August 21, 2023
At Julius Nyerere Airport there was a taxi ticket counter—the price list on the window, its shutter closed. I was wandering in, confused, needing a means of transportation. “Taxi?” I ignored the small-middle-aged man. I never heard anything good about taxi driver in Dar es Salaam. I went to the information center. “Please tell me a safety taxi,” I asked a woman, who pointed at the small man, whom I had ignored a moment ago. I inspected him oddly : he wore beige pants and a yellow vest as an airport employee, and an ID hung on his chest.
The small man wore a faint smile, and approaching me. “Taxi?” he said again. I distrusted the taxi driver entirely, but I had no choice but to ask him.“How much, to the city?” “Forty dollars,” he said. “No, I’m not stupid, know the average,”I walked off. “Wait. How much do you want to go?” “Thirty five Shillings,” I said. “Forty five.” “Forty.” “Come.”
He began to walk away from me and went out the door in the airport, and I followed him. The sun was hot, palm trees waving. I walked past a group of taxi drivers in a jolly good time, passing rows of neatly parked cars. At the end of the parking area there was a stationary vehicle. “Get in that car,” he said. For a moment I hesitated uncertainly. I supposed it was not kind of taxi, yet at the same time had felt as exhausted as ever—I had been having trouble keeping up with me from Addis Ababa Bole Airport—it was tempting to rest the hostel and simply got into the back seat with my backpacks.
“I go to L&J Modern Backpackers. Do you know?” I opened the booking.com app in my phone, its address displayed, and my hand held out for the small man to take. “Yes, I know,” he said, and then started the engine.
Julius K. Nyerere Rd is the main road—we moved on eastward, where there was my hostel by the beach. I drank water in little sips and there was no talk in the taxi : I do not to intend to talk with a kind of person who tries to rip you off. Then gradually, I got bored and I opened the MAPS.ME app in my phone, sometimes gazing at where we were going. Just in case.
The driver drove straight on. I was in a kind of daze and looked out blankly. At an intersection, he turned to the left and there was more traffic. I wondered about his going northward, and then checked the map on my phone while we moved slowly behind the vehicles. However, tiredness warped my judgment. Detour, I guessed.
At the next intersection, the driver turned to the left again and speeded up for a while. The sandy ground under the highway were almost shade as walls. Against the fences were piles of empty bottles and cans, and rusty ruins lying on the ground. We moved on the road, shooting the dust ahead of us, making it spread out—I had been growing restless and uneasy. Then leaning forward, I grasped the headrest of the driver’s seat. “Where are we going, sir?” I asked. ”My stay is on the east coast. Near the beach. Very opposite.” I showed him the map on my phone. “I wanna go here,” I pointed out my destination. He glanced at it and then turned the steering wheel to the right. “It’s not good, incorrect…” he murmured. “This time of the day, traffic is busy.”
I leaned right back in my seat, not knowing what else to do. It was hot and dry inside. I was so jittery but tried to come to my senses, and I drank a little more water in the bottle, and then—suddenly I entered a quite different atmosphere. The road was straight and along the sand. There were fewer people wandering about the shacks built of scrap lumber and pieces of tin. If I were alone here, what on earth could I be doing out there? Quite certain, I could not have seen a shop to buy food or drinks.
The small man was talking with someone on his phone. I did not even know what he said because of the local language. I felt the creeping fear—perplexities, danger, and the end of my journey. I caught hold of the back of the driver’s seat. “Where are you going?” I interrupted, and then hardly had he hung up his phone when he called again.
What is he up to? I knew the taxi robberies from the internet—the taxi driver stop somewhere, and from both sides his fellows get into the back seat and sat down. I find myself caught between the two. When one man hit me, another robs me of money ; and force me to withdraw up to the daily limit at ATM.
In no time I slipped all my money and cards into my security porch underneath my t-shirt, without reflecting my stealthy movement in the mirror. “You are going in the north,”my voice trembled. “Yes, sir,” the small man replied coolly. Dread began to gather rapidly in my mind, and out of dread came panic. This small man, a complete liar. Fucking the son of a bitch! “Stopping! I’m going down.” I reached for the doorknob but the car moved on. “Wait, wait,”said the small man. At a big intersection, he turned to the left and into the outskirts. “Just a minutes, we’ll arrive there.” “No, drop me off, I have no money. Are you really a taxi driver?” I muttered, panting. “Who are you?” “Yes, yes. I been taxi driver for long. Been to L&J,” he said. “That’s enough. Go back to the Airport, please,” I whined.
The motorcycles overtaking us viciously, a tuktuk whizzing by the other way. I could catch one kind of shop or another, encircled by the iron bars—a woman outside handed bills into the bars, as if a prison guard gave a prisoner something. Obviously, the sight that greeted me showed signs of crime : robbery or burglary.
I immediately wanted to go back to Japan, flashing back through the times I had considered where to stay in Dar es Salaam. I had been reading the blog that recommended L&J Modern Backpackers, examining the hostels, assessing their difference. If I stay here, then… If stay there, then… All of this was working in my head in an instant. I had never expected that. Oh shit!
“Excuse me, sir. L&J has two locations?” I asked, trying not to sound afraid. “Yes, we are going to Kinondoni,” the driver answered, and then pulled the car to the side of a street. “You just got here. Look out, this is L&J.” I took a little peek outside—the gray walls—and nothing but the gray walls. “Do you have a reservation?” he asked. “Yes, yes,” I said lamely. “You can see… ,” he said when I looked over out of the window. “Let me take you,” he said. And I got out of the car, carrying my backpacks. “ Look,” he pointed to the small square board : L&J BACKPACKERS KINONDONI. I looked around restlessly, covered in confusion : the gray wall fences was completely encircled the hostel as if in the jail. “Go inside. Check. See if you have a reservation.” The small man rang the doorbell instead of me. There was no response and he knocked on the door.
After a while a woman opened the door and let me us. We followed her. Everything was so different then—under the thatched roof a half-naked white man chilled out, a few Asians wondering about a big palm tree. I was bemused by this transformation, and at the same time a huge embarrassment engulfed me—I guessed how hard I was pressing this small man.
The yellow sunlight fell over the ground, and we entered a room. At the reception desk the owner sat in front of the PC. A chinaman sat near by, working on his. “Excuse me,” I said. “My name is K. I’d like to confirm my reservation.” The owner looked at its screen. “Two nights?” he asked. “Yes,” I relieved. And then I turned to the taxi driver, who stood in the back of the room. “Sorry. I’d made a mistake,” I said, feeling real shame. “You were right. Thank you very much.” I handed him forty Shillings. “No, no,” he smirked. “It was very very far. Fifty.” “No, you said forty,” I said fiercely. Mumbling to himself, he walked off looking crestfallen.
