Portraits of men hang on the walls, crooked

To describe Moshi in three words: dirty, dusty, patterned. November 8th, 2011. Sitting in Union cafe on an open terrace, floor painted burgundy, cream walls and grey green chairs create a decidedly European feel. The city roars around us, cars twisting around the dirty corner, but the whites of Moshi find a haven in the clean and crisp spring air. A storm is coming, the clouds covering the sun, cooling the dogs and men that lie under trees beside the roads. I get more than my coffee fix here. I can watch the colors of the kangas and batiks twisting on the voluptuous women carrying shoes and fruit and the children running barefoot, adroitly avoiding daladalas and pikipikis, some with uniforms still from school. A table of blonde Sweeds with braided hair and tanned forearms sit a table away, Australians with fitted tshirts leave a tip on another near. We start to feel drops of rain. The metal roof pounded this morning, dimming all words and blurring floors. Strings of laundry drip and sway in rain, and the whole country feels blessed. Centipedes find residence and sanctuary under our tables, scurrying over Allison's feet. She drops a plate and it crashes in little plastic pieces over the ground as I wash my dish and make toast. She seems embarrassed, trying to explain the mishap. She self-consiously enters and exits vehicles, and sits with her legs crossed and arms folded, covering her body. She stares out the window pensively, as if begging someone to ask her what she's thinking about. She rarely speaks. 
One room in the building across from the cafe has no curtains and windows open. A lavender ribbon is tied to the thin bars, and it lifts with each sea-like gust of wind. The cill is brown, residue of dust from the street.