One night in Dar Es Salaam, 6th of December

A dark airport with low ceilings. It's 4 o'clock in the morning. Humidity is around 90%. All shops are closed for the night, as if an airport shop is no different to any other shop in the city. 
Nowhere to buy food or, more importantly, water. 

Airport is packed with starving and dehydrated people. 

I am at Dar Es Salaam airport. I have just got off the plane from Istanbul and my flight to Kili is in 6 hours. Just before I get on the plane in Istanbul, I notice a flight direct to Kili from Istanbul. It kills me. Now I will suffer and pay extra to fly to Kili from Dar Es Salaam and will have to wait for 6 hours at the airport. Well-done.

I sit and and look around for a while. A silent TV screen  keeps annoucing the death of Nelson Mandela. Some soldiers in worn out uniforms are pacing the area with black sticks in their hands. I try to imagine what they would do if a riot broke now at the airport. Would they really hit people with those sticks? Yes. Why not?

 I stare at the two white girls sitting next to each other and crying silent tears  – as if the place needed another factor to make it more depressing. I try to pass time by trying to figure out why they are crying. After a while, they stand up and hug each other. One makes her way to international departure, crying, while the other one just stands there and waves at her, crying. 
I think maybe a common friend had a leathal accident on safari, maybe he got eaten by a lion? or maybe, he froze on the Snows of Kilimanjaro trying to make it to summit? 

Right after this cresendo of depression, I make a bed of the metal bench where I’ve been watching the world from, and have an uncomfortable sleep, hugging my back pack.

Four hours later, pictures of Mandela with the football team are still occupying the TV screen. Finally, we are ready for check-in and finally, I find water in the departure lounge.

The weather is cloudy but hot and humid. 

On the plane, I look out the window in vain to get a glimpse of Kili. Nothing but clouds. Between the clouds I see a vast land of nothing dotted with trees that I know from African documentaries.  At the airport of Kili, I collect my bags from baggage claim. This is a good sign because there were a lot of warnings on the net about misplaced luggage. Second good sign is finding a shuttle van to Moshi town. I was prepared to pay 30$ to taxi, but this one costs only 7$ so I joyfully get on it. Of course, it starts raining tropically as soon as we take off and my bag is on top of the van. All my stuff gets soaked.

I reach the hostel with the exotic name: Karibou, only to find out that it means “welcome” in Swahili. Not a lot of creativity went into naming it, I guess. It is a nice white house in a large garden with lots of flowers. I lay all my wet clothes on and around my bed and leave for a tour around this African town called Moshi. It is still raining.