My description of Arusha is not something hat I want assembled into one post. Arusha is a living thing. Something to be experienced. Therefore, I want to break down my perception of it as much as I can. Arusha, in sound is waking up to car horns honking. The sound of Dala Dalas picking people up, dropping people off, pulling dangerous moves to make up for lost time. The conductor of each minivan shouts the destinations of their route. “Kisongo, Kisongo, Kisongoya!” That’s the one I listen for. Outside, the megaphone that blares a 10 second advertisement in swahili, clicks, and then repeats. Over and over and over. The rumble of a motorcycle. The hammering of wood. The city is already awake. I must get up too.
The shower head hisses. A maid outside the bathroom door rhythmically scrubs the floor. Dry off, dress, go down the concrete steps and out the door. Step out of the hostel, “Taxi?!” “Taxi?!”. Walk a few meters, the old beggar quietly musters a “hallo!”. No change today. Po-lay. Into the internet café. Fingers typing on keyboards. A woman upstairs shouts “Na-Zee-AH!”. The young woman monitoring the computers silently leaves. The piercing sound of a rooster, kept on the roof, some days every ten minutes, some days not at all.
My stomach is empty, my wallet is thin. Walk to the market. “Taxi?!” Ha-pah-na. The market buzzes. A car is trying to move through a road meant only for people. The horn honks. People mutter “tsk, tsk, tsk”. They don’t approve. Every few stalls, “Muzungu!” or perhaps “My friend!”. Some days I look up. Some days, not at all. I arrive at the small cooking stall that I’ve been introduced to by the locals. The chipate sizzles behind me. Water hits tin plates, the da-da is washing them. Outside the market, beyond the buzz, a growing sound of trumpets and brass. It’s a wedding. A pickup truck with a full band in the back, groom and bride following one car behind, announcing to the town, to the world, that they are together as one. Some days the music sounds rehearsed, some days its an improvisation. Either way, every day, it’s impossible to ignore. My stomach is full, my wallet only a little thinner. I paid $1 for my meal.
The buzz of the market fades behind me. A truck with three giant megaphones passes. It’s blaring another advertisement in swahili. It’s message is lost on me. Night is approaching, and with it the piercing sound of a nearby mosque. It’s ramadan. After eating, nightly prayers are recited. More megaphones shout them out for the streets to hear. After 10, prayers are over. The streets get quiet. The wind picks up and rushes over the roof of the hostel. Some nights I sit up there, looking at the city. Looking at the stars. Some nights I hear street kids chatting as they walk to their beds. To their sidewalk corners. To the gutters next to roads. Other nights, I don’t hear them at all.
