Arusha is a town of 100,000 or so people, and few tall buildings. One of these is the Arusha International Conference Center, where the Rwanda War Crimes Tribunal is being held. Another is the Novotel, a large French hotel for European and American tourists. On the road beneath the balcony, the cars and trucks never stop. Each one slows down in the same spot as its front end pops up over the speed bump, then the back, and hurries off.
People stream along the sidewalks.
Suddenly, I notice that I am invisible for what feels like the first time since I came to Tanzania months ago. Here I can watch life as it goes on without being a spectacle myself, a distraction, a splash of white in a sea of black , an island of wealth in an ocean of struggle. Here, for the first time since I left America, I can forget who I am. On the far sidewalk, a beggar sits on his blanket with shrunken legs twisted underneath him. Near him, an Indian shopkeeper leans against his doorway and looks blankly outside.