The flight to London is too short, so I only catch an hour or two of sleep. I arrive in London in what is now morning. I cannot call it a new day, as I still need rest.
I take the tube downtown. I stroll through Hyde Park with a Mozambican tourist, who is astonished by all the white people. I buy chocolate for my prospective Tanzanian friends. I watch a couple of Rastafarian African street performers: one of them manages to limbo under a stick at the height of a wine bottle.
Taking the tube back to Heathrow, I find myself passing out frequently. I wake and sleep, sleep and wake, desperate to stay conscious lest I miss my flight.
The Heathrow security check is uncharacteristically fast, and I find myself waiting for the gate number to appear on the boards. I cannot sit, as I do not want to fall asleep. Instead, I walk the length of the terminal a dozen times, stopping in every shop, buying nothing, whiling away the hours. I spend my last pound on an overpriced can of soda.
Naturally, the flight is delayed. I strain to stay awake. As I wait, I wonder at the demographics on the flight: most travellers to Tanzania seem to be white or Indian.
I take my seat, and I am pleased to find myself surrounded by a troup of Ismaelis. They are flying to East Africa to take part in the Aga Khan's golden jubilee. Beside me sits a Canadian Ismaeli. Along with several of her companions, she has a new home in Canada after Idi Amin's expulsions of the seventies. She is delighted to return to East Africa. I am delighted to learn more of Ismaelis and of yet another Ugandan perspective.
The conversation runs its course in the hour of taxiing outside of Heathrow. Finally, we begin to take off. I pass out before lift-off.
I wake a few hours later, still in my seat, to an African dawn. I continue my conversation with my neighbour. We land in Dar es Salaam.
I am still missing a proper sleep, so I still cannot call this a new day. Jetlag has now accumulated to seven hours' worth.
I step off the plane, and I am happily astonished by all the black people. I zip through customs and, still near collapse, I wait for my bag. I am greeted by my first new Tanzanian acquaintance, who drives me to a long-awaited bed.
Along the way, I behold, in a dream-like state: the queue
(what Ugandans call a jam
); a crowd cleaning the spilled
produce from an overturned trailer; civil servants sweeping the
streets; masses of limbs in nearby dala dalas (minibuses), evidence of
their being crammed to capacity; precarious towers of eggs in cartons
on the backs of bicycles weaving through traffic; the smell, a mix of
salt and smoke; and, most magical of all, people: everywhere,
going about their morning business.
While in the queue, a phone call changes my plans: instead of going to bed, I am going to the VSO head office.
Stumbling at this point, I meet several volunteers and staff. My plans are laid out for me. As I about to leave for bed, I am invited to the final leg of these volunteers' training: bits of training I need. I forego sleep and take the training exercises.
I receive my allowance and I leave everything of value in the safe. I finally am driven to my temporary residence with two fellow volunteers. I flit in and out of consciousness while taking in my first view of the Indian ocean.
Upon arrival at the guest house, I buy airtime for my phone. I key it in it while climbing the stairs to my apartment. I store several phone numbers and fire off some messages: finally, I do not feel naked any more.
I shower for the first time in ages.
I fall in bed roughly sixty hours after my day began. I fall asleep to the busy sounds of construction and the thousand natural outbursts that African life is heir to.
At long last, I am back where things make no sense. I am back where uncertainty courses through my veins. I am back home.