Birthday in Tanzania

I don’t make much fuss over birthdays so I wasn’t expecting anything exceptional to happen yesterday.  That is, unless you consider exchanging multiple handshakes and greetings with Masasi warriors, while on your way to the bank, to be exceptional.  Masasi warriors are the pastoralists dressed in purple and red plaid cloth, carrying four foot sticks and wearing sandals made from re-cycled motorcycle tires.  They have a culture apart from any other.

My day began with a thoughtful birthday card containing a phone voucher and the command Phone Home.  Later, a meeting convened at our CERC office turned out to be a chai (tea) party for all staff complete with the special donut-like snacks called vitumbua that Mr. Ndee only buys for special occasions. 

When asked to divulge the source of these delicacies, Mr Ndee always gives the same reply “You have to order the day before and you need to talk in big letters.”  In lieu of candles the small cakes were decorated with Tanzanian and Canadian flags stuck on toothpicks.  The Tanzanians got a great kick out of this.  I was draped in a Masasi woman’s scarf and we all had our pictures taken while everyone sang Happy Birthday. 

Our colleagues from Dar es Salaam arrived in the evening bearing a real chocolate birthday cake.  All of the customers in the restaurant were fascinated; happily there was enough for everybody.

On the way home there were phone calls and text messages.  What more could one want? 

The Freedom Torch Arrives in Kibaya

This is an important year in Tanzania. It is the 50^th anniversary of independence from British colonial rule. A charismatic mwalimu (teacher) named Julius Nyerere was instrumental in the drive for independence and was elected as their first president. I don't know much about Tanzanian history yet except what I have picked up in the 'Lonely Planet' but I do know that Nyerere is a highly respected person here. You can see the picture of his kindly face in just about every government and school office.

Yesterday we had the opportunity to attend a huge celebration in Kibaya. Fifty years ago a torch symbolizing Tanzania's freedom and independence was lit atop Mt Kilimanjaro. This year the torch is being taken all over the country with celebrations at every stop.

The freedom torch was scheduled to arrive at Bwakalo Secondary School and so we walked for about 45 minutes up a dusty road, past very modest clay brick houses, to watch the ceremony. People came outdoors to greet us with habaris (hellos) and shikamoos (hellos to an older person).

On arrival at the school we were swarmed by students. All of them wanted to shake our hands, to practice their English greetings and to have us take pictures of them. I am constantly amazed at how friendly and happy people are here given that they are unbelievably poor materially by Canadian standards. School uniforms are often full of holes and those students requiring glasses often have old frames from the 1960s that were donated by aid organizations. It is not uncommon to see girls wearing over sized men's aviator frames.

We were also very impressed by the behavior of the students as they were waiting in the school yard for the torch. There was no shouting, running, screaming or fighting. No one was whining. attention seeking or bullying. There were three staff members in charge of about 500 students and if there were behavior issues they were certainly invisible to us.

A form one boy (grade 7) was digging a hole in the centre of the school yard to erect a sign. He was using a two foot long razor sharp machete for the job. I kept thinking that in Canadian schools a student would be suspended for carrying a dull Swiss Army Knife and here was this 13 year old Tanzanian kid digging, entirely appropriately, with a machete. In many Canadian schools nearly every activity requires a special helmet and safety gear and students his age are not given sharp scissors for fear that they will stab someone or cut themselves.

I kept thinking that the Tanzanians have a lot to teach Canadians about school.

Finally the big moment arrived. We could see the dust rising on the road as Toyota 4X4s raced up the hill. The dignitaries, wearing matching Adidas track suits and the soldiers, sporting red berets, were escorting the torch. They set up an honour guard. Speeches were made, ribbons were cut and a meal of rice and bananas was eaten. There was African Drumming, singing and skits put on by the students.

It was a perfect day here in east Africa.

We are Staying with Tessa for Two Weeks Until our House is Ready

We go on a Rough Safari

The bus trip from Morogoro to Kibaya turned out to be a rough safari.  The MJ bus company tickets indicated seats H1/H2 were supposed to be ours and the ETA 1 or 2 o’clock.  However, it turned out to be one of the toughest bus rides of our lives so far.  Honestly, I think that when we get back to Nova Scotia we will take an Acadian Lines bus trip just to experience the luxury of it all.
Waiting around Morogoro bus station for an hour was interesting in itself. The vendors wandering through the crowd offered their wares to us the same as to the locals.  No tough sell here but, had we needed to, we could have outfitted ourselves with everything from luggage to shoes, clothes, radios and food. 
 At 9:00 a.m. a man wearing an MJ bus company tee shirt started running with our bags while calling out, 'mzungu, mzungu' (white person, white person) indicating that we should follow.  We and our luggage were crammed onto an already full dalla dalla (mini-bus) which took off at breakneck speed. Standing in the aisle, bent over like a pretzel and rocking back and forth we wondered, is this our transportation for next five hours?  It was not.
 After an hour at which time we were deposited on the side of the road somewhere beside a tiny village where chickens were scratching in the dirt and vendors were selling water and bananas.  Standing in the blistering sun for an hour we started to wonder, what are we doing here?  Are we even on the correct road to Kibaya? 
Suddenly an MJ bus sped by.  Many people started running after it, shouting and waving.  We joined in the ruckus.   The bus ground to a halt about a quarter of a kilometer away.  Several very helpful Tanzanians grabbed our bags and we rushed to get aboard.
Needless to say, seats H1/H2 were nonexistent.  Once again we crammed into the aisle but the saving grace was that everyone on the bus was friendly and helpful.  Our computer bag was in one man’s lap and another one was being looked after by a kindly young Tanzanian man wearing a Tim Horton’s tee shirt.  It’s a small world isn’t it? 
As more passengers were picked up, it became a struggle just to reach down to get our bottle of water on the floor.  The large sign over the windshield of the bus which read, ‘High Class’ was not reassuring. We braced ourselves for the rest of the ride. 
When the bus broke down we were mistaken in thinking it was just a pit stop.  No!  The driver opened the engine compartment and thick diesel smoke poured out.  We debussed for another wait at the side of the road while people hustled jerry cans of water to replace that which was flooding from the radiator onto the road.  Before long we were on the way again.
When the bus turned right onto a dirt track (it made the West Tatamagouche Road look like a four lane highway) we knew we were only two and a half hours from our destination.   A few passengers got off and more got on. Children were handed over until they reached their mothers but there was very little crying or whining.  A crashed bus on one side of the road was an interesting diversion and we were left thinking, there but for the grace of God…
At 4:30 in the afternoon we arrived at our new home, Kibaya.  Tessa, the VSO mathematics teacher- trainer and Mr. Ndee, the director of the Community Education Resource Center (CERC) were there to give us a warm Tanzanian welcome.
We were tired and dusty and a little worse for wear but happy all the same, especially after an ice cold Mountain Dew, a shower and some food.

We go on a safari

Safari means journey in Swahili. Any journey could technically be considered a safari.  Going to the grocery store for a loaf of bread is a safari.  Our first safari, however was much more eventful.

Fellow volunteers, Margaret and Vanessa assisted by Samantha did all the legwork, which was considerable.  Negotiating a fair deal with safari outfitters is a lot like swimming through a shark tank while bleeding.  The chances of losing your cash or being taken on a bad safari are overwhelming.  Safari touts have refined lying and scamming to a fine art.  However, thanks to the three volunteer safari organizers our operator showed up with two working Land rovers, sufficient enough to navigate dirt tracks, with raised roofs and knowledgeable guides.

Just before the dawn we set out  to Mikumi National Park, a locale which has pretty much guaranteed sightings of wildlife in its over 3,000 square kilometers of wilderness.  The nuns equipped us with enough water and boiled eggs to feed an army.

We saw buffalos, elephants, giraffes, zebras, male baboons (their sex was pretty obvious), crocodiles, impalas, hippos and wildebeests.  At one point an enraged rogue elephant charged at our vehicle and our driver had to gun the engine and pop the clutch for us to escape being tusked to death.

It was at the hippo Pools area that I received the fright of my life from the devious and cunning Vanessa.  I was watching the crocs swim just at the surface of the pond thinking of the film, ‘Crocodile Dundee’ and remembering how Mick Dundee explained how a croc drags its victim below the water and rolls him around until he drowns and then hides him in his meat locker until his dead body is ripe enough to eat.  As I was contemplating the meat locker part of the story Vanessa grabbed by ankle in imitation of a croc.  I would like to say that I reached for my Swiss Army knife to pound the croc through the skull but that was not so.  Karma was on my side, however, as later in the day a monkey shat on Vanessa.

As they say in Swahili, the day was supa safi.

Benji, Kiswahili Mwalimu supa Safi (Super good Swahili teacher)

Get Thee to a Nunnery

We are staying at Amabalis Centre in Morogoro about four hours from Dar es Salaam by bus. We have been here for a few days and will be here until Sunday which will make the experience a week in total. The centre is a quiet and peaceful convent operated by a small group of nuns. They do the job of looking after most of our bodily needs while our teachers, Benji, Asia and Pepi look after our educational needs with intensive Swahili lessons. These lessons will help us to form relationships with the Tanzanians that we meet during our placement in Kibaya. That's the plan anyway.

This morning I took a shirt down to the convent laundry to be washed I gave my room number in Swahili and hope that my pronunciation doesn't sound anything like, 'rip up this shirt and use it as a nest for rats.' So far the clean and freshly ironed shirt has not made an appearance.

Ironing is very important in these parts. Not as an office fashion statement but because the heat of the iron kills the insects which nest in the drying clothes and which later tunnel into one's skin causing great discomfort but probably not immediate death.

The grub is pretty good here at the convent. Breakfast is white bread and fruit jam, instant coffee and if we're lucky an egg. There is usually a slice of watermelon or a banana as well. For our morning break the nuns prepare such delicacies as fried bananas and weiners. It is an unusual combination, I will admit, but one which works quite well. Lunch usually consists of potatoes, chicken or beef and spinach. Supper is basically the same.

The meals are heavy on the starch. Normally there are potatoes and rice with every meal save breakfast and break. By break time my head is usually spinning from trying to concentrate on Swahili verbs and so anything in the way of food comes as a very welcome treat. I am avoiding the bottle of hot sauce on the table for reasons that I will leave to your imagination.

There are fifteen CUSO-VSO Swahili students at the convent. We are divided into three classes of five each. Debbie and I are in the Kwanza class, which means first. Believe me when I say that the name of our class has nothing to do with our abilities in Swahili which, in my case, is not even approaching survival level.

Benji, Asia and Pepi are lively and patient. Trying to drum swahili into my head is not an easy task. I lived in Quebec for about forty years and managed to avoid learning much French so it's a real stretch of even the most fertile imagination to think that my Swahili will ever match that of Shabaan Robert, Tanzania's national poet.

The Mountain Behind the Convent Where We Wre Studying Kiswahili

On the Road to Morogoro

There's No Dilly Dally When You Ride The Dalla Dalla

Dalla Dallas are Tanzanian public mini busses on crystal meth.  Designed to hold about thirty-five passengers it is normal to see them crowded with twice that number during rush hour in Dar es Salaam. Getting a place on board is a harrowing experience attempted only by Tanzanians without cars or foreigners either low on cash or slightly nuts.

All the dalla dallas stop at the same place so you must know where you are going.  In our case we were heading to the VSO offices in Masaki.  The bus with Masaki written on front was what we wanted.

The first step of the journey was easy.  We walked from our hotel to the bus stop that is past the Tasty Bites Indian vegetarian restaurant and the crow enjoying a dead-rat-breakfast.  It is about four blocks from the fruit and vegetable stand.  

At the stop we crowded around the sidewalk with the other perspective passengers eagerly eyeballing the road for the Masaki bound dalla dallas racing each other and two abreast,  to be first at the stop.  In the world of dalla dalla drivers traffic rules are always open to interpretation and the competition for passengers is job one. 

When the dalla dalla stopped the fun began.   I fought my way to the front of the crowd, pushing Debbie before me, to reach the door.  During the process it is imperative to grab any part of the door frame that offers a hand hold while avoiding sharp metal edges.  This hand grab is vital to keep the other commuters from pushing you to the sidelines.   While  shoving with the other hand and both hips  we got aboard.   Success was owed to size, aggressiveness and determination with a large measure of humour, laughter and loud groans thrown in.

As the bus raced to the next stop I was wet with sweat but  felt like a million Tanzanian shillings.

Peter