of the area float through the open windows. Sounds of a group of stray cats' cries and marketplace haggling are barely perceptible over the boom of Farsi or Swahili lyrics on the radio. Vibrant colors of the Indian Ocean, the tin rooftops, and women's clothing mesh together as the dala dala speeds past them. Of course, the option of quietly riding from one point to another resides on the public transportation of Tanzania, yet I would recommend that one heightens their senses while riding the dala dala in order to absorb the fertile cultural experience.