Kimberly Milligan is working as an ecotourism and development officer with the Zanzibar Institute for Tourism Development in Zanzibar, Tanzania. Funded by the Canadian International Development Agency’s International Youth Internship Program, she is employed by Algonquin College in Ottawa. A recent graduate of McGill University, she holds a Bachelor of Arts with a double major in Geography and International Development Studies. This internship has provided her with a unique opportunity to bridge the gap between theoretical knowledge and its practical applications, marking an important step in her career development.

By Kimberly Milligan

Native to Montreal’s South Shore, I am no stranger to public transport. Hailing from the “other side of the bridge”, I’m from parts foreign to the true Islanders of Montreal, and a breeding grounds for champion bus-takers. A real product of our geography, us mainlanders with limited car access take pride in being a public transport-savvy bunch. That being said, I arrived on Zanzibar to find my skills of over a decade in the making being put to shame by the youngest of local passengers. It pains me to admit this, but I’m now the Zanzibari equivalent of that kid with the over-sized backpack, the lady with poor mastery of her baby carriage, the guy in the puffy jacket causing a traffic jam at the very front of an empty bus.

Most Zanzibaris who opt to take public transport find themselves on a “dala dala”. For the price of 30 cents, one has the opportunity to hop on the back of what is basically a revamped pick-up truck alongside what seems like an impossibly large percentage of the population of Zanzibar Town. Each of them quickly finds a spot, squeezing neatly into spaces designed to fit half the amount of individuals that they eventually accommodate. Then on wanders this hapless foreigner, and it no longer matters that I was a champion buser back home. Now I’m the rookie, the one that the Zanzibaris chuckle at, but in their good nature, miraculously conjure up a seat for. As the dala dala pulls out, I consider myself lucky to have been awarded the last inch of available space on the vehicle.

This thought quickly vanishes as we pull up to a stop where five more people are waiting to get on. “Impossible”, I think to myself, even though I should know better; one of my Dad’s many skills is that he can always fit another plate into a dishwasher that, to the untrained eye, is already full to the point of bursting. This sort of magic is apparently not limited to kitchen appliances, as alluded to by the Zanzibari joke that asks “How many people fit on a dala dala? One more”. I have yet to see this proverb proven wrong. A pail of fish is re-arranged to become a seat, the children begin stacking onto the adults’ laps, and before you know it, the five people have managed to board.

Now it’s hot. It’s cramped. It’s sweaty and sticky and stuffy and smelly. I’m getting cranky and waiting for the first person to show signs of unpleasantness. After over a month on Zanzibar, I am happy to report that I am still waiting for such signs. I’ve seen people young and old fit into spaces where it appeared humanly impossible, and have yet to spot as much as an eye roll, hear a sigh, or see a grimace.

This sort of attitude is refreshing and uplifting, and manifest in the everyday behaviours and demeanours of the vast majority of Zanzibaris. Luckily for this formerly city-hardened cynic, it’s contagious. I’ve found myself slowly becoming more patient, relaxed and tolerant, developing qualities that have proven indispensable when operating in the laid-back pace known as “Africa time”.

More than once, it has crossed my mind that I may be forced to abandon my newfound skill-set upon returning to Canada. Hard deadlines, strictly defined workdays, and busy schedules are not always conducive to the idea of Africa time. What I’m really hoping for is that these qualities are symptoms of a more deeply rooted lesson of adaptability, applicable to any of the wide range of regional conceptions of time that I hope to come across in the future. This is a lesson that would have been lengthy and difficult had I not been removed from the spacious buses of the South Shore and squeezed into the dala dalas of Zanzibar. I head home in four months to put this theory to the test. If you should be curious as to how this experiment is going, chances are good that the Montreal-to-South Shore bus line-up is a good place to look; I’ll be the one insisting on trying to squeeze just one more person onto the rush hour bus.

back to Interns' Stories