Friday Find: Miami Bar

(Summary: story of eating out one night in Tanzania.)

Kamala is my favorite driver and a very good friend.

One night in Iringa we were in meetings until late. Then Kamala and I went to dinner. Since it was late, none of the regular restaurants were open so we walked from the hostel to the Miami Bar. Spoken in Kiswahili you wouldn’t recognize it as named for the glamorous city of Miami Vice. Sorry that I don’t have any pictures of the place, I didn’t think to bring my camera.

Although Miami Bar is the hopping place in Iringa you won’t find any South Florida art deco or shiny chrome here. There were four rooms and the center one was a kitchen with billowing smoke filling the room from a charcoal fire. Typically, you manage the food and the drinks separately in local restaurants so you need to meet with the cooks. The food gets much discussion. I understood only a little of Kamala’s negotiation with the chefs. We ordered the house specialty – a pile of goat meat char broiled.

He showed us a partially cooked leg and we chose how much to cut off and finish cooking. We watched the bone be hacked apart, the meat get carved, treated with lemon juice and salt and tossed back over the fire. Satisfied, we went to find a seat.

The place was pretty full so the waitress woke a sleeping patron to throw him out and make space for us. He resisted. A second waitress joined the battle and both voiced loudly their displeasure with much shouting. With the commotion a small man appeared, presumably security, and the sleeper suddenly became more alert and found the door without a word. Kamala, my driver explained that in bars it is fully acceptable to go to sleep and leave in the morning as long as there is room. Triumphant, I was given the pleasure of the once restful, now warmed chair cushions. I didn’t want even want to lean back.

The place was about 95% men; a lot of them were wearing business suits. The room we were in was arranged with cushioned chairs around low tables. There were a couple of TVs showing sporting events, and some music in the background. I noticed as the meal progressed that a couple of the women who were sitting with men would get up and leave with one. And then come back and give the index finger “come hither” and another man would get up and go to her and they would leave for a while. You draw your own conclusion. I drank my ‘Ndovu moto’ (warm Elephant Bull brand beer).

After the first beer was finished, the meat arrived by chef special delivery. Another man came with the requisite pot of water to wash our hands. Then we ate the goat meat with a second beer. Goat meat is actually really good. I’d recommend it to anyone. We had a sauce of pili pili (hot peppers) on the side prepared by the chefs with lemon juice, salt and finely sliced peppers. It is a fire hot, burn your lips, tongue, throat and sinuses sauce. Don’t touch your face – especially anywhere near your eyes – after you’ve dipped your meat in this sauce. Actually, this is true until about the third or fourth washing of your hands with soap. I know from experience.

Kamala said that it was a nice place. I like Kamala a lot.

Here's a picture of Kamala (the mechanic) trying to help a boy fix his bicycle. Unfortunately the only tool we could find was a rock:

Friday Find: A Good Driver

When you are in a new place with both a language and a cultural gap, a good driver can be a lifesaver. A good driver, not only knows where to go, he (in this culture it is rarely ‘she’) is your culture guide, your handy translator, your camera man, your Zagat rating agency with best local finds, your warning sign and safety net, and yes, your new friend. The truth is that with the local traffic you put your life in their hands. But also, they can become your trusted advisor in so many other ways.



On this trip I have had three drivers. The first, Chicha is a great guy. He speaks wonderful English and is a trusted taxi driver in Dar es Salaam. His father had a taxi (teksi) and Chicha paid him the car ‘rental’ according to the local customs. He didn’t know this was his in his father’s mind, but when he had paid his father enough money to buy his own teksi, his father gave him the money to do so. You can see that Chicha comes from good stock and it is part of him today. He told me his name is pronounced like ‘teacha’ so I call him ‘professor’.


The second driver I have had is Roger Lajab. Roger is a young man who speaks very little English. The first day when I was done with my appointments, I told him in English, “Go home.” He didn’t know what I meant. So I said, “Chilwa’s nyumba” (or Chilwa’s house.) No connection, after trying for 10 minutes to explain where to go next, I finally called a friend who translated over the phone.

Because Roger speaks so little English, we have very little to talk about in terms of ordinary conversation. This is really a problem because it can take 2-3 hours in traffic to get anywhere in Dar es Salaam. So Roger has taken it upon himself to be my Swahili tutor. This is true immersion training since he speaks hardly a word of English. Sometimes when I am fully confused I try to look up the word in my little English-Swahili book. One evening I was exhausted after a series of really long days. I put my seat back and went to sleep. Roger nudged me awake so that we could continue our lessons. Little by little (kidogo kidogo) we are learning to communicate.

In local customs I should address him as ‘Lajab.’ But he has asked me to call him ‘Roger’ in line with western customs.


Kato Kamala has accompanied me on trips away from Dar es Salaam. He is a brilliant mechanic, completely trustworthy and speaks eight languages including English. When he is with me he is also the official photographer. When we are traveling away from Dar es Salaam, he receives several calls a day from customers seeking to have their car fixed. I was quite worried about all the business he was losing because he had left town with me for two weeks. Not to worry, he is such a trusted mechanic that his customers all waited for his return.

Kamala comes from a family of really smart people. One is a local medical doctor, who after I was covered by mosquito bites prescribed a medication to make sure I didn’t get malaria. Another one is a famous comedian who looks a bit like a black John Belushi and is on the local equivalent of “Saturday Night Live”. He’s really famous locally. Every time Kamala gets a text message it screams out a comedy bit from this show. Kamala himself is really funny. We were often driving in the Iringa area with student interns, an accompanying teacher and perhaps another person or two. Kamala could keep a series of one liners going non-stop for 45 minutes. Although he speaks English, he told them in Swahili. The car would burst in laughter, which after 20 minutes or so was pained, gasping laughter. Hardly able to speak, someone would translate for me. I would laugh. Then Kamala would immediately toss out another. I wish you could have heard the sound of this laughter, it was one of the most joyful I’ve ever heard.

I have lots of great stories with Kamala. I’ll tell more in a future blog. He is one of my best friends here in Tanzania and someone I really would trust with my life.

‘Kato’ means ‘twin’ because that’s what Kamala is but I know him as Kamala, rafiki (friend), kaka (brother).

Friday Find: Shoe Shine

The first time I came to Tanzania, I dressed as if I was going camping. I wore very casual clothes and chose things that were easy to wash and dry. I put hiking boots on my feet.

This was very practical. Things are usually very dusty – or muddy – and if you wash your own clothes it is in the sink.

But it was a mistake. Most of the people I met were dressed very elegantly. They often put on their best clothes to meet me. As a result, I always felt out of place – and that my apparel was somehow insulting to them. This time, I came better prepared. I look the way they expect me to look – as a western business person. You may have noticed this in many pictures from this blog. I actually fit in better this way. A few times for very casual weekend get-togethers, I have donned my Indiana Jones cowboy hat, an African style tunic shirt, and blue jeans for fun. People always laugh and they admire the cowboy hat and love to try it on. On these few occasions I wish I had my orange colored ostrich cowboy boots.

It’s ironic. I usually dress in business casual in the USA. But not here; I wear a coat and tie to nearly every meeting. But I brought permanent press shirts and micro-fiber wash and wear pants.

And dress shoes.

After a couple of days, the shoes are always in terrible condition, especially when I have been in a village tramping around in a field or visiting a pig farm. I think you get the picture.

Not to worry. There are plenty of shoe shine stands. Why? Most people are wearing their dress shoes and need to get their shoes shined, too.

You can drop your shoes off and come back in a half hour. Better, you can take a break and have them done while you wait. Many of these people specialize in only women’s or men’s shoes. Not only that, they will do some basic cobbler work at the same time.

In the pictures below, you can see that there are two men that have placed their operations close to each other. The one in the foreground does men’s shoes and the one the background, women’s. They have a piece of linoleum to keep your feet clean while you wait and they will also offer a pair of tongs, if you like. You can see the bare feet of some other patrons in the picture. My driver had a sole reattached to his shoe while we were there and that is what the man in the front is working on at the moment. Although it’s difficult to make out, the man in the background is using a hacksaw to turn an old piece of tire rubber into a shoe sole.

A shoe shine goes for thirty to forty cents and it’s a nice break in the day. I recommend it!

Friday Find of the Week

Traffic here in Dar es Salaam is quite an experience. This city of four million has no freeways and few four lane roads though due to poverty has far fewer cars than an equally sized western city. However, traffic is constantly heavy, even on a Sunday afternoon. I spend three to four hours per day in a vehicle. There are few stoplights or stop signs. People use common sense to determine who has the right of way. There is a language of honking, signals, and arm waves to communicate, request and deny intentions. There is an incredible mix of cars, busses, bicycles, motorcycles and pedestrians all sharing the same roadway. In this picture below an accident ahead has nearly stopped traffic. I am not parked on the shoulder; instead, the shoulder has become a new lane (the correct lane is on the left, British-style).

One driver told me that to avoid an accident it is not enough to watch what others are doing; you must be in their mind and imagine what they may do next. This flexible pattern has led to a traffic innovation – the three lane road. The middle lane is for left turns or whichever direction has the heaviest traffic load at that moment or whoever has the least fear. Close calls by American standards are continuous. But it does allow for much more traffic in the same space.