"Hapana," (no) I said distractedly, like so many times before, as I gazed at the rain sliding down the window, away from the daladala* conductor's angry scowl. A string of Swahili burst from his lips as he told me that 400 Tshs wasn't enough for my fare into Arusha. He kept his hand held out, waiting for the 500 Tshs he demanded. "I think the fare-raise that we heard about has finally happened," I whispered to Danielle sitting beside me. "Yeah probably, but let's try to hold out for 400," she responded and we kept looking out the windows at the green landscape whizzing past.
Our stand for fair prices started an intense debate between the conductor and most of the passengers on the daladala. It seemed higher prices were a hot topic for everyone. In a lull, several passengers sitting near us who knew English said that the daladalas had new fares and a ride from Danish Street in Usa River to the edge of Arusha would now cost 500 Tshs, and to go all the way to the bus stand in town would cost 600. "Are you sure we're paying the same price as you are?" I asked, skeptical because of our numerous experiences with greedy daladala conductors often trying to up their prices as soon as they see "rich" wazungus (white people) board. "Yes," the lady beside me responded, "all the prices are going up. We have to pay 500 now, too." "But it happens to us all the time," Danielle said. "People see that we're mzungu and think that we can afford to pay way more than the fair price. We don't have a lot of money. We're volunteers and we don't get paid." The passengers sitting nearby all seemed shocked by this revelation. "Really?" the man sitting in front of us asked. "People here in Tanzania do this to you?" We nodded. "All the time." The conductor started pushing his way back to us again, his hand still extended for money. "I'll pay for you," the man said, turning toward us before reaching over and placing a 1,000 Tshs bill in the conductor's outstretch hand. Danielle and I looked at each other in surprise. "No," she said. "You don't have to pay for us. We have enough money, but we just wanted to make sure we weren't being cheated." "If you pay for us, that's not fair to you anymore than it would be fair of the conductor to demand more money of us just because we're white," I added. "No," the man said. "I'll pay for you this time and you can pay for someone else when they need help. You can pass it on."
Living in Tanzania is a struggle for wazungus. Often when we leave our walled and protected campus and go out into the streets and marketplaces we are stared at, yelled at, sometimes even touched or swindled out of our money. Because of the colour of our skin many people treat us differently. Sometimes I get offended by the way people act toward me. But then I meet the normal, everyday, amazing individuals - ones like the man in the daladala who willingly paid his own fare as well as the fares of two white strangers, who would rather give freely of his own money than see foreigners treated unfairly. That's a lesson for me.
Danielle and I tried to make the man take our 500 Tshs bills to pay him back for his kindness. He refused to take them and threw them back into our laps. So as we got off the daladala at our stop, I slipped the two crumpled bills into his sweater hood hanging over the back of the seat. After all, it was only fair.
*minivans used for local transportation
Our stand for fair prices started an intense debate between the conductor and most of the passengers on the daladala. It seemed higher prices were a hot topic for everyone. In a lull, several passengers sitting near us who knew English said that the daladalas had new fares and a ride from Danish Street in Usa River to the edge of Arusha would now cost 500 Tshs, and to go all the way to the bus stand in town would cost 600. "Are you sure we're paying the same price as you are?" I asked, skeptical because of our numerous experiences with greedy daladala conductors often trying to up their prices as soon as they see "rich" wazungus (white people) board. "Yes," the lady beside me responded, "all the prices are going up. We have to pay 500 now, too." "But it happens to us all the time," Danielle said. "People see that we're mzungu and think that we can afford to pay way more than the fair price. We don't have a lot of money. We're volunteers and we don't get paid." The passengers sitting nearby all seemed shocked by this revelation. "Really?" the man sitting in front of us asked. "People here in Tanzania do this to you?" We nodded. "All the time." The conductor started pushing his way back to us again, his hand still extended for money. "I'll pay for you," the man said, turning toward us before reaching over and placing a 1,000 Tshs bill in the conductor's outstretch hand. Danielle and I looked at each other in surprise. "No," she said. "You don't have to pay for us. We have enough money, but we just wanted to make sure we weren't being cheated." "If you pay for us, that's not fair to you anymore than it would be fair of the conductor to demand more money of us just because we're white," I added. "No," the man said. "I'll pay for you this time and you can pay for someone else when they need help. You can pass it on."
Living in Tanzania is a struggle for wazungus. Often when we leave our walled and protected campus and go out into the streets and marketplaces we are stared at, yelled at, sometimes even touched or swindled out of our money. Because of the colour of our skin many people treat us differently. Sometimes I get offended by the way people act toward me. But then I meet the normal, everyday, amazing individuals - ones like the man in the daladala who willingly paid his own fare as well as the fares of two white strangers, who would rather give freely of his own money than see foreigners treated unfairly. That's a lesson for me.
Danielle and I tried to make the man take our 500 Tshs bills to pay him back for his kindness. He refused to take them and threw them back into our laps. So as we got off the daladala at our stop, I slipped the two crumpled bills into his sweater hood hanging over the back of the seat. After all, it was only fair.
*minivans used for local transportation
3 comments:
Hmm, brings to mind another country that treats/treated people poorly because of their color...
What a sweet story. and what a kind man. No matter where they come from, there are always nice people. Thanks for your story.
@Johonn: I don't think it's just one other country...
@Gram: Yes, you're right. There are nice people all over the world!
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