By Erik Trinidad

DAY 192: Before the sun was awake, I was awaken around five in the morning by the chants and Muslim prayers coming from two different sets of loudspeakers from what I gathered were in two points of town, one somewhat far away (but still audible) and one right across the street because it was blaring through my window and into my hotel room.

I WASN'T LYING WHEN I TOLD THE SHADY GUY the night before that I was planning to stay in Mbeya for a couple of days. I knew that the Scandinavian bus company was popular for its "Princess Class" service (they served drinks and showed movies), and had to be booked at least a day in advance according to my guidebook. My plan of the day was to spend the day in Mbeya to book my ticket for the next day, catch up on Blog duties, possibly check out a friend of Peter, the Mbeyan I met in Nkhata Bay, and exchange the remainder of my Malawian kwacha since I only had 11,500 Tanzanian shillings left (about $11.50).

Since my agenda for the day wasn't packed with activities, I took my time getting up and out of bed, leisurely taking a shower and a dump in the communal squat toilet. I was ready to leave the hotel by around a quarter to eight, hoping that a bank would be open at the top of the hour so I could get at least the money exchange out of the way. The guy at the hotel told me they wouldn't be open until nine, so I just walked over to the Scandinavian bus office to see what they had to say.

"I need to go to Dar," I told the desk attendant, knowing that the big city Dar-es-Salaam was known locally simply as "Dar."

"There's one leaving in a couple of minutes," he informed me, which was a total shocker.

"Today?! Right now? Can I get on that bus?"

"It's leaving soon."

"My bags are just across the street. I can run over and grab them real quick."

He called over the bus conductor and asked for some advice.

"We'll give you five minutes."

I ran back to the hotel, threw everything in my bag, zipped it up, locked it, left my key at the desk and returned in four in one hurried mad dash.

The desk guy started writing out my ticket while my eyes wandered to a sign behind him: "Mbeya - Dar, TSh 13,500" I thought the guy told me 11,500, but I guess I was mistaken.

"I thought you said eleven five," I said. I laid it out on the table for all to see. "That's all I have." The guy stopped writing the ticket to consult the conductor.

"Can you take kwacha?" I pleaded.

"Dollars?"

"Can you take dollars?"

"How much to do you have?"

I had a ten spot in my wallet. "I can give you ten, and 5000." I took the two bills and gave it to the attendant. "Ten, and 5000. For the courtesy." The extra TSh 1500 wasn't necessary and he just took the ten and TSh 3,500. Everyone seemed happy and I got on the bus, seat number 33, which was in my own row for the entire eleven-hour journey.

IT WAS NO SURPRISE TO ME that the Scandinavian ticket guy didn't take the extra TSh 1,500. Tanzania is a predominantly Muslim country and according to Lonely Planet, was also a fairly law-abiding one. I recalled what someone mentioned to me in Windhoek, Namibia: "They're all Muslim in Tanzania. It's not in their nature to be violent." This was welcome news in my ears amidst the more recent stereotype that all Muslims are violent extremists, for I knew that the teachings of Islam stood for peace. In fact, the predominately Muslim city of Dar-es-Salaam means "Haven of Peace."

It was a good thing I was traveling to the "Haven of Peace" on Scandinavian because they offered occassional free Cokes, cookies and water for their slightly higher fee. This was good news to me because I only had a couple thousand shillings left and I knew I might need them for my arrival in the city. Therefore, to save on cash, I had a pack of dry ramen noodles, which I crushed into bite-sized pieces, sprinkled flavor on them and ate them out of the bag like a snack food. At least this starchy (and really ghetto) meal wasn't as smelly as the hard-boiled eggs the guy in front of me ate; his silent-but-deadly farts attested to this when I could barely breathe.

The bus cruised through the beautiful Tanzanian countryside, passed rolling hills, distant mountains and vast grasslands (picture above). Vendors with good on their heads tried to sell us items through the window at occassional stops. At one point we drove through the Mikumi National Park and rode passed a herd of impala and a pack of baboons.

Meanwhile, inside, the conductor put on a bootleg copy of Saving Private Ryan, which pleased the masses, and later on, Dangerous Liasons which to an African was so boring, he just turned it off when no one was watching. (I wasn't watching either because whoever dubbed it cut out all the nude parts. I just read my book instead.)

RURAL TRANSFORMED INTO SUBURBAN, and suburban turned into urban. As we were within radio range of Dar-es-Salaam about nine and a half hours since departure from Mbeya, I heard the familiar sounds of American hip hop (and the unfamiliar sounds of Swahili-speaking DJs) over the bus' speakers. When you haven't heard it in ages, the music of Beyoncé never sounded better. Meanwhile, outside the window on the outskirts of Dar-es-Salaam was a little shack labeled the "50 Cent Class Cutz Salon."

We arrived at the bus terminal by dusk, and I hopped in a cab to take me the additional 11 km. to the city center. Luckily for me, the taxi driver also took a combination of American money and Tanzanian shillings, otherwise I might have been stuck.

"WHERE ARE YOU FROM?" John the cabbie asked me when I started light conversation with him in the front seat.

I hestitated before saying the usual responses -- "New York" or "The States" -- and said, "Philippines."

"Oh, Filipino? I thought maybe Korean."

Playing the race card worked in my favor because apparently "Philippines" was the right thing to say.

"Philippines, good. America, bad," the mostly-Swahili-speaking taxi driver said in caveman English. "Bush is bad."

"Yeah, I don't know anyone who likes Bush," I told him, citing the opinions of about 98% of the travelers I'd met so far. (Only two people -- one South African, one South African/Australian -- were very pro-Bush.)

I tried to hide my American accent by putting a slight Filipino/South African spin on my words. I knew that for the most part Muslims were a peaceful people, but I also knew we all lived in a crazy and ever-changing world. This wasn't the first anti-American vibe I'd felt on my trip so far. I had seen anti-American stickers as early as Rio de Janiero in February, and I've noticed that as I've headed more north through Africa there was more of an anti-American sentiment, from the Osama bin Laden watches to the numerous Saddam Hussein Hawaiian shirts I've noticed people wearing. Anti-American conversations that I've overheard were more frequent. Whether or not this was contributed to the fact that it was getting more and more Muslim as I headed north I can not say for sure.

THE RIDE INTO THE CITY was longer than anticipated with the rush-hour weekday traffic. I kept the vibe positive between John the cabbie and myself, asking him to teach me useful phrases in Swahili, but the only one I could remember was Asante sana, which means "thank you," probably only because I heard Rafiki say it in The Lion King.

When the taxi rode through a questionably dark alley, I kept my hand on the door handle just in case. It was unnecessary because the alley led back to a main road where the Safari Inn was located, the place mentioned in my Lonely Planet Shoestring Guide as one of the better value places to stay, at TSh 8,400 for a single room with private bathroom, plus breakfast. Luckily for me, they let me forego advance payment since I had no proper cash on me.

After not eating anything substantial all day, I just vegged out in my room with another emergency can of tuna and started the long and arduous duty of catching on Blog duties. I didn't leave my room at all for after a long day of travelling; I had found my little haven of peace in an even bigger one.