Something Like That
A ferry to Bongoyo Island, a chance conversation, and a plate of fried fish in Dar es Salaam. On early arrivals, heavy responsibilities, and the small moments that make an unfamiliar country begin to feel like home.
January 2016. I had just arrived in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, for a three-year posting.
Things were not going particularly well.
I was taking over a project that was already three months behind. I'd lived in Uganda, but my experience of Tanzania amounted to a brief visit in 2011. And I was suddenly responsible for managing multi-million-dollar federal projects, something I had never done before.
I was isolated. Overwhelmed. A little lost.
Finding a Way In
My first decision was to downgrade my accommodation.
I enjoy a luxury hotel as much as anyone. A morning latte beside a swimming pool has its place. But I was transitioning into a new country, and I knew that my isolation wasn't going to be cured by spending my mornings surrounded by holidaymakers and short-term contractors.
I needed to start living in Tanzania.
While looking for the right local accommodation, I decided to take a mini-holiday.
I'd spent three years as a PhD student. This was my first month on contract. I hadn't received a payday yet, and my funds were extremely limited.
Fortunately, Dar es Salaam has a little island called Bongoyo.
An affordable ferry leaves from the Slipway Hotel. Thirty to forty-five minutes later, you're sitting on a beach, wondering why you don't do this more often.
I caught the ferry around 10:30.
While waiting to board, I struck up a conversation with an American couple who lived in France and regularly visited Tanzania. They were absolutely lovely. They offered advice on places to eat, things to do, and pointed me toward my first home in Dar es Salaam.
There was another group on the boat.
They kept to themselves. Their accents were American. The men and women were all fit, and they carried themselves with a familiar posture.
I'd seen this before. In Entebbe, I'd once been mistaken for a security contractor by an American security contractor. It wasn't an entirely unfamiliar world.
I asked the group, "Y'all embassy marines?"
One of the men replied.
"Something like that."
Fair response.
I knew they were military or private security. I didn't need to know which.
There were plenty of reasons American personnel might have been in the region. South Sudan was at war. Piracy and maritime security remained concerns in the western Indian Ocean. Libya was still unstable, with armed groups and extremist organizations operating in the aftermath of Gaddafi's fall.
I had no idea whether any of those things had anything to do with the people on the boat.
I hoped they would all make it home safely.
A Different Kind of Freedom
On Bongoyo, I sat on the beach eating fried fish and chips and drinking a lukewarm Kilimanjaro beer.
The fish was amazing. The beer was familiar.
And I was grateful.
I was grateful for the freedom to integrate.
I could strike up a conversation with a stranger, accept an offer of advice, find a place to live, and begin to build a life in a country that was still unfamiliar to me.
I didn't have to carry the fear that even an apparent friend might be trying to jeopardize my country.
I didn't need to know who those people were, or what brought them to Bongoyo.
I just needed to enjoy the day.
The Freedom to Belong
And somehow, between the fish, the beer, and the kindness of a couple I'd only just met, Dar es Salaam began to feel a little less overwhelming.
I had a lead on where to start. I had a place to look for a home.
I was still three months behind on a project.
I was still learning how to manage millions of dollars.
I was still alone.
But I had a way forward. And I had the freedom not to be isolated.
The first step toward feeling at home somewhere is allowing yourself to be vulnerable to the place, to its people, and to whatever comes with it.
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