Blogs

The Emirates A380 long haul flights can be comfortable, but rather lonely. Gone are the flights where I could chat with a fellow traveler and while away some of the long hours. I can eat a bunch, watch a couple of movies, nap a bit or read some, but the conversation certainly helps, especially to…

I think I am going to go ahead and sue Mullah Mchungu’s son-in-law, Hyder. He is some big shot businessman in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania and makes all sorts of worldwide long distance calls. For this, he gets free talk time from his phone carrier, gifts he innocently bestows on Sakina, his beloved wife. This…

‘Its all in the mind.’ That’s the saying, and I agree. It’s the tenth day of Ramadhan today, perhaps one-third of the month is gone. I fretted a few days before the month began, how were we going to survive the 16 plus hours of thirst and hunger, especially for my girl Zainab. No big…

I land in Mumbai to the chatter of very little except for the heat wave gripping most of the country, especially in the areas I am to visit the next few days. About 2,500 (last count) people have died from the unprecedented almost 120F furnace created by the current summer ball of fire. I don’t…

I am busy at my computer when my cell phone goes off, startling me. The screen flashes Mullah Mchungu’s number from Dar. I don’t want to take it as it’ll mean loss of thirty minutes, at least, and I have my run coming up in that time. I give in and answer the phone, however. The guy was quite ill when…

Towards the end of last February, when Toronto is in a midst of a deep freeze, I get a call from my fellow Tangawalla and Orlandowalla – Ali Yusufali of CAI, asking me what was I up to. I did the usual complaining about the cold until he asked me if I would be willing…

Saki Naka is easily one the most congested places in Mumbai (read earth). If you have never been exposed to the noise, human / animal / vehicular traffic and pollution of this place, get ready to easily go into rapid shock or hyperventilation, even. And don’t bother calling 911 here, the ambulance will arrive after…

A trip to Tanzania, Arusha being the city of birth, is always a delight indeed. My childhood and adolescent were unique, special. I know, I know, everybody will claim this refrain, but mine was extra special; special for all Tanzanian diaspora I reckon. That carefree bachpaana and jawaani, those bisri hoowe yadee, are now but…

As I reflect on the remarkable progress made by CAI thus far, it is important, I think, to look back and reflect on how it all began, the path we have trodden, where we now are and how to chart out the future. So I will share this Blog with you, first written in 1996,…

The baraaza area outside HIC in Sanford wears a forlorn look, the cold and wind making it uncomfortable to socialize. Usually it is busy with people chatting, smoking or smacking lips (or spitting) with Mehboob’s paans; the rising smoke from beedis, cigarettes (regular and the modern E) reminding me of choma kuku dhabas around the…

Mullah Mchungu is preparing to return to Dar es Salaam tomorrow so has dropped by home to say goodbye. He says he’s not sure if I’ll see him again because he feels the angel of death is paying him real close attention. I laugh away, thinking the old man is jesting but the Mullah’s face…

Cranky and groggy, I appear before the Etihad check-in counter at Mumbai International Airport at 2AM for my flight to Abu Dhabi, connecting to Dallas, TX. The middle-aged woman in a sari with a bulging midriff sharply draws breath through very white dentures and flashes them at me. ‘Sorry Sir, the flight is cancelled. Heavy…

I clear immigration at Dhaka airport and head towards the domestic airport, a short distance away. An armed policeman, a kid really, stops me and asks for my passport in Bangla; I give it to him. His face lights up. Ah, American hay? He says in broken English. Very nice. Where are you headed? Chittagong.…

It seems Mullah Mchungu has had a turbulent childhood and adolescent. That upbringing, and the fact he is celebrating his seventy-eighth birthday today, has put him in an even grumpier mood than usual. He is in Sanford once more, on his biannual visit to see his only son and grandchildren, who he adores and daughter-in-law…

Once upon a time, some twenty-three years ago, in a place called Bombay (then), in a squalor camp outside the city called Govendhi, in a tiny shack consisting of a single room made of corrugated tin sheets for walls and roof, a frail girl child was born to a middle aged couple; let us call…