My nationality - the inner Dane that I rarely have problems keeping in line - sometimes strikes unexpectedly.
Especially around lunch time.
Generally, I am practising a gradually achieved principle not to indulge in the categories in which the Danish People's Party attempt to monopolize under the label 'Danish', however, I have a real soft spot in terms of smørrebrød - open sandwiches.
It is among the first things I do when visiting Denmark - to rob friendly people's refrigerators for ingredients. My sister, who in 1992 settled permanently in the Northern part of Iceland, does the same, and used to prior to visiting Copenhagen to request specific items which ought to be availale in my then Danish refrigerator.
Today, a few things slipped into my trolley which unmistakably must have given the impression that I essentially am Danish. Revealing, I thought, and perhaps even a little boring in the Shoppers' Plaza context on Old Bagamoyo Road in Dar es Salaam which is such a multicultural supermarket with offers to all hungry nationalities.
I looked at the Chinese with their explosively fully-filled trolleys which leave me with the impression that extended families at home are waiting for being feed in pluralis. Indians buy spices, dhal and lentils in kilograms. And adult Tanzanians - with and without children - roll around with small children trolleys, filled to the bursting point with the ingredients for a classic African household: cooking oil in cans, sugar, maize flour and vegetables.
I buy rye bread produced in Nairobi, with added preservatives, and a can of marinated herring which later is transferred into smørrebrød.
