Return to Bagamoyo

Truth be told I’d been feeling a little, well I don’t want to say old, so let’s say vulnerable. Gone are the days when I could through ‘2 of everything’ into a backpack, clock in at 12kg and leave for far flung places within the hour. I spent a mad few weeks sending off cards and presents, seeing friends and (new) family, saying goodbyes, celebrating birthdays, planning, packing, handing stuff over and threw in a week of consultancy work for good measure. I fretted about the right clothes, the right travel adapters, avoiding malaria, skin cancer, vitamin supplements, leaving the house and our new student lodgers. I fretted about my luggage weight which hit a new record at 18kg. And of course I was worried about leaving Alex. But despite the added anxiety that accompanied that process of leaving, it’s probably with hindsight a positive thing. I guess my roots just go a little deeper these days.

I did, however, continue to feel my age on the flight. I turned up in Nairobi to see that my onward leg had been cancelled, without any explanation or apology. We were bumped onto another flight leaving seven hours later. I was pacified by the promise of breakfast and the use of an executive lounge but was subsequently refused admission. I was tired, and hungry. And in the back of my mind I was worried about the onward journey to Bagamoyo – at least 2 dalla dallas across Dar es Salaam (with no room for luggage) before the onward Coaster to Bagamoyo. Funny, none of those things used to faze me at all. But I was fazed.

But things started to take a turn for the better. I changed a tenner at a decent rate in about 3 seconds with no commission, passport, signatures or faff in any form and found a corner in a café to start eating through it. I had the biggest, tastiest Spanish Omelette I’d ever had, served with spiced fried potatoes, onions and a massive beaker of tea for a couple of quid. I fell asleep in the café corner for three hours looking like a pile of old rags and no one had batted an eyelid. Then Sella texted to say she’d called in a favour and a friend was going to pick me up from the airport in Sella’s car. Lots of things are tricky about working and living in Africa, but some things are definitely simpler. (Still, I was wondering whether I’d made the right call when the guy who picked me up hit a cool tonne (145km) on the decidedly narrow road to Bagamoyo that you share with dalla dalla (minibuses), bajaji (tuk-tuks) and pikipiki (motorbikes) alike, along with a host of pedestrians, animals and the rest.)

On entering Bagamoyo I felt a dual sense of relief – one was definitely to do with getting out of the car. But the second was that funny warm feeling of familiarity and homeliness that you can generate for a place even after a short acquaintance. That feeling that you know what is what, who is where and generally how it is. I felt a definite sense of optimism on taking up my previous abode in Sella’s home after warm reunions and the signature awesome home cooking.

Awesome fish with coconut - coastal cooking! And my temporary pad at Sella's....

The days that have followed have consisted of reacclimatising, particularly to the humidity, getting sim cards, realising what I’ve forgotten, checking in with home and looking up old acquaintances. Some previous acquaintances remembered me, some did not. I couldn’t decide which was more reassuring. I had an amusing encounter with a previous art seller whose calls I had spent avoiding on my last trip – he has an overly aggressive air and is inevitably was under the influence of at least one substance. We went through the same rigmarole as last time, cataloguing his various accomplishments and travels and his part surprise, part irritation that I was spoken for. But anyway, this time I was careful not to give my number in return and have been ducking down alleyways pre-emptively as required.

One other acquaintance at the art market, in the same touristed area of town, seemed more promising. A guy I bought some oil paintings from over a period of several days’ negotiations last May remembered my face and we spent a good time chatting. He is heading over to Zanzibar for the illustrious Busara music festival next month. He has a relaxed air and always seems much clearer headed than many of the other rastas based in that area of town. After hearing my interest in learning Swahili he hooked me up with a teacher friend of his, Sarah, who gives mainly beginner lessons to foreigners visiting Bagamoyo. She seems like a live wire and almost everyone about town seemed to know who she is. This could turn out to be a good or a bad thing. But in the meantime I might do a couple of one to one lessons, just to see how it pans out.

Anyway, after trademark fretting about finally nailing Swahili 9 years after I first started, and now in my mid-thirties, and I’ve had a couple of realisations. The first is that I shouldn’t put too much pressure on myself. I have a reasonable grasp of the basics and as long as I try to immerse myself over a prolonged period, things should come good. This also means focusing on one thing at a time, and not worrying too much about research contacts this trip. Secondly, and on reflection very obviously although it hadn’t dawned on me until now, is that when conducting research comprehension is going to be far more crucial than my own fluency. So I just need to get really good at asking the right questions.

So all in all settling in. Bagamoyo is a very cool (metaphorically), relaxed place. Most people are happy to talk but also happy to leave you alone. I spent a lovely weekend with Sella and Alvira chewing the fat, cooling off down at the beach and on Saturday night we stumbled upon a live, open air gig which was massively good fun. In many towns this size in Tanzania that would be unusual, but in art-loving, music-thumping, hip-shaking Bagamoyo that’s just seems to be par for the course.

Open air gig in Bagamoyo (another one!!) and cooling off at the beach