It’s afternoon. I’m sitting on the balcony of the hotel in Dar es Salaam where I am undergoing orientation on working in Africa. In front of me stretches the Indian ocean from left to right. A multitude of blues and turquoise with a couple of islands and white sandy beaches.
Beyond the plush waterside apartments there is a wake boarder taking advantage of the strong breeze, and around and about there are noises from a couple of quad bikes acting recklessly – these are the affluent in this corner or Dar.
Below all this, on the land adjoining the hotel there is a new neighbour. A mother with a baby tied to her back is building a shack on the wasteland were the remains of two unfinished houses stand – only the foundations and concrete stairs remain. Her shack is made of a few pieces of wood with corrugated metal for walls. I expect that they can see me pretty clearly from where they are.
Just to the left of them on the same plot is another shack, this one with a tree poking through the roof.
Further round to the right a woman looks up at me while collecting wood.
All around there is activity, people coming and going. Tuktuks, known here as daladalas run up and down the street throughout the day, as do the Hiace style minibuses. One pick-up is full of chairs stacked precariously. I’m surprised they haven’t fallen off. I’m surprised the man hanging of the side hasn’t fallen off either.
There are so many questions I could ask myself about how I feel seeing the huge juxtaposition between wealth and poverty. I don’t feel guilty but I do resolve to use what I have wisely; and at the same time look for opportunity to be generous.
