Travel With Anjaly Thomas as she goes from one country to another

Tanzania Blog Chapter 6 | Molested in Moshi

March 27, 2010

I wake up refreshed, the sad events of Moshi and Lucas forgotten. Something of euphoria is beginning to return. Sleep has been beneficial. I breakfast on the terrace again. Nothing has changed. The coffee is weak, the toast is dry and the butter is too soft. The only change is in me. I see the same mountain in the backyard – but this time I have no panic attack. No unanswered questions. I smile at the mountain. It looks the same – forlorn and very tall, but it now my friend. It will continue to please me for the rest of my life. So many memories associated with it and so many lessons that have changed me as a person. Someone hums in the background, I think, deliberately. Malaika…nakopende Malaika. I remember what Jenna had told me about the origins of this song. It doesn’t matter if Fadhili Williams the Kenyan composed it or Adam Salim the Tanzanian, I loved every version of the song. As I mull over the song Siraji arrives. The sun is breaking through the grey clouds. Light filters through the crack in the sky and illuminates the tin roofs of the buildings lining the street. The noise is steadily growing. I look down the street and for the first time since my arrival, I feel Africa. “Let’s walk a little. I want to see Moshi on foot. I am sure at some point I will get tired of it, but for now, let’s walk. We’ll see what to do after coffee.” Siraji nods agreement. We walk in silence. “Some place we can watch a musical show?” “Maybe in Arusha, but not in Moshi. In the bar maybe. Bongo Flava is very popular in Tanzania. But you will wait till evening for that.” “Bongo flava?” “African hip-hop.” Moshi is not small. In fact it is spread out on many directions and there are no real roads connecting one end to the other. Mud splattered name boards are everywhere. Women dressed in colourful clothes, balancing babies on their backs and big baskets on their head negotiate puddles and potholes easily, not breaking their conversation even when boda-bodas whizz by within inches of them. Tall, skinny men in bright western clothes and sports shoes walk around with a purpose. Small stores filled to the ceiling with wares await customers to begin their business for the day. Street corners with women selling green bananas, leafy vegetables and fruits are a common sight. Siraji tells me that it is a woman’s job to sell vegetables. “They are mostly Chagga people. They live near the mountains and they are very rich. But they do not like you to take their photos.” A heavily built woman overtakes us. I am surprised at her agility and speed. She disappears into a tiny shop selling plastic toys and doormats. A boda-boda comes to stop by us. I choose to sit in the middle and regret it very soon. It is not pretty to be sandwiched between two men, one reeking of stale sweat and one of aftershave. The seat is hard and cracked. There is a reason why boda-boda is the preferred choice of commuters here – they go everywhere. No traffic jams or traffic signals can hold them back when they are in the mood. We weaved in an out of Moshi’s morning traffic effortlessly but I feel every bump in the road. It is the least exciting way of getting around, to say the least, but half the population of Moshi can be seen on the back of one, speaking into phones comfortably even as the vehicles threatens to slip over potholes. Moshi as a town is rather vibrant and colourful, although used only as a stopping point for Mt Kilimanjaro trek. But this being the first town on the African continent I have stepped foot on, I am biased towards it and all my feelings hinges on that. We ride through the old part of town and arrive at a bustling market run purely by big-busted women dressed in kangas of every colour. Their shrill voices rise above the roar of boda-boda and hagglers to claim their place in the market. They are a force to reckon with. The market is rundown and crowded. It seems as though everything that can be sold is crammed into narrow spaces. No one seems to mind the laborious process of pulling out items off the shelves and putting it back up over and over again. Maasai beads and necklaces are pushed under my nose and every so often, masks and sandals. I am eager to buy everything I see, but I reserve it for my last day in Tanzania. Through all the chaos, I see my first Maasai. I am captivated by the sight of a tall, ramrod straight young warrior wrapped in a red and black shawl. He is beautiful to look at. There is not gram of fat on his lean, wiry body. I stare. “Look at that, man, what a beauty. Is he gorgeous or what! He is a handsome…oh look at him, Siraji …is he handsome or what? I love that thing he is wearing…what is it called?” “Shuka. You will see many in your safari. But you don’t take photos without permission okay? Or you pay them some money. They can break your camera if they get angry.” Perhaps the gorgeous Maasai feels my stares because he looks right back at me without a smile and walks away quietly before I can ask for a photo. “I want to see him again, Siraji. I think he was, very – uh, handsome. So raw. And pay for photo? What rubbish. But why?” “It is their rules.” My mind is still on the Maasai man as we enter a government run Tanzanite store near the Moshi post office. Will I see him again? Him or others – it doesn’t matter. But I want to see these gorgeous specimens again. The salesperson explains the process of mining tanzanite and I am sufficiently impressed with his talk and buy a small keepsake, anxious to be out of here and look for my Maasai man. Unfortunately I see none. Siraji will leave me after lunch. Moshi surprisingly has a variety of restaurants to choose from. From Indian and Italian cuisine to Asian and European foods, there is a world of food to be found in the town centre but I insist on fried cassava and nyma choma. The delicate smoky flvour of this grilled meat is addictive. Siraji leaves for the airport. I have the rest of the day to myself, which I am looking forward to spending at the salon and later on at the local pub. He will accompany me to Arusha tomorrow from where I will begin my safari of the northern circuit. I return to the hotel to change into a pair of shorts. I am aware of the risks of carrying about cash at nights in developing and underdeveloped countries so I leave the hotel with only a handful of dollars enough to buy me a few drinks and make for the pub not far away from Hotel Kindoroko. I don’t know what it says about me, but I am looking forward to an eventful evening. I want something to happen. I want to see how the drunken people of Tanzania behave. I want to know about their music and dance and their attitude towards a single mzungu. Would anyone ask me to dance? It would be nice to dance with one of the locals, alright. For a few hours I want to drown in the raucous laughter, African music and Tusker beer. In the evening I find my way to East African Pub. The inside of a pub is usually an indicator of what to expect. East African Pub was somehow what I pictured it to be. It is rather old and faded; a mere drinking hole with no real character. Locals are gathered around the tables, drinking and smoking. A band plays in the background. The vibe is pleasant. It is not a place likely to be favoured by hip youngsters. This pub is for men - men returning from work or men catching up with friends. There are not many women but those that are seem as though they have been here a while already. I can tell from their laughter. There is no mzungu in sight. I sit on a stool all by myself and watch before a reluctant young lady comes for my order. I have been itching to try the local beer, namely Tusker and Kilimanjaro and I tell her so. Every so often warm Tusker and Kilimanjaro arrive and are consumed rapidly. The server doesn’t look too pleased. The music picks up and a couple of people stand up to dance. No one appears even remotely interested in me. A couple of hours later I have finished all of my ten dollars on a surprisingly lot of drinks and make my way out unsteadily. Not a bad evening at all. The dancing has done me some good – bongo flava, Siraji had said. It is just a lot of ass-grinding, that’s what it is. At the door I bump into the lady who brought me my drinks. She ventures to speak to me. “Where are you staying?” “Kindoroko,” I offer helpfully. She looks relieved. “That is good. It is not too far away. Be safe.” I want to giggle. I want to tell her I will be fine. I want to tell her how brave I really am, but hold my tongue because I am not sure if that would be completely the truth. “Thank you. But you know it won’t be worth anyone’s time to rob me.” I pull out my pockets and show her. I have no money left. Ha ha. And I can run too, really, I can. Why, I have just…” Someone pushes past us rudely, muttering under his breath. I see the retreating figure of a big black man. He disappears into the rain. “Thanks for the warning; I think I’ll leave now.” I giggle again. A sudden wave of nausea passes over me. I hold the door and steady myself before stepping out into the rain. I have been drinking too much and too fast. The rain on my face makes me feel better instantly. The sounds from the pub recede into a soft hum. The street lights are so dim that they can be put out altogether with no one ever noticing the change. The street is empty. I have lost track of time and direction to the hotel. I tell myself I must find the main road and follow it to my hotel. It will also be safe. Safe? Did I just say that? I find myself in a narrow, dark and unfamiliar stretch and instinctively become aware of danger. My breath comes in gasps. I want to run and I want to throw up all at once. I wish I have not been drinking so much, I wish Siraji was here right now. I want to cry. Through this befuddled state I make out the shape of three men, assuredly drunk for I can smell cheap alcohol. They refuse to move aside. I stop dead in my tracks. There is no way to run because one of them has slipped behind me blocking my retreat. What did I just say about danger? It is all around me. “Mzungu, give me your money,” a drunken voice hisses viciously. I cannot make out their faces in the darkness, but I can make out their built. All three are very tall and well built. And very drunk. I cannot find my voice. “Money, money. Give me your money,” the voice cuts through the darkness and rain. I find my voice. It is surprisingly steady and without fear. “I have no money.” One of them grabs my shoulder and pushes me against the wall while the other thrusts his hands into my pockets. I cannot scream. Upset at not finding what he is looking for he cups his giant hands on my butt lewdly. The third man tries to look for money inside my t-shirt. His hands play with my breasts a little too roughly. “You white bitch…bitch” he says over and over. His face is too close to mine. The smell of alcohol and sweat is making me dizzy. I am trapped. My survival logic kicks in instantly. I am acutely aware that fighting off three drunken men who, likely as not are about to rape me, is impossible. Screaming my way out doesn’t seem possible, because one of them has his hands on my mouth. In no way I see myself as a match against their combined strength. One of them tries to light a cigarette. The rain doesn’t help. I wish I could see the face of my tormentors. Rape is inevitable. “So this is the way to go, I suppose,” I think to myself. I am surprisingly calm. Their groping gets frantic and I am pushed further into the wall. I do not react. I stare hard into the darkness and rain. Whatever you do, do not react. If this is the inevitable, then so be it. But do not risk being killed or maimed, I tell myself. I want to live. Oh dear god, I want to live. This cannot be happening, no, this cannot be happening. I must be calm. I must not anger them…oh god, I must not react. I want to throw up… And suddenly all the life and logic and reasoning leave me. I am so numb that my body turns limp. Like the dead. Dead in spirit and mind. And soon, body. “Do what you must,” I urged the tormentors mentally. A coarse hand runs up my thing. I am sure he wants to hurt me. Stay calm. Stay dead. Just stay as you are. Play dead. A hand slips into my short and pulls. More groping. When will they get done? “No money, no money, you bitch. Mzungu bitch.” I do not react. It is the hardest thing I have done in my life. “Bitch, bitch, bitch,” they say in unison. I feel the weight lift off me. Only one of them has me pinned against the wall and is trying to bite my cheeks. Then in what I can describe as a miracle, he is gone too. Footsteps disappear in the rain and darkness. They are gone. Gone. I sink into the ground. The rain continues to pour. I do not know how long I have sat in the pouring rain with my back against the wall in a small town named Moshi in a country named Tanzania on the continent of Africa crying my heart out, but I know that I am glad to be alive and well. Now all I have to do is find my way back to the hotel. I am surprisingly calm when I walk in through the familiar door of Hotel Kindoroko, dripping. The guard looks at me enquiringly and I simply say “I love rains” and disappear into my room. I feel nothing. No fear. No disgust. No pain and no regret. There is every possibility of a later reaction setting in, but I will worry about that later. I want to sleep. I want to forget what happened. I stay for long under the shower. That helps.