Stupid mzungu tricks

The daladala ride wasn't unusual: I was crammed in a corner, hit my head against the ceiling a half-dozen times and my legs were on the verge of falling asleep from being in a position so awkward it made me yearn for the wide open spaces of coach seats on Northwest Airlines. The minibus rattled, reeked of unwashed bodies and every pothole and bump (Tanzanian roads seem to consist entirely of such things) sent the dilapidated vehicle into convulsions. The four or five times I step onto a daladala each day, I expect to die. Sort of removes the drama.

What do you expect for 400 shillings, or about 40 cents? Well, I got a bit more. Or, well, less.

As I extricated myself in Arusha, I noticed my backpack was open. Oh. Not a good sign when you're jammed in a tiny metal box with 25 other people for a half-hour. My stomach sank. Sure enough, the pouch with my passport, credit cards, not-so-useful yellow fever vaccination certificate and 100,000 shillings (about $100) was gone.

The profanity which emerged from my mouth was extensive, colorful and, well, profane. The money didn't matter. Thoughts of being stranded in the country sans passport assailed my mind. How long would I be here? Would I be reduced to hawking month-old English language papers to tourists? Never mind the trouble of replacing the credit cards. And what about the dozens of cool stamps and visas in my passport that are a not-so-hidden obsession? Like I'm going to hike into Albania again. And Djibouti? Good luck finding anyone else with the three stamps needed to enter the country in their passport.

And I was angry at myself. This was my fault. Africa is not a place to let down your guard. I did. I got lazy. I got cocky. That's why I brought that stuff with me without giving it a second thought. Why I put it in a pack pocket a 3-year-old could open. Why I didn't pay attention during the ride on the daladala, notorious for thievery.

As I simmered and swore at the daladala stand, plans were made to replace the passport. Cancel the cards. Pick up the pieces. I felt like a rube, not someone who has been to 28 countries.

Then, as if it was falling from the sky, the pouch flew through the air and landed behind me. I stared for a second and didn't move. Was this happening? I couldn't tell where it came from. But it was mine. The money was gone, of course (the thief would've been quite confused had I left my UAE dinars, Djiboutian francs, euros and dollars in there with the shillings). But my passport was there. And the credit cards. Everything.

I can't explain it. I don't want to. But I'm thankful ... and wondering if those 100,000 shillings are tax deductable. Call them a charitable contribution, perhaps?

Oh, and memo to any future pickpockets: Good luck finding my cash and documents. You'll have a better chance of meeting my newly-purchased Maasai club.

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