A Little bit of India...in Dar

Written on April 19, 2008 from Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania
By Max Anders

Sixteen hours in Dar es Salaam…

Julia and I had one question: Where’s the good Indian food? The seven hour smooth and pleasant bus ride from Dodoma allowed us ample time to discuss in depth our ideal meal, occasionally being distracted by the gorgeous scenery out the window. The green, now noticeably more tropical, rural landscape suddenly turned urban and like a slap to the face, we had arrived in Dar.

Through the churning city, packed with people waiting in crowds at crosswalks and markets, we remained resolute in our culinary mission. Traffic slowed things down but allowed us a more thorough scan of the sidewalks. “What about that one? That looks like it could be a good restaurant.” Trying without much success to mentally map the route from the prospective restaurant to the bus station, we grabbed our luggage from the belly of the bus and went to meet our driver, Steven.

The Tanzania country director, Richard Mazengo, had arranged our transportation around Dar with his friend Steven. We were instructed to exit the bus terminal upon arrival and wait for Steven to find us so he could help us run some errands and find a hotel. Without a picture to identify Steven, we were to confirm his name before getting into his car. Richard had warned us of opportunistic taxi drivers who might assume the identity of whomever we wanted in order to jack the price up on two clueless foreigners. Outside the station, amidst simultaneous offers of “taxi sir?” we play the “are you my driver” game. It goes a little something like this:

“Friend. Taxi?”
“No thanks, we are waiting for some one to pick us up.” (Could this be Steven?)
“Who are you waiting for?
“Ahh…I forget. What’s your name?”
“Peter.”
“No, you’re not him. Thanks.”

I think the group of helpful taxi drivers, not devious in the least, thought we were insane. But not long after we made it through interrogating all of the available taxi drivers like spies, a white taxi rolled up with a giant, smiling man inside. Exploding out the door saying, “Steven. I am Steven,” he apologized for being late and ushered us into his car.

Having completed all our necessary tasks, Steven asked us where we wanted to stay. As our flight left early the next morning, the obvious answer was close to the airport. But resolute to our objective, we replied “wherever the best restaurants are.”

And so we found ourselves waving bye to Steven and watching his taxi sputter down the bumpy alley outside our hotel in central Dar es Salaam. It had gotten dark so we rushed to check in and put our things down. Up and down four flights of creaky stairs with lumpy luggage on our backs, panting, we were ready to eat.

We stepped outside into the warm, humid night and were greeted by a lively street scene set in dim light. Realizing we had absolutely no idea where we were and not a clue where the closest Indian restaurant was, we did the most sensible thing we could think of: find a group of Indians and ask them. In broken Hindi, rusty from almost five years of disuse, I managed to learn the approximate location of a highly recommended, “first class” restaurant, Maratha.

As advised, we took a taxi to avoid dangerous neighborhoods and were dropped off in the general vicinity of Maratha. It seemed a good sign that the vast majority of businesses and people on the street were Indian. We wandered back and forth, asking people every five minutes and couldn’t help but feel like we were playing a game of “hot and cold.” Finely, after particularly detailed instructions, we found ourselves standing outside a large blue building with a sign that read: Community Badminton Center – Members only.

Hungry, confused, and totally lost, we almost gave up. In a last attempt, we peeked our heads in through the door and asked the security guard who was lounging in a white plastic chair if he knew where Maratha Restaurant was. “You are here, please come in.” His smile was welcoming, especially after we paid the $1 non member entry fee.

Not entirely sure of what was happening, we entered the small gate and walked into the large outdoor courtyard. Indian families sat around plastic tables in front of a large screen TV that played cricket and ate from silver dishes full of delicious looking food. On one side of the courtyard was a bar where older Indian men drank beer from tall skinny glasses and smoked cigarettes. On the opposite side of the courtyard a full sized indoor badminton court hosted four lunging and swatting players. The hard plastic window that separated the badminton court from the outside area allowed people to watch the surprisingly competitive action in between overs of cricket or bites of dal.

A Chuck E. Cheese style jungle gym and playground was tucked to the side of the badminton court and completed the family atmosphere. Julia and I sat in awe of our shahi paneer, our taste buds celebrating like the middle aged badminton players who just had won a point, and watched adorable Indian kids squiggle down the purple plastic slide. Later we chatted with two men from Mumbai about life in Tanzania. They told us of the vibrant Indian immigrant community in Dar as well as the friendly relations between Indians and Africans.

Our bellies full of spices - chili and cinnamon, coriander and cardamom - we sat contently and enjoyed our surroundings. Our mission had been accomplished and we were ready to return to the world of ugali with new vigor.