17th March 2010
So it’s apparently Irish day...more commonly known as St. Patrick’s day. I am sure you have noticed I haven’t provided you with anything to read in a while so I thought that it was necessary to fill the void in your lives. I’ll come back to you about the details of the past week in another blog, but today’s focus is merely on St. Patrick’s day.
So as we arrived in Maliyamkono’s ambassador car (he has two diplomat registered cars and one ambassador registered car so he can pick and choose whichever car fits the situation best). The car is the kind of car that Moses would have used if there were cars in biblical times. The ambassador car demands more respect than the diplomat cars and as you drive it seems as though the sea of cars in front completely parts and Salum can drive right through. Policemen and traffic direction people give the car priority over others, but the only thing is, the ambassadors car can still be stuck in traffic when there is nowhere for the cars in front to go. This could be its only failing. I realise now that this discussion about a car has probably run its course so I’ll move on.
As we approached the Irish Ambassador Residents house it became clear to me that this was a big event. The road was lined with diplomatic cars, ambassadors’ cars and embassy cars (you can tell from the green and blue number plates). The car doors were pulled open for us passengers, we had to walk ourselves...unbelievable, I know having to walk with my own legs, into the grounds of the house. We were greeted by the Ambassador and her husband. The Ambassador, Anne, is a lovely woman with a very Irish sounding accent. I think having been away from the regular source of the accent, my parents, and the surrounding Tanzanian accent, the Irish accent seems more prominent and slightly more charming. Anne’s husband was born in Italy, but he must have stayed in Ireland for some time because he too was carrying a very Irish sounding accent. They both seemed friendly and welcoming, but the meeting was very quick because we were being pushed in by the crowd of people that were coming in from behind us.
The Irish Embassy Residence building is a fantastic compound that is just outside of the city centre. The building itself looks more like a hotel than a house, and the grounds were spectacularly decorated with lights on the palm trees, and bunting and banners and flags. There were also some rather cumbersome speakers belting out some Irish folk music, which as it turns out was live music which was the outpouring of a band from Kerry (a county in Ireland, not the offspring of a woman called Kerry). The current Irish Ambassador for Tanzania is a close friend of Professor Maliyamkono and as a result of their friendship I was invited as a guest to the do.
The garden was the main area for the event; I think there would have been too many people to go inside the house. The crowd was huge and there were plenty of mzungu faces mixed in with a few African people. There were groups of people from embassies, from parliamentary sectors and from international organisations. The age range was quite vast, and people were dressed in a smart casual way. For once I didn’t feel over or underdressed. The Professor and I grabbed a glass of wine each and headed into the cosh of people. He recognised the Ambassador for Malawi and introduced me to him. He was a large man who was very friendly, although you had to strain to hear him because the music was a touch on the loud side! A few minutes passed and the Professor introduced me to many important people. A small crowd had built up behind us, and when the Prof noticed this he grabbed my arm and dragged me over to meet a rather small, grey-haired mzee. This as it turns out was the ex president of Tanzania. He had a couple of rather hefty looking bodyguards, and there was a queue of people waiting to shake his hand. I was introduced to him, and then the Prof disappeared off to talk to someone else, leaving me with the dwindling crowd and the ex president. Soon it was just the ex president and myself, so we got into a discussion about Swahili and Ireland, and he was a genuinely interesting man. Apparently he was well acquainted with the old Irish President.
Eventually I was grabbed and dragged to another group of people, and I met the head of the European Union in Tanzania, a rather comedic and quite drunk man who was able to wind up the Professor to no end. A few minutes later we were joined by the head of the World Bank in Tanzania. He seemed like a much less fun individual, and came across as more of a politician than anything else. The Prof was trying to push his latest book on these people. He had sent them copies but neither had read them so he wasn’t too impressed.
The little snacks came out, and more wine was had before I found a man with Guinness on his tray. This made my day, I’d been hoping for some of the black stuff at some point, just so I could join in the stereotypical scenario of St. Paddy’s day. One of the waiters started to call me the Guinness man, I don’t know if it was a good thing to get a nickname from the waiters in less than two hours of meeting them. The Irish national anthem was played and sung, and the Tanzanian anthem followed shortly after. The Irish band was joined by a traditional Tanzanian band, I think of an Arabic-Muslim origin. It was a strange blend of Irish fiddles, drums and tin whistles, mixed with the wailing noise of the African instruments. Surprisingly it worked quite well in unison! A few speeches were made glasses were clinked, etc., etc. After a few hours the Prof and I left back for Mwenge.
I got a call from Chris, my Danish friend; he had been in Denmark for the past four weeks and had got back on Sunday. He was up at the Irish Pub so I went for a taxi to join him, Simon his business partner, and another Danish guy that was only in Tanzania for two days. The taxi driver may have been a dalla-dalla driver in a former life because he was borderline psychotic. He couldn’t seem to drive fast enough, nor close enough to the rear bumper of the cars he eventually overtook. Although in fairness, we did arrive at the bar in a record time.
I saw Chris and the happy gang at the bar so I went and joined them. We had a fair amount of alcohol, of various styles, and for some reason it all started off with Jagermeister. The Guinness then followed, which was then followed by rum, and topped up with more Guinness and vodka. I was quite drunk at this point, but not in the swaying way that normally happens in England. In fact, I have come to a conclusion that hotter climates produce a different variety of drunk to the kind of drunk in colder climates. I will be putting this to the test when I get back to England. We were outside for most of the night because inside was a very toasty location. After a while I heard the docile tones of an Irish band, so I went in to listen to the songs that were being shouted, and realised that it was the same band that had been flown over for the Ambassadors soiree. I began recognising some faces from the embassy too, and through the smoky haze I saw some people having a little dance over in front of the band. The inside of the Irish bar was a picturesque scene of Irishness. The wooden tables, and floor, and the slightly smoky atmosphere from the smoking ex-pats seemed to blend into the stereotypical view of a real Irish bar, well before the smoking ban of course.
So after several beverages of a variety of flavours and quantities, the Danes wanted to go onto a club (this was at about half one), but the club was very far from my place, and I didn’t bring enough money to cover the cab back to Mwenge from Kariakoo, as well as further drinking. I decided to go back to the apartment and I struggled to tell the taxi driver that I wanted to go to Mlimani City...the shopping centre near to my apartment. It turns out that Mlimani (the Swahili for mountain or hill if I am not mistaken) is actually the hardest word to say if you have been drinking. I used to thing that fridge was a difficult word to say without slurring but Mlimani is the outright winner. I can barely say it when I am sober.
And so there is my tale of St. Patrick’s Day...And what a grand tale it was indeed. I shall leave you now to tend to my slightly upset head. My pillows are beckoning...I’m glad I am not working today!
Just as I finished writing this my boss came knocking on my door asking for a first draft of a paper to be handed to him by the end of the day...it looks like I am working today!
Thursday, 18 March 2010
Monday, 8 March 2010
Boats, Bajajs, Beaches and Beers...
7th March 2010
I’m sitting here tapping away at the keyboard wondering how on earth I am so tired. It’s about half one and so far all I have managed to do is make beans on toast, have a cup of coffee, have a shower, and think about going out. Everything seems quite tricky today. Once again I’ve left a week between writing anything down on this blog so I’ll regale you with the tale of the first week of March!
For the past week or so I have been working on writing a chapter in a biography on a politician in Tanzania. I’m co-writing the chapter which outlines the local and national political contributions that the MP has made in the past five years. The research I am working off of is from a series of interviews that were conducted by the other author of the chapter, and this makes it very tricky to get the work done. I’ve been finding using the outcomes from interviews that I didn’t conduct very hard indeed. As far as academic work goes, working from the outcome of someone else’s research may be the hardest thing to do ever! There are so many questions that pop into your head which could take the direction of the chapter in an alternative, and all ego aside, a more informative and relevant direction. However, not having the answers to the questions that pop up means you can’t write about it, so the work stays along a stringent path. The first draft of the chapter was put together by the other author, and for the past week I have been going through it, paragraph by paragraph, and sentence by sentence to try and get the work to be structured, and to ensure that the English is all in order. The co-author, who I’m keeping anonymous, is a PhD student and lecturer in UDSM. By looking at the first draft you would not think that this is actually the case. There is so much work that has been done so far, and still so much to finish by the end of the next week that I’m predicting a slightly hermit-esk existence.
So between working on the chapter, and a touch of gentle procrastination, I’ve been kept out of trouble. The Professor however brought me some news which made me question what I am doing here though. I’ve not seen my boss (Kagasheki) in over 2 months, I’ve not had a phone call, and none of my texts have been replied to. It seems that all the conversation is happening between the Professor and the politician, and I get summarised reports of the feedback. One of the outcomes of these chats that they have had relates to the work that I am doing. They’ve decided that it would be good for me to work with the BDA in a closer capacity than I have done. This will mean that I will have to move back to Bukoba and work in the office there. Initially I was not too impressed with that situation. I’m now settled in Dar, I’ve become confident enough to mosey about and talk to strangers, and I’m actually enjoying the exploration side of my stay here. Bukoba however is a stark contrast, it is very small town Africa, it’s very picturesque and friendly, but there is not a vast deal of activities to do to pass the time. In addition to this move to Bukoba, I was told that the position may only be until the end of June. The run up to the elections will be starting intensely then, and so there will be less time, if that’s possible, for the boss to assign me any work. I was told that it could be possible to finish in June, but with the opportunity to come back next May (if all things go well during the elections) and do the job that I initially signed up for. So after occasional conversations with the Prof I’ve managed to negotiate the deal a little bit. It’s not been finalised but I could be moving to and from Bukoba and Dar on a monthly basis, this way I can still work for the BDA, but I can also have some of the creature comforts that Dar offers me. A negotiation of extra pay has been put forward (without my suggestion), and the provision of the car is an essential part of the deal. The car was promised to me for when I arrived in Dar, but it is yet to materialise. I can only assume they are making it from scratch.
After a week or so of bouncing ideas of the work I am doing, the move to Bukoba, and the general chit chats that I have with the Prof, he had a thought about some extra work that I could do if/when I head to Bukoba. He’s suggested to look into a project relating to the impacts of refugees, it’s not finalised, but there is scope for so much work to be done, and it would be such an interesting topic to study. On top of this, there is a lot of potential to get the paper published, both as a political document, and as an academic article. The concept of such work has really buoyed my spirits so I’m pinning my hopes on that particular piece of work. It sounds very exciting, and it could be so much fun to study!
Aside from these slightly mundane and rather self-involved reports, the weekend has once again has provided me with ample amounts to write about. Like all good stories this one shall start at the beginning, on a very hot Saturday morning.
The day started much the same as most days, the sun was trying its very best to ignite my curtain at about half six. Having got used to the early morning wakeup call where the sun renders your eyelids useless, I got up and tried to get myself into the land of the living. A quick cup of coffee was had, and as the realisation that I had no bread sunk in I toyed with the idea of leaving the house. But I didn’t...oh no, that would have been too easy. Instead I did some washing (all clothes are hand washed because washing machines are unnecessarily expensive and unreliable). I’d been lazy during the week so I had a fair amount to actually clean. It took a while, but then the need for bread overtook all else in the world. I’m infatuated with the bread in this country; it’s all so fresh, and really cheap! I do tend to eat the best part of a loaf of bread in a day!
As you can see, the day started with some unrivalled entertainment, washing clothes and buying bread. I got blasted by the sun when I was walking to get the bread, and I thought about cowering inside for the best part of the day because it would be too hot for my poor self. But knowing of the possible fun that I could have, I bounded out regardless of the weather. I found a bajaj driver who was willing to take me to Msasani Slipway for a reasonable sum of several thousand shillings. The traffic was very heavy, so the standard avoidance tactic was deployed...driving on the path to get past the stationary cars. Having feared for my life for a short while, I was safely dropped off to the Slipway.
Just walking through the courtyard area, there were several mzungus enjoying the sunshine and the excessively priced soft drinks. I plodded through the tourists who were enjoying their home away from home experience and headed for the jetty. There is a hut at the end of the jetty where you buy tickets to jump on a boat and sail to Bongoyo Island. The boat sails every couple of hours so there were already a few people waiting to board. I bought a ticket for 25,000/- (about £12.50) and that included the Marine Reserve fee, and the transport.
Bongoyo Island, as I am sure you will have worked out from the last sentence is a Marine Reserve, its 7 km off the coast of the Msasani Peninsula, and can only be described as a paradise island cliché. We’ll get to that in a minute. I sat down with the rest of the waiting passengers and became quite concerned about the sun burning my recently shaved head! A small boat was approaching as I pulled on my ridiculous hat and one by one the waiting passenger folk stepped from the jetty onto a small, blue boat which had wooden planks for the seats. After a wobbly start, the boat made a move towards a slightly larger and slightly healthier looking boat. The wooden seats seemed to be made of some sort of wood that you’d find in a forest in hell. They were burning, and for a short while I was worried that my trousers may ignite from the heat. Luckily it was only uncomfortable for a short while as every jumped ship onto the bigger boat.
On the boat I chatted to a couple of fellow mzungus, a girl from Sweden called Adela, and a girl from the states called Christa. The journey to the island was about half an hour, and in the short and fairly smooth crossing we went through the motions of standard chit chat! The obvious conversation starters were employed, where are you from, how long have you been here, what are you doing, how long are you around for etc. etc. Conversation was occasionally halted by the need to take some photos of the approaching island, and the beautiful blue Indian Ocean.
Adela was (and presumably is still) from Sweden, and she’d been in Tanzania for seven weeks. She was involved in a study relating to the communications system in Tanzania, in particular with mobiles. She was living in an apartment near Msasani, and had been to Bongoyo Island before. Christa was from Oregon in the U.S. and had arrived in Dar the night before. She was staying in the Slipway Hotel and decided to go venturing out to see the sights. She was going to be heading to a small village just outside Iringa, which is a small town towards the centre of Tanzania. She has been a qualified nurse for the past 5 years and had come over to do some volunteer nursing in the village.
So as the happy gang we were, we jumped off the boat, into a smaller boat again, and went to the blinding white sands of the beach. It was like the sand itself was a natural lighthouse. I reckon it would still be white in the dead of night. I dangled my hand over the side of the boat into the warm water and we passed through the dark blue of the deeper waters to the turquoise waters of the sandy shallows. The little boat bounced its way through the water and ploughed onto the sand where it wedged itself nicely for us to jump off. There were a fair few others on the boat too, but they seemed to keep to themselves for the most part.
Jumping off into the lovely sand we plodded up the slight hill and saw the thatched Bandas and the bar. We got under one of the Bandas and into the shade where we chatted for a while, mainly asking Adela about the island as she had been here before. A man soon came by with a menu and we ordered food, and then he asked when we’d like to have it ready by which surprised me a bit as it seemed as though the people on the island were in some way lacking the usual standards of organisation. Pleasantly surprised, I set off into the little forested area in search of the mystical toilets (which I didn’t actually find) so I could change into some shorts! There was a path leading into the woods and many a mosquito buzzed about patiently waiting for some fool to wander in so they could have some dinner. I found a secluded spot, changed, and then moved out of the reach of the mosquitoes and back to be beach. I was told upon return that there are apparently snakes in the forest, the information made me think that Adela’s flip flops (which I’d borrowed) were a bad choice of footwear.
So we sat and chatted for most of the day, occasionally one or two would disappear off to have a swim or to have a look around the island a little bit. I’d just gone off for a swim when one of the guys who works on the island waved at me to indicate that the food was ready. For a very reasonable sum, I had some fresh calamari and chips. The chips were pretty greasy, but the squid was rubbery enough to suggest it’d been caught very recently indeed!
The day passed with the conversations ranging from previous travel jaunts, to potential parasites that are in Tanzania, and then from life stories from home, to more discussion about illnesses, and then a bit about customs and language in Tanzania, and back to the parasites. I can only imagine that being a nurse and coming to a place where health care, hygiene and bugs all come in doses that seem to be at ratios out of the ordinary is likely to be a cause for worry! I became quite apparent that my own nonchalance to health worries abroad was probably not great, but I am convinced that my attitude won’t change...at least until I get sick. At one point I used the phrase ‘angry tears’ to describe how heavy the rain could be, to me it made sense, but apparently the real message of the conversation got lost as I was told I should write poetry...of a sarcastic nature! I don’t see why...I’m not sarcastic ever.
The two ladies had just gone off to the shore when I noticed a German man, equipped with the typical Speedo stereotype, came running up the sand shouting to his German companions. About a minute later another man came hobbling up the sand with one leg raised, and what looked like most of his weight resting on the shoulders of what I presume was his daughter. I immediately recognised he signs...the fool had stepped on an urchin. The man hobbled his way over the burning sand towards his Banda. At this point I feel I should tell you what a Banda is, in case you don’t know. It’s like a thatched umbrella or parasol, and the best way to imagine them is like a round thatched roof house without walls. Listening intently, and chuckling a little bit unnecessarily, I heard tell of a variety of methods to remove the spines of the urchin. The ones near the surface of the skin can be picked out like splinters, but the deeper ones require other means for removal. One person suggested keeping the leg dry for two days so that the spins cause the surrounding area to puss up, apparently you can then squeeze out the horrible bits. The other suggestion, from a local guy, was to rub the milky juice of a papaya on the area, as it apparently brings out the spines somehow. Unfortunately for the German guy there were now papayas around. I have to say I could sympathise with the guy because he had to sit down and do very little until the boat returned so he could head back to mainland.
I walked around the beach a bit and took some photos which are comparable to any beautiful beach scene, and I walked through the water enjoying the cool, but still quite warm wash of the waves over the feet. Towards the east side of the beach (the beach is in the south-east corner of the island) were a series of rock pools. I jumped from rock to rock looking at the little ugly fish in the pools. I started heading back to the Banda through a large pool and the water was actually hot. It was like walking through a really long pool of bath water. I’d go as far to say that it was actually hotter than any of the showers I have had in Tanzania. The rest of the island trip was whittled away with little else of note. It was a really nice day.
We left the island on the last boat to mainland, it was about five o’clock and the sun was still beating down. The standard transfer from little boat to big boat happened and soon we were bobbing up and down on the roll of the waves as we crossed the water back to Slipway. It was the last day that Adela was in Tanzania for, and so we arranged to meet up for a drink in the Irish Bar later that evening. We exchanged numbers and invited Christa to come as well as the Irish Bar is about 5 minutes away from the hotel, and it would be almost impossible to get lost between the two locations.
I jumped in a slightly overpriced Bajaj and went down a few very bumpy backstreets on the way back to Mwenge. The driver was keen to get me to my destination and was weaving rather frantically in an attempt to get past the wedding party that were in front of us. Apparently interrupting the wedding convoy is not considered rude...I thought it was though. It was nearly six by the time I got back to the apartment. The sun had started to drop behind a huge mushroom shaped cloud creating some awesome lighting effects. If I had a better view I would have got the camera out and taken some shots. For a short while the idea that mushroom clouds came from nuclear explosions was on my mind, but then I thought that it was in a northerly direction from Dar, so if there had been a bomb dropped it would have been into an area of nothing. This put my irrational fears to bed.
I had a shower, admired the very pink colouring of my back and ate some dinner. Thinking that I didn’t want to be in pain I had a couple of Neurofen and went in search of a mode of transport to get me to the Irish pub. I had a really bad feeling about getting a Bajaj so I went for a taxi instead. We were just heading towards the main road when the driver noticed a lot of traffic. In the distance there was a really bright white light, almost like a firework because there were sparks coming from it. The driver swung the car the wrong way around the roundabout and explained that it was an electricity pylon that was about to catch alight. As he said this, there was a bright flash, and as if on cue, there was a fire where the really white light had been. We bumped down a side street towards the main road, and eventually stopped outside a bank to pick up Adela and her flatmate Wendy.
The Irish Bar was not as busy as I had expected, and there was live music (by a rather poor quality cover band). We sat outside in the very hot night, and we continued with a vast array of conversation and jokes, and discussion about the cat that was roaming around...the same cat from the week before. We’d arrived at about half nine and had few drinks. There was a lot of talk about cockroaches, mosquitoes, ants, mice, rats, geckos and cats...each one hated quite distinctly by at least one of us. For some reason we got stuck on some grotesque conversations involving the various ways that the pests (and the cats) had been dealt with.
Wendy is a VSO volunteer working on a media project in Dar. She’d been in Tanzania for about 7 or 8 months, and will be here until June 2011. She was from the U.S. (two in one day...what are the odds!), in particular from Washington D.C. and seemed quite fun. She had a wicker-esk tiny handbag which got a lot of abuse because I kept making jokes about tiny hot air balloons. Conversation ventured into the world of bookshops which made me miss working in Waterstone’s. However, in Washington there is a bookshop that is open 24 hours a day. I can only guess as to the nutters that would go into a bookshop at 3 in the morning, craving a bit of Chaucer or Dickens, or Dan Brown...all of the classics! Regular patrons of book shops are strange enough, but with the cover of darkness you are bound to have some winners in the oddity competition.
After a few hours, which passed very quickly with the conversation, we were told the bar was going to close so we headed out into the night in search for a taxi. Here I learned a way to get some very cheap taxi journeys. Wendy had figured out that by offering a counter price to the one that has been offered, and not budging from that price at all, then walking away when the driver says no, the driver very quickly calls you back, or drives and catches you up, agreeing to the very reasonable sum of money. I was more than impressed with this technique but I am yet to try it myself. I wonder if it’ll work for men...I’ve only seen that tactic used by women. I’m sure that I’ll have some story to tell you about how I got along with it sometime soon!
I got in just before 3, and the guard had to unlock the gate to let me in, whilst restraining the dog. I had no idea that there was a guard dog for the apartments/offices. I don’t think I’ll roam around too often at night...unless of course I get to meet the dog in some sort of social capacity first. I may have to avoid telling it that I like cats too though.
Soon enough the sun rose, and I was quite unimpressed with my very short amount of sleep. But luckily it was Sunday, and I could do absolutely anything I wanted...which was nothing. I tried staying in bed, but this doesn’t work well when the sun is trying its very best to ignite your curtains. I’ve also found out that my eyelids are essentially rendered useless by the ridiculous amount of sun that seems to be so apparent in Equatorial climates.
And that is the story of my weekend. I hope you like it. But before I go, let me tell you about Salum’s greatest conversation with me. Bear in mind it was a conversation in passing:
ME: Hello Salum.
SALUM: Hi, Mr. Steve.
M: How are you?
S: I am okay. What about the weekend? (Roughly translating into “How was your weekend?”)
M: Good, thanks. How about yours?
S: Thank you, sir.
I love these conversations...it’s quite fun having to work out what is being said...even when it’s in English!
I’m sitting here tapping away at the keyboard wondering how on earth I am so tired. It’s about half one and so far all I have managed to do is make beans on toast, have a cup of coffee, have a shower, and think about going out. Everything seems quite tricky today. Once again I’ve left a week between writing anything down on this blog so I’ll regale you with the tale of the first week of March!
For the past week or so I have been working on writing a chapter in a biography on a politician in Tanzania. I’m co-writing the chapter which outlines the local and national political contributions that the MP has made in the past five years. The research I am working off of is from a series of interviews that were conducted by the other author of the chapter, and this makes it very tricky to get the work done. I’ve been finding using the outcomes from interviews that I didn’t conduct very hard indeed. As far as academic work goes, working from the outcome of someone else’s research may be the hardest thing to do ever! There are so many questions that pop into your head which could take the direction of the chapter in an alternative, and all ego aside, a more informative and relevant direction. However, not having the answers to the questions that pop up means you can’t write about it, so the work stays along a stringent path. The first draft of the chapter was put together by the other author, and for the past week I have been going through it, paragraph by paragraph, and sentence by sentence to try and get the work to be structured, and to ensure that the English is all in order. The co-author, who I’m keeping anonymous, is a PhD student and lecturer in UDSM. By looking at the first draft you would not think that this is actually the case. There is so much work that has been done so far, and still so much to finish by the end of the next week that I’m predicting a slightly hermit-esk existence.
So between working on the chapter, and a touch of gentle procrastination, I’ve been kept out of trouble. The Professor however brought me some news which made me question what I am doing here though. I’ve not seen my boss (Kagasheki) in over 2 months, I’ve not had a phone call, and none of my texts have been replied to. It seems that all the conversation is happening between the Professor and the politician, and I get summarised reports of the feedback. One of the outcomes of these chats that they have had relates to the work that I am doing. They’ve decided that it would be good for me to work with the BDA in a closer capacity than I have done. This will mean that I will have to move back to Bukoba and work in the office there. Initially I was not too impressed with that situation. I’m now settled in Dar, I’ve become confident enough to mosey about and talk to strangers, and I’m actually enjoying the exploration side of my stay here. Bukoba however is a stark contrast, it is very small town Africa, it’s very picturesque and friendly, but there is not a vast deal of activities to do to pass the time. In addition to this move to Bukoba, I was told that the position may only be until the end of June. The run up to the elections will be starting intensely then, and so there will be less time, if that’s possible, for the boss to assign me any work. I was told that it could be possible to finish in June, but with the opportunity to come back next May (if all things go well during the elections) and do the job that I initially signed up for. So after occasional conversations with the Prof I’ve managed to negotiate the deal a little bit. It’s not been finalised but I could be moving to and from Bukoba and Dar on a monthly basis, this way I can still work for the BDA, but I can also have some of the creature comforts that Dar offers me. A negotiation of extra pay has been put forward (without my suggestion), and the provision of the car is an essential part of the deal. The car was promised to me for when I arrived in Dar, but it is yet to materialise. I can only assume they are making it from scratch.
After a week or so of bouncing ideas of the work I am doing, the move to Bukoba, and the general chit chats that I have with the Prof, he had a thought about some extra work that I could do if/when I head to Bukoba. He’s suggested to look into a project relating to the impacts of refugees, it’s not finalised, but there is scope for so much work to be done, and it would be such an interesting topic to study. On top of this, there is a lot of potential to get the paper published, both as a political document, and as an academic article. The concept of such work has really buoyed my spirits so I’m pinning my hopes on that particular piece of work. It sounds very exciting, and it could be so much fun to study!
Aside from these slightly mundane and rather self-involved reports, the weekend has once again has provided me with ample amounts to write about. Like all good stories this one shall start at the beginning, on a very hot Saturday morning.
The day started much the same as most days, the sun was trying its very best to ignite my curtain at about half six. Having got used to the early morning wakeup call where the sun renders your eyelids useless, I got up and tried to get myself into the land of the living. A quick cup of coffee was had, and as the realisation that I had no bread sunk in I toyed with the idea of leaving the house. But I didn’t...oh no, that would have been too easy. Instead I did some washing (all clothes are hand washed because washing machines are unnecessarily expensive and unreliable). I’d been lazy during the week so I had a fair amount to actually clean. It took a while, but then the need for bread overtook all else in the world. I’m infatuated with the bread in this country; it’s all so fresh, and really cheap! I do tend to eat the best part of a loaf of bread in a day!
As you can see, the day started with some unrivalled entertainment, washing clothes and buying bread. I got blasted by the sun when I was walking to get the bread, and I thought about cowering inside for the best part of the day because it would be too hot for my poor self. But knowing of the possible fun that I could have, I bounded out regardless of the weather. I found a bajaj driver who was willing to take me to Msasani Slipway for a reasonable sum of several thousand shillings. The traffic was very heavy, so the standard avoidance tactic was deployed...driving on the path to get past the stationary cars. Having feared for my life for a short while, I was safely dropped off to the Slipway.
Just walking through the courtyard area, there were several mzungus enjoying the sunshine and the excessively priced soft drinks. I plodded through the tourists who were enjoying their home away from home experience and headed for the jetty. There is a hut at the end of the jetty where you buy tickets to jump on a boat and sail to Bongoyo Island. The boat sails every couple of hours so there were already a few people waiting to board. I bought a ticket for 25,000/- (about £12.50) and that included the Marine Reserve fee, and the transport.
Bongoyo Island, as I am sure you will have worked out from the last sentence is a Marine Reserve, its 7 km off the coast of the Msasani Peninsula, and can only be described as a paradise island cliché. We’ll get to that in a minute. I sat down with the rest of the waiting passengers and became quite concerned about the sun burning my recently shaved head! A small boat was approaching as I pulled on my ridiculous hat and one by one the waiting passenger folk stepped from the jetty onto a small, blue boat which had wooden planks for the seats. After a wobbly start, the boat made a move towards a slightly larger and slightly healthier looking boat. The wooden seats seemed to be made of some sort of wood that you’d find in a forest in hell. They were burning, and for a short while I was worried that my trousers may ignite from the heat. Luckily it was only uncomfortable for a short while as every jumped ship onto the bigger boat.
On the boat I chatted to a couple of fellow mzungus, a girl from Sweden called Adela, and a girl from the states called Christa. The journey to the island was about half an hour, and in the short and fairly smooth crossing we went through the motions of standard chit chat! The obvious conversation starters were employed, where are you from, how long have you been here, what are you doing, how long are you around for etc. etc. Conversation was occasionally halted by the need to take some photos of the approaching island, and the beautiful blue Indian Ocean.
Adela was (and presumably is still) from Sweden, and she’d been in Tanzania for seven weeks. She was involved in a study relating to the communications system in Tanzania, in particular with mobiles. She was living in an apartment near Msasani, and had been to Bongoyo Island before. Christa was from Oregon in the U.S. and had arrived in Dar the night before. She was staying in the Slipway Hotel and decided to go venturing out to see the sights. She was going to be heading to a small village just outside Iringa, which is a small town towards the centre of Tanzania. She has been a qualified nurse for the past 5 years and had come over to do some volunteer nursing in the village.
So as the happy gang we were, we jumped off the boat, into a smaller boat again, and went to the blinding white sands of the beach. It was like the sand itself was a natural lighthouse. I reckon it would still be white in the dead of night. I dangled my hand over the side of the boat into the warm water and we passed through the dark blue of the deeper waters to the turquoise waters of the sandy shallows. The little boat bounced its way through the water and ploughed onto the sand where it wedged itself nicely for us to jump off. There were a fair few others on the boat too, but they seemed to keep to themselves for the most part.
Jumping off into the lovely sand we plodded up the slight hill and saw the thatched Bandas and the bar. We got under one of the Bandas and into the shade where we chatted for a while, mainly asking Adela about the island as she had been here before. A man soon came by with a menu and we ordered food, and then he asked when we’d like to have it ready by which surprised me a bit as it seemed as though the people on the island were in some way lacking the usual standards of organisation. Pleasantly surprised, I set off into the little forested area in search of the mystical toilets (which I didn’t actually find) so I could change into some shorts! There was a path leading into the woods and many a mosquito buzzed about patiently waiting for some fool to wander in so they could have some dinner. I found a secluded spot, changed, and then moved out of the reach of the mosquitoes and back to be beach. I was told upon return that there are apparently snakes in the forest, the information made me think that Adela’s flip flops (which I’d borrowed) were a bad choice of footwear.
So we sat and chatted for most of the day, occasionally one or two would disappear off to have a swim or to have a look around the island a little bit. I’d just gone off for a swim when one of the guys who works on the island waved at me to indicate that the food was ready. For a very reasonable sum, I had some fresh calamari and chips. The chips were pretty greasy, but the squid was rubbery enough to suggest it’d been caught very recently indeed!
The day passed with the conversations ranging from previous travel jaunts, to potential parasites that are in Tanzania, and then from life stories from home, to more discussion about illnesses, and then a bit about customs and language in Tanzania, and back to the parasites. I can only imagine that being a nurse and coming to a place where health care, hygiene and bugs all come in doses that seem to be at ratios out of the ordinary is likely to be a cause for worry! I became quite apparent that my own nonchalance to health worries abroad was probably not great, but I am convinced that my attitude won’t change...at least until I get sick. At one point I used the phrase ‘angry tears’ to describe how heavy the rain could be, to me it made sense, but apparently the real message of the conversation got lost as I was told I should write poetry...of a sarcastic nature! I don’t see why...I’m not sarcastic ever.
The two ladies had just gone off to the shore when I noticed a German man, equipped with the typical Speedo stereotype, came running up the sand shouting to his German companions. About a minute later another man came hobbling up the sand with one leg raised, and what looked like most of his weight resting on the shoulders of what I presume was his daughter. I immediately recognised he signs...the fool had stepped on an urchin. The man hobbled his way over the burning sand towards his Banda. At this point I feel I should tell you what a Banda is, in case you don’t know. It’s like a thatched umbrella or parasol, and the best way to imagine them is like a round thatched roof house without walls. Listening intently, and chuckling a little bit unnecessarily, I heard tell of a variety of methods to remove the spines of the urchin. The ones near the surface of the skin can be picked out like splinters, but the deeper ones require other means for removal. One person suggested keeping the leg dry for two days so that the spins cause the surrounding area to puss up, apparently you can then squeeze out the horrible bits. The other suggestion, from a local guy, was to rub the milky juice of a papaya on the area, as it apparently brings out the spines somehow. Unfortunately for the German guy there were now papayas around. I have to say I could sympathise with the guy because he had to sit down and do very little until the boat returned so he could head back to mainland.
I walked around the beach a bit and took some photos which are comparable to any beautiful beach scene, and I walked through the water enjoying the cool, but still quite warm wash of the waves over the feet. Towards the east side of the beach (the beach is in the south-east corner of the island) were a series of rock pools. I jumped from rock to rock looking at the little ugly fish in the pools. I started heading back to the Banda through a large pool and the water was actually hot. It was like walking through a really long pool of bath water. I’d go as far to say that it was actually hotter than any of the showers I have had in Tanzania. The rest of the island trip was whittled away with little else of note. It was a really nice day.
We left the island on the last boat to mainland, it was about five o’clock and the sun was still beating down. The standard transfer from little boat to big boat happened and soon we were bobbing up and down on the roll of the waves as we crossed the water back to Slipway. It was the last day that Adela was in Tanzania for, and so we arranged to meet up for a drink in the Irish Bar later that evening. We exchanged numbers and invited Christa to come as well as the Irish Bar is about 5 minutes away from the hotel, and it would be almost impossible to get lost between the two locations.
I jumped in a slightly overpriced Bajaj and went down a few very bumpy backstreets on the way back to Mwenge. The driver was keen to get me to my destination and was weaving rather frantically in an attempt to get past the wedding party that were in front of us. Apparently interrupting the wedding convoy is not considered rude...I thought it was though. It was nearly six by the time I got back to the apartment. The sun had started to drop behind a huge mushroom shaped cloud creating some awesome lighting effects. If I had a better view I would have got the camera out and taken some shots. For a short while the idea that mushroom clouds came from nuclear explosions was on my mind, but then I thought that it was in a northerly direction from Dar, so if there had been a bomb dropped it would have been into an area of nothing. This put my irrational fears to bed.
I had a shower, admired the very pink colouring of my back and ate some dinner. Thinking that I didn’t want to be in pain I had a couple of Neurofen and went in search of a mode of transport to get me to the Irish pub. I had a really bad feeling about getting a Bajaj so I went for a taxi instead. We were just heading towards the main road when the driver noticed a lot of traffic. In the distance there was a really bright white light, almost like a firework because there were sparks coming from it. The driver swung the car the wrong way around the roundabout and explained that it was an electricity pylon that was about to catch alight. As he said this, there was a bright flash, and as if on cue, there was a fire where the really white light had been. We bumped down a side street towards the main road, and eventually stopped outside a bank to pick up Adela and her flatmate Wendy.
The Irish Bar was not as busy as I had expected, and there was live music (by a rather poor quality cover band). We sat outside in the very hot night, and we continued with a vast array of conversation and jokes, and discussion about the cat that was roaming around...the same cat from the week before. We’d arrived at about half nine and had few drinks. There was a lot of talk about cockroaches, mosquitoes, ants, mice, rats, geckos and cats...each one hated quite distinctly by at least one of us. For some reason we got stuck on some grotesque conversations involving the various ways that the pests (and the cats) had been dealt with.
Wendy is a VSO volunteer working on a media project in Dar. She’d been in Tanzania for about 7 or 8 months, and will be here until June 2011. She was from the U.S. (two in one day...what are the odds!), in particular from Washington D.C. and seemed quite fun. She had a wicker-esk tiny handbag which got a lot of abuse because I kept making jokes about tiny hot air balloons. Conversation ventured into the world of bookshops which made me miss working in Waterstone’s. However, in Washington there is a bookshop that is open 24 hours a day. I can only guess as to the nutters that would go into a bookshop at 3 in the morning, craving a bit of Chaucer or Dickens, or Dan Brown...all of the classics! Regular patrons of book shops are strange enough, but with the cover of darkness you are bound to have some winners in the oddity competition.
After a few hours, which passed very quickly with the conversation, we were told the bar was going to close so we headed out into the night in search for a taxi. Here I learned a way to get some very cheap taxi journeys. Wendy had figured out that by offering a counter price to the one that has been offered, and not budging from that price at all, then walking away when the driver says no, the driver very quickly calls you back, or drives and catches you up, agreeing to the very reasonable sum of money. I was more than impressed with this technique but I am yet to try it myself. I wonder if it’ll work for men...I’ve only seen that tactic used by women. I’m sure that I’ll have some story to tell you about how I got along with it sometime soon!
I got in just before 3, and the guard had to unlock the gate to let me in, whilst restraining the dog. I had no idea that there was a guard dog for the apartments/offices. I don’t think I’ll roam around too often at night...unless of course I get to meet the dog in some sort of social capacity first. I may have to avoid telling it that I like cats too though.
Soon enough the sun rose, and I was quite unimpressed with my very short amount of sleep. But luckily it was Sunday, and I could do absolutely anything I wanted...which was nothing. I tried staying in bed, but this doesn’t work well when the sun is trying its very best to ignite your curtains. I’ve also found out that my eyelids are essentially rendered useless by the ridiculous amount of sun that seems to be so apparent in Equatorial climates.
And that is the story of my weekend. I hope you like it. But before I go, let me tell you about Salum’s greatest conversation with me. Bear in mind it was a conversation in passing:
ME: Hello Salum.
SALUM: Hi, Mr. Steve.
M: How are you?
S: I am okay. What about the weekend? (Roughly translating into “How was your weekend?”)
M: Good, thanks. How about yours?
S: Thank you, sir.
I love these conversations...it’s quite fun having to work out what is being said...even when it’s in English!
Monday, 1 March 2010
Interesting experiences, interesting people, philosophical reflection and daredevil stunt drivers...
28th February 2010
Yesterday I had planned to take a trip to Bagamoyo. Bagamoyo is a small town located about 70km north of Dar. The town is apparently quite historical, and was of significance during the years of the slave trade. It is also the town that most early explorers of Tanzania would have arrived to and departed from. However, on Friday I checked the weather forecast and it looked as though it was going to be quite wet with a high chance of storms. I was put off going to Bagamoyo because of this; it would have been pretty unpleasant walking around in the wet weather.
When I woke up the sun was shining, and it didn’t look like it was going to be a wet day at all. Still, knowing what the weather can do in this country, I put off going north for the day. Instead a pulled out the guide book and had a flick through to see what else I could spend my day doing. I’d wanted to go to Coco Beach (also occasionally spelt Koko, depending on which map/book you are looking at). I’d finally found a map of Dar in a shop the other day, so I was quite keen to venture further afield. Coco Beach is on the eastern side of the Msasani Peninsula, a couple of kilometres north of the city centre. Not knowing which dalla-dalla to get up to that particular region, I set off in search of a Bajaj to take me up there.
I got to Mlimani City; it’s a shopping centre about 5 minutes from my apartment. It’s a very western style of shopping centre, significantly air conditioned, and housing shops that sell goods at prices that would make average westerns weep at. There is a little bookshop with a tiny selection to choose from. They had recently increased their stock, but this was mostly with language books, and books that you would find in the self-help/popular psychology section of a large bookshop. There were a few fiction titles in stock, so after a long browse of about 3 minutes I grabbed a copy of Omertá which is one of Mario Puzo’s books (he’s the chap who wrote The Godfather). I slinked back out of the shopping centre and found a nice looking Bajaj to take me on my merry way.
For a reasonable sum of 7,000/- (roughly £3.50) we began the relatively epic drive across Dar. It took just over twenty minutes to get to Coco Beach, and having studied the map beforehand, I was impressed with myself for knowing where we were, and when the next turn off would be, etc. I am easily pleased.
Coco Beach is a popular area for many local people. Apparently many tourists also come to the beach during the peak season so they can enjoy the sound of the Indian Ocean whilst sipping on a cold beer. The beach itself looks like it has fallen from a travel brochure. I use the word fallen because, the bar is sat on what looks like an ancient ruin. The bar building sits on a crumbling concrete base, and as you approach the bar it looks a bit like a building that has suffered the ravages of an angry sea. Surprisingly, the thatched grass roof still looks healthy; it’s the damaged doors and lack of windows that suggest the building has been through the wars.
As I sauntered around the building, and took out the camera to take a couple of photos, a group of four kids started shouting at me! They were standing on the concrete ledge at the side of the building, taking it in turns to jump down into the soft white sand. The tallest of the four did an impressive handstand to drop, and came running over to me...initially with his hand out for some money, but then changing his mind, he wanted a picture to be taken of him and his friends. Not wanting to miss an opportunity of taking photos of local people, I said I’d take their picture. The kid ran off up to the ledge and stood with his friends. I don’t know if they were expecting to have the photo taken so soon, but the result was an incredibly natural shot of the kids, all with beaming smiles. It’s possibly one of the best photos that I have taken so far. Happy to see the resultant picture, the kids went back to the important game of jumping into the sand!
I plodded down, with my feet sinking into the warm sand and took in my surroundings. The beach is lined with palm trees which lean into the prevailing wind, with the palms being pushed in the opposite direction, like a constant battle between the tree and the wind...both fighting to get past each other. The sand is laid down in an uninterrupted path between the two cliff headlands. The beach itself is a small bay, which shows no obvious signs of long shore drift (get the geography textbooks out!). The sands get slightly yellower as they get nearer to the sea, which in turn makes the gentle breaking waves seem slightly yellow. This yellow, filters into a light turquoise, gradually getting darker as you look further out to sea. The perfect deep blue of the horizon stops where the perfect, slightly lighter blue, sky meets it. Opposite the southern end of the beach there is a small offshore island which has beaches that have white sands which reflect Coco Beach. To the north of this island there were a fair number of large container ships floating around, waiting for the tide, and a suitable time to float into Dar es Salaam harbour. The number of boats would probably rival that of the number that seem to wait in the Solent and the English Channel before entering Portsmouth or Southampton. When I had arrived at the beach, there was a thin line of seaweed marking out the level of high tide; this however had a much less significant impact on the overall view of the beach than the excessive seaweed that has built up on Mbezi Beach, which is near Picolo Beach Hotel.
I took a few shots of the beach, the bar, the palm trees, and then I grabbed a table in the shade so I could sit and read for a while. I had only sat down for a couple of minutes when a guy came up to me wanting to sell me a necklace, or a bracelet, or a painting...he wasn’t fussed which he sold. He sat down on the chair next to me and chatted to me for a while. His name was Joseph; he’d grown up in a town called Tabora. This is somewhere in the middle of Tanzania, and you pass through it on the train to get to western Tanzania. He’d been living in Dar for years, and was scratching out a living selling his goods to tourists. Local people very rarely buy the jewellery that he sells, but occasionally someone will take a bracelet or two. We chatted about his business, and about how he is affected by the low tourism season, which is now! Conversation came around to England, he has a sister living in London, and she is apparently enjoying life there. Joseph’s English was quite good, he’d been going to college to learn the basics and seemed to be progressing quite well. I’d greeted him in Swahili, and said a couple of words to him at the start of the conversation. This sparked a discussion about how much Swahili I actually knew, and how much I was planning on learning. He thought that I had been to some classes, and he seemed shocked to hear that I had taught myself what I know so far. I must say this made me feel pretty good about myself. Conversation then got on to how long I had been in Tanzania, and we talked about how I’d come down from Bukoba to Dar, via the national parks. He was telling me that Tanzanian’s in general don’t like the wild animals in the same way that tourists do. Apparently most people find the animals to be pests, rather than national treasures. I’ve heard about farmers who have had problems with elephants, and predators, but for someone who doesn’t own land or cattle, the dislike of the animals is still present, if not unwarranted.
A local guy who was wearing what can best be described as rags, with torn shorts being held up with a bit of rope, walked by and asked me where I was from. I told him I was from England (it’s often easier saying England than explaining I was born in Ireland, and moved to England when I was a child), and then he made a wonderful remark by saying I was “...whiter than snow...”. He carried on about his business, and started to sketch some local kids who had queued up for their portraits to be drawn. Joseph and I chatted a bit more, and I asked him about the dalla-dalla routes up to this end of the city. I pulled out my map and got him to show me where the different routes were. After defacing the slightly outdated map (produced by the Department of Geography of the University of Dar es Salaam), I felt confident that I could get up here by a cheaper means of public transport, if I could remember the names of the places that I needed to get to. I gave Joseph 1,000/- to get himself a soda and he went off on his way, and started to run through his selling routine with some local people at the next table.
I was left to myself for a while, and between reading, and getting up to move my chair into the shade of a palm tree, reading a bit more, and then readjusting where I was sitting once again, I noticed that the clouds had started to build over the headland to the south. The clouds looked as though they were building up right over the city centre. Coco Beach is about 6-7 kilometres from the city centre, and the clouds overhead were intermittent and offering no threat of rain. I took photos every couple of minutes as the clouds looked as though they had come off the sea, and straight into an invisible wall. Every time that I looked up from the book there clouds had built up, taller and taller. After about 10 minutes the fluffy white clouds in the distance had stopped acting like marshmallows being stacked on top of each other, and had turned into a monstrous grey pillar, threatening to deposit tons of water over the unsuspecting city. It was like the footage you see in nature programs where they speed up the process of clouds building over a mountain range. It would have been a photographic dream if a woman hadn’t moved her chair and her child into the camera frame. Unfortunately I had to move a bit to get the shots I wanted. I was hoping to use the same framing, but with the different cloud formations, to create a sequence of the clouds. It lost some of the charm when I got around to processing the images.
Under the shade of the palm tree, and the blue sky and sunshine that was above that, I sat and enjoyed not being under the rain cloud that was now engulfing the city centre. Between reading and occasionally looking up to see the kids I had taken photos of play fighting, I was contemplating making a move for Msasani Slipway. Then I heard fresh playful screams from the kids, one of them was beating the other with a wad of cardboard, the other one was swinging a sandal at the cardboard wielding combatant. It strikes me now that kids in England are too concerned with image and acting older than they are, you wouldn’t see kids messing around on the beach like that in England...they would be having genuine fights and the playful screams would actually be blazing obscenities that are more foul than your average chicken coop (Yes, I do realise they are different fouls/fowls)!
I was still toying with the idea of making a move to go to the Slipway when a guy called Mark approached me. He had a camera around his neck and he sat down for a bit of a chat. He started the conversation by saying that he was a photographer who takes shots of people as the beach, and then posts the photo to them, for a small fee. I really didn’t want to pay for a photo of me, so I started talking about the camera he had, and he soon knew that I had a good idea of what I was talking about. He then told me he was a priest in a Pentecostal church. It struck me as odd as this would be an afterthought in the conversation, I would have imagined being a priest would be a more noteworthy profession than a part-time photographer. Religion was discussed, and for fear that I may be preached at, I brought the conversation around to discuss the churches that are on Kivukoni Front. The topic moved from religion to architecture and then Mark went off in search of some souls to capture...either photographically or religiously...I’m not sure which.
I finished up my water and plonked my hat on my head a ventured on a 1.5km trek to Msasani Slipway, assuming I was heading in the right direction because I didn’t want to rummage through my bag looking for the map – a white man with a map would have screamed tourist! The sun was doing its job and was beating down on the area like the constant pulse of a lighthouse...only with a lot more heat. You become very popular if you walk anywhere in Dar. Taxi drivers and Bajaj drivers beep their horns in the hope that you will provide them with business, the people who are also on foot say hello to you, and security guards glare at you, or tell you that you look like David Beckham. If the heat wasn’t so brutal, I’d walk around a lot more often...it’s nearly as fun as getting a dalla-dalla about!
Msasani Slipway is a strange shopping complex/eatery! It’s another big draw for the mzungu shopper...the ones with the money and the expectation for the world to look exactly like their hometown. The Slipway reminded me of a low rent version of Brighton Marina, only with nice, clear, tropical blue water, rather than the greenish soup that splutters around the south coast of England. Some shops selling things for obscene prices and some bars offering big screen TV experiences are dotted about the complex. There is a market at weekends at the Slipway, and it reminded me of a softer version of the Mwenge Craft Market. There is a sleepy atmosphere to the marquee-covered market. The people at the stalls are less intense with their attempts to sell you things, and every other word you hear is “Karibu” (“You’re welcome/Welcome/Any common greeting of reception”) as you pass between the stalls. I stopped and chatted to a few of the stall owners, they were mainly women, and a few of them said they base themselves in Mwenge during the week, and come out to the Slipway at the weekend. The prices were far more reasonable at the Slipway, and I can’t decide whether it’s because I am able to use more Swahili than I did at Mwenge or if they reduce the price because they don’t want to barter. Maybe I seem like less of a tourist than I did a few weeks ago. Prices down also get reduced if I tell them that I am living and working in Mwenge...it’s like I’m being offered local prices. The Slipway complex looks over Msasani Bay, which looks like a lake. The water is so placid that you could easily forget that the small waves are actually tidal. Msasani Slipway had a relaxed feel to it for the most part, but I can’t help thinking that it would be a horrible place to visit on a weekend during the peak tourism season.
Having had my fill of exploring, and fancying a chance to sit down and have a quiet beer, I took off on foot and paced my way to O’Willies Irish Bar. This is about 1 km from the Slipway, and having built up a considerable sweat I plonked myself down on a chair overlooking the bay...only this time from the southern side of it, rather than the eastern edge.
The clouds had been building over the city all this time, and I was quite anxious to park myself under a parasol if not to hide from the sun, then definitely to hide from the possible rain if it came over. I ordered a beer and listened to the gentle wash of the water. It was an idyllic scene; the flat surface of the water, the dhows silently gliding around the bay, the western side of the bay being covered in dark, rain threatening clouds, the eastern side with wispy-white clouds, and a pure blue sky. I began to question what kind of Irish bar would actually have a view like this. Normally Irish bars a slightly dark and seem quite earthy. This was not like it at all. This was like a high end tropical beach bar, where the owner was able to control the weather. But then the thunder rumbled! It sounded like it was directly overhead, but there were no clouds straight above. The angry outbursts from the sky were over the city centre, but it was as if the clouds wanted to warn the surrounding area that the wrath of Zeus could strike anywhere in the vicinity.
I passed a couple of hours at the bar. I had been reading, making amendments to the map to make it more up to date, thinking of what I could write in this blog, and generally just chilling out. A big fly thought it was a good idea to interrupt my thoughts by plunging into my glass of beer. Luckily there was only a mouthful of beer left, but I watched as it feverishly threw its legs around in the beer, desperately trying to get some purchase on the fluid surface, but to no avail. I asked for another glass, and watched the waiter take away the soiled glass as the fly struggled in the vat of bubbling amber liquid, slowly succumbing to its ethanol induced demise.
A group of kids walked by the bars terrace, and they all started asking for different things. It was like they were opening a bad joke: The first child asked for a soda; the second child asked for some chicken; the third child asked for some fish...I didn’t get to hear what the fourth child wanted, I’m sure it would have been a hilarious punch line to the joke that was being set up. Unfortunately, we’ll never know the end of the joke as one of the waiters threatened to throw a glass bottle at them if they didn’t stop harassing the customers.
A few minutes later a lone child walked by carrying four 5 litre empty bottles. Like many Tanzanian kids, he had been sent to get some water. I gave this some thought, and I was amazed to realise that this kid, who couldn’t be more than 12 years old, was out to get 20 litres of water, and would then have to carry it back home. You’d struggle to find any 12 year old that would be able to carry 20 litres of water in England. Little things like that really make you think about how little some people have, and how much energy they exert just getting through each day. It really made me appreciate how easy my life as a child had been. It seems that the everyday ‘problems’ that westerners have are trivial in comparison.
I sat and contemplated this point for a while, and I soaked up the view of the bay. I was just finishing my second beer (and feeling the effects of it – oh yes, I am a lightweight now!) when I noticed some jet skiers in the distance of the bay. The ecotourist in my got a bit annoyed at their presence. Here was this beautiful scenic bay, as flat as a mirror, seemingly undisturbed by the breeze that had just picked up. And in the distance were some westerners making a lot of noise, travelling at ridiculous speeds and not going anywhere. This seemed like a horrific juxtaposition to the gently gliding dhows, which silently cruised across the surface of the water barely creating a ripple on the surface. It was like an absurd version the tortoise and the hare. The hare (the mzungu jet skier in this metaphor) was doing its very best to get from ‘point a’, to ‘point a’, whilst making as much noise as possible. The tortoise (the dhow and the fishermen in the boat), slowly and steadily cruising across the water, was serving a purpose, it was getting from ‘point a’ to ‘point b’. It was bringing food to someone’s table, and it was doing it without upsetting the rest of the world. I struggle to understand why you would go on holiday to partake in an activity that you can do at home. Surely the authenticity of a place will provide an experience that would be much more meaningful. Maybe tour companies should encourage visitors to enjoy genuine experiences, rather than man-made, obtuse activities.
With this alcohol influenced argument playing out in my head, I got up to leave the bar. I noticed four or five Maasai walk into the main bar, where the big screens were showing the Chelsea match. A group of tourists were sitting in the pub watching the football...I’d hazard a guess that they would do this at home, and this got me back to thinking about how much tourists miss by following the same routine that they have at home. I passed a slightly disproportionate man with dreadlocks as I was leaving, and I was convinced that he had been a barrel in his former life and I headed in search of a Bajaj to take me home. I didn’t want to get a dalla-dalla to Posta, and then from Posta to Mwenge, and then walk another 15 minutes before getting home.
I walked down the road in the direction of Mwenge hoping to catch someone looking for a fare, and eventually a man in a relatively rare, green rickshaw pulled up next to me. For the reasonable sum of 6,000/- he took me down some back streets to avoid the traffic on the way to Mwenge. The driver pulled into a petrol station and filled up the glorified tricycle, whilst the engine was on, and we started back on the bumpy road. We got caught behind a 4x4 with a bumper sticker saying: “Jesus Christ: Someone you’ve got to meet!” This reminded me of another car which is often parked near my apartment which has a sticker on the fuel cap saying: “Powered by the blood of Christ”. There are so many variations of religious stickers on cars and it demonstrates how important faith is to the general population. The nearest thing you’d see in England is the fish-like symbol of Christianity. Belief and faith values are so important to the people of Tanzania.
Like a man possessed the Bajaj driver flung the motorised roll-cage around to the side of the 4x4 and gunned the vehicle up along the dirt path that pedestrians are meant to walk along. The driver clearly had no fear of crashing, and he seemed like he was in a desperate rush to get to Mlimani City to drop me off. Having cascaded down side streets and pathways, and avoided buses and cars alike, we somehow made it to University Road without any broken limbs or damage to the vehicle! I was more than impressed...the driver was rated as a better driver than Shorty (the irritating kid from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom).
With all of the adventures from the day to keep me occupied mentally, I went up to the not quite fully constructed third floor of my apartment building and took some photos of the full moon that was acting like a floodlight. It was a good day of interesting experiences, interesting people, philosophical reflection, and a daredevil stunt driver.
Yesterday I had planned to take a trip to Bagamoyo. Bagamoyo is a small town located about 70km north of Dar. The town is apparently quite historical, and was of significance during the years of the slave trade. It is also the town that most early explorers of Tanzania would have arrived to and departed from. However, on Friday I checked the weather forecast and it looked as though it was going to be quite wet with a high chance of storms. I was put off going to Bagamoyo because of this; it would have been pretty unpleasant walking around in the wet weather.
When I woke up the sun was shining, and it didn’t look like it was going to be a wet day at all. Still, knowing what the weather can do in this country, I put off going north for the day. Instead a pulled out the guide book and had a flick through to see what else I could spend my day doing. I’d wanted to go to Coco Beach (also occasionally spelt Koko, depending on which map/book you are looking at). I’d finally found a map of Dar in a shop the other day, so I was quite keen to venture further afield. Coco Beach is on the eastern side of the Msasani Peninsula, a couple of kilometres north of the city centre. Not knowing which dalla-dalla to get up to that particular region, I set off in search of a Bajaj to take me up there.
I got to Mlimani City; it’s a shopping centre about 5 minutes from my apartment. It’s a very western style of shopping centre, significantly air conditioned, and housing shops that sell goods at prices that would make average westerns weep at. There is a little bookshop with a tiny selection to choose from. They had recently increased their stock, but this was mostly with language books, and books that you would find in the self-help/popular psychology section of a large bookshop. There were a few fiction titles in stock, so after a long browse of about 3 minutes I grabbed a copy of Omertá which is one of Mario Puzo’s books (he’s the chap who wrote The Godfather). I slinked back out of the shopping centre and found a nice looking Bajaj to take me on my merry way.
For a reasonable sum of 7,000/- (roughly £3.50) we began the relatively epic drive across Dar. It took just over twenty minutes to get to Coco Beach, and having studied the map beforehand, I was impressed with myself for knowing where we were, and when the next turn off would be, etc. I am easily pleased.
Coco Beach is a popular area for many local people. Apparently many tourists also come to the beach during the peak season so they can enjoy the sound of the Indian Ocean whilst sipping on a cold beer. The beach itself looks like it has fallen from a travel brochure. I use the word fallen because, the bar is sat on what looks like an ancient ruin. The bar building sits on a crumbling concrete base, and as you approach the bar it looks a bit like a building that has suffered the ravages of an angry sea. Surprisingly, the thatched grass roof still looks healthy; it’s the damaged doors and lack of windows that suggest the building has been through the wars.
As I sauntered around the building, and took out the camera to take a couple of photos, a group of four kids started shouting at me! They were standing on the concrete ledge at the side of the building, taking it in turns to jump down into the soft white sand. The tallest of the four did an impressive handstand to drop, and came running over to me...initially with his hand out for some money, but then changing his mind, he wanted a picture to be taken of him and his friends. Not wanting to miss an opportunity of taking photos of local people, I said I’d take their picture. The kid ran off up to the ledge and stood with his friends. I don’t know if they were expecting to have the photo taken so soon, but the result was an incredibly natural shot of the kids, all with beaming smiles. It’s possibly one of the best photos that I have taken so far. Happy to see the resultant picture, the kids went back to the important game of jumping into the sand!
I plodded down, with my feet sinking into the warm sand and took in my surroundings. The beach is lined with palm trees which lean into the prevailing wind, with the palms being pushed in the opposite direction, like a constant battle between the tree and the wind...both fighting to get past each other. The sand is laid down in an uninterrupted path between the two cliff headlands. The beach itself is a small bay, which shows no obvious signs of long shore drift (get the geography textbooks out!). The sands get slightly yellower as they get nearer to the sea, which in turn makes the gentle breaking waves seem slightly yellow. This yellow, filters into a light turquoise, gradually getting darker as you look further out to sea. The perfect deep blue of the horizon stops where the perfect, slightly lighter blue, sky meets it. Opposite the southern end of the beach there is a small offshore island which has beaches that have white sands which reflect Coco Beach. To the north of this island there were a fair number of large container ships floating around, waiting for the tide, and a suitable time to float into Dar es Salaam harbour. The number of boats would probably rival that of the number that seem to wait in the Solent and the English Channel before entering Portsmouth or Southampton. When I had arrived at the beach, there was a thin line of seaweed marking out the level of high tide; this however had a much less significant impact on the overall view of the beach than the excessive seaweed that has built up on Mbezi Beach, which is near Picolo Beach Hotel.
I took a few shots of the beach, the bar, the palm trees, and then I grabbed a table in the shade so I could sit and read for a while. I had only sat down for a couple of minutes when a guy came up to me wanting to sell me a necklace, or a bracelet, or a painting...he wasn’t fussed which he sold. He sat down on the chair next to me and chatted to me for a while. His name was Joseph; he’d grown up in a town called Tabora. This is somewhere in the middle of Tanzania, and you pass through it on the train to get to western Tanzania. He’d been living in Dar for years, and was scratching out a living selling his goods to tourists. Local people very rarely buy the jewellery that he sells, but occasionally someone will take a bracelet or two. We chatted about his business, and about how he is affected by the low tourism season, which is now! Conversation came around to England, he has a sister living in London, and she is apparently enjoying life there. Joseph’s English was quite good, he’d been going to college to learn the basics and seemed to be progressing quite well. I’d greeted him in Swahili, and said a couple of words to him at the start of the conversation. This sparked a discussion about how much Swahili I actually knew, and how much I was planning on learning. He thought that I had been to some classes, and he seemed shocked to hear that I had taught myself what I know so far. I must say this made me feel pretty good about myself. Conversation then got on to how long I had been in Tanzania, and we talked about how I’d come down from Bukoba to Dar, via the national parks. He was telling me that Tanzanian’s in general don’t like the wild animals in the same way that tourists do. Apparently most people find the animals to be pests, rather than national treasures. I’ve heard about farmers who have had problems with elephants, and predators, but for someone who doesn’t own land or cattle, the dislike of the animals is still present, if not unwarranted.
A local guy who was wearing what can best be described as rags, with torn shorts being held up with a bit of rope, walked by and asked me where I was from. I told him I was from England (it’s often easier saying England than explaining I was born in Ireland, and moved to England when I was a child), and then he made a wonderful remark by saying I was “...whiter than snow...”. He carried on about his business, and started to sketch some local kids who had queued up for their portraits to be drawn. Joseph and I chatted a bit more, and I asked him about the dalla-dalla routes up to this end of the city. I pulled out my map and got him to show me where the different routes were. After defacing the slightly outdated map (produced by the Department of Geography of the University of Dar es Salaam), I felt confident that I could get up here by a cheaper means of public transport, if I could remember the names of the places that I needed to get to. I gave Joseph 1,000/- to get himself a soda and he went off on his way, and started to run through his selling routine with some local people at the next table.
I was left to myself for a while, and between reading, and getting up to move my chair into the shade of a palm tree, reading a bit more, and then readjusting where I was sitting once again, I noticed that the clouds had started to build over the headland to the south. The clouds looked as though they were building up right over the city centre. Coco Beach is about 6-7 kilometres from the city centre, and the clouds overhead were intermittent and offering no threat of rain. I took photos every couple of minutes as the clouds looked as though they had come off the sea, and straight into an invisible wall. Every time that I looked up from the book there clouds had built up, taller and taller. After about 10 minutes the fluffy white clouds in the distance had stopped acting like marshmallows being stacked on top of each other, and had turned into a monstrous grey pillar, threatening to deposit tons of water over the unsuspecting city. It was like the footage you see in nature programs where they speed up the process of clouds building over a mountain range. It would have been a photographic dream if a woman hadn’t moved her chair and her child into the camera frame. Unfortunately I had to move a bit to get the shots I wanted. I was hoping to use the same framing, but with the different cloud formations, to create a sequence of the clouds. It lost some of the charm when I got around to processing the images.
Under the shade of the palm tree, and the blue sky and sunshine that was above that, I sat and enjoyed not being under the rain cloud that was now engulfing the city centre. Between reading and occasionally looking up to see the kids I had taken photos of play fighting, I was contemplating making a move for Msasani Slipway. Then I heard fresh playful screams from the kids, one of them was beating the other with a wad of cardboard, the other one was swinging a sandal at the cardboard wielding combatant. It strikes me now that kids in England are too concerned with image and acting older than they are, you wouldn’t see kids messing around on the beach like that in England...they would be having genuine fights and the playful screams would actually be blazing obscenities that are more foul than your average chicken coop (Yes, I do realise they are different fouls/fowls)!
I was still toying with the idea of making a move to go to the Slipway when a guy called Mark approached me. He had a camera around his neck and he sat down for a bit of a chat. He started the conversation by saying that he was a photographer who takes shots of people as the beach, and then posts the photo to them, for a small fee. I really didn’t want to pay for a photo of me, so I started talking about the camera he had, and he soon knew that I had a good idea of what I was talking about. He then told me he was a priest in a Pentecostal church. It struck me as odd as this would be an afterthought in the conversation, I would have imagined being a priest would be a more noteworthy profession than a part-time photographer. Religion was discussed, and for fear that I may be preached at, I brought the conversation around to discuss the churches that are on Kivukoni Front. The topic moved from religion to architecture and then Mark went off in search of some souls to capture...either photographically or religiously...I’m not sure which.
I finished up my water and plonked my hat on my head a ventured on a 1.5km trek to Msasani Slipway, assuming I was heading in the right direction because I didn’t want to rummage through my bag looking for the map – a white man with a map would have screamed tourist! The sun was doing its job and was beating down on the area like the constant pulse of a lighthouse...only with a lot more heat. You become very popular if you walk anywhere in Dar. Taxi drivers and Bajaj drivers beep their horns in the hope that you will provide them with business, the people who are also on foot say hello to you, and security guards glare at you, or tell you that you look like David Beckham. If the heat wasn’t so brutal, I’d walk around a lot more often...it’s nearly as fun as getting a dalla-dalla about!
Msasani Slipway is a strange shopping complex/eatery! It’s another big draw for the mzungu shopper...the ones with the money and the expectation for the world to look exactly like their hometown. The Slipway reminded me of a low rent version of Brighton Marina, only with nice, clear, tropical blue water, rather than the greenish soup that splutters around the south coast of England. Some shops selling things for obscene prices and some bars offering big screen TV experiences are dotted about the complex. There is a market at weekends at the Slipway, and it reminded me of a softer version of the Mwenge Craft Market. There is a sleepy atmosphere to the marquee-covered market. The people at the stalls are less intense with their attempts to sell you things, and every other word you hear is “Karibu” (“You’re welcome/Welcome/Any common greeting of reception”) as you pass between the stalls. I stopped and chatted to a few of the stall owners, they were mainly women, and a few of them said they base themselves in Mwenge during the week, and come out to the Slipway at the weekend. The prices were far more reasonable at the Slipway, and I can’t decide whether it’s because I am able to use more Swahili than I did at Mwenge or if they reduce the price because they don’t want to barter. Maybe I seem like less of a tourist than I did a few weeks ago. Prices down also get reduced if I tell them that I am living and working in Mwenge...it’s like I’m being offered local prices. The Slipway complex looks over Msasani Bay, which looks like a lake. The water is so placid that you could easily forget that the small waves are actually tidal. Msasani Slipway had a relaxed feel to it for the most part, but I can’t help thinking that it would be a horrible place to visit on a weekend during the peak tourism season.
Having had my fill of exploring, and fancying a chance to sit down and have a quiet beer, I took off on foot and paced my way to O’Willies Irish Bar. This is about 1 km from the Slipway, and having built up a considerable sweat I plonked myself down on a chair overlooking the bay...only this time from the southern side of it, rather than the eastern edge.
The clouds had been building over the city all this time, and I was quite anxious to park myself under a parasol if not to hide from the sun, then definitely to hide from the possible rain if it came over. I ordered a beer and listened to the gentle wash of the water. It was an idyllic scene; the flat surface of the water, the dhows silently gliding around the bay, the western side of the bay being covered in dark, rain threatening clouds, the eastern side with wispy-white clouds, and a pure blue sky. I began to question what kind of Irish bar would actually have a view like this. Normally Irish bars a slightly dark and seem quite earthy. This was not like it at all. This was like a high end tropical beach bar, where the owner was able to control the weather. But then the thunder rumbled! It sounded like it was directly overhead, but there were no clouds straight above. The angry outbursts from the sky were over the city centre, but it was as if the clouds wanted to warn the surrounding area that the wrath of Zeus could strike anywhere in the vicinity.
I passed a couple of hours at the bar. I had been reading, making amendments to the map to make it more up to date, thinking of what I could write in this blog, and generally just chilling out. A big fly thought it was a good idea to interrupt my thoughts by plunging into my glass of beer. Luckily there was only a mouthful of beer left, but I watched as it feverishly threw its legs around in the beer, desperately trying to get some purchase on the fluid surface, but to no avail. I asked for another glass, and watched the waiter take away the soiled glass as the fly struggled in the vat of bubbling amber liquid, slowly succumbing to its ethanol induced demise.
A group of kids walked by the bars terrace, and they all started asking for different things. It was like they were opening a bad joke: The first child asked for a soda; the second child asked for some chicken; the third child asked for some fish...I didn’t get to hear what the fourth child wanted, I’m sure it would have been a hilarious punch line to the joke that was being set up. Unfortunately, we’ll never know the end of the joke as one of the waiters threatened to throw a glass bottle at them if they didn’t stop harassing the customers.
A few minutes later a lone child walked by carrying four 5 litre empty bottles. Like many Tanzanian kids, he had been sent to get some water. I gave this some thought, and I was amazed to realise that this kid, who couldn’t be more than 12 years old, was out to get 20 litres of water, and would then have to carry it back home. You’d struggle to find any 12 year old that would be able to carry 20 litres of water in England. Little things like that really make you think about how little some people have, and how much energy they exert just getting through each day. It really made me appreciate how easy my life as a child had been. It seems that the everyday ‘problems’ that westerners have are trivial in comparison.
I sat and contemplated this point for a while, and I soaked up the view of the bay. I was just finishing my second beer (and feeling the effects of it – oh yes, I am a lightweight now!) when I noticed some jet skiers in the distance of the bay. The ecotourist in my got a bit annoyed at their presence. Here was this beautiful scenic bay, as flat as a mirror, seemingly undisturbed by the breeze that had just picked up. And in the distance were some westerners making a lot of noise, travelling at ridiculous speeds and not going anywhere. This seemed like a horrific juxtaposition to the gently gliding dhows, which silently cruised across the surface of the water barely creating a ripple on the surface. It was like an absurd version the tortoise and the hare. The hare (the mzungu jet skier in this metaphor) was doing its very best to get from ‘point a’, to ‘point a’, whilst making as much noise as possible. The tortoise (the dhow and the fishermen in the boat), slowly and steadily cruising across the water, was serving a purpose, it was getting from ‘point a’ to ‘point b’. It was bringing food to someone’s table, and it was doing it without upsetting the rest of the world. I struggle to understand why you would go on holiday to partake in an activity that you can do at home. Surely the authenticity of a place will provide an experience that would be much more meaningful. Maybe tour companies should encourage visitors to enjoy genuine experiences, rather than man-made, obtuse activities.
With this alcohol influenced argument playing out in my head, I got up to leave the bar. I noticed four or five Maasai walk into the main bar, where the big screens were showing the Chelsea match. A group of tourists were sitting in the pub watching the football...I’d hazard a guess that they would do this at home, and this got me back to thinking about how much tourists miss by following the same routine that they have at home. I passed a slightly disproportionate man with dreadlocks as I was leaving, and I was convinced that he had been a barrel in his former life and I headed in search of a Bajaj to take me home. I didn’t want to get a dalla-dalla to Posta, and then from Posta to Mwenge, and then walk another 15 minutes before getting home.
I walked down the road in the direction of Mwenge hoping to catch someone looking for a fare, and eventually a man in a relatively rare, green rickshaw pulled up next to me. For the reasonable sum of 6,000/- he took me down some back streets to avoid the traffic on the way to Mwenge. The driver pulled into a petrol station and filled up the glorified tricycle, whilst the engine was on, and we started back on the bumpy road. We got caught behind a 4x4 with a bumper sticker saying: “Jesus Christ: Someone you’ve got to meet!” This reminded me of another car which is often parked near my apartment which has a sticker on the fuel cap saying: “Powered by the blood of Christ”. There are so many variations of religious stickers on cars and it demonstrates how important faith is to the general population. The nearest thing you’d see in England is the fish-like symbol of Christianity. Belief and faith values are so important to the people of Tanzania.
Like a man possessed the Bajaj driver flung the motorised roll-cage around to the side of the 4x4 and gunned the vehicle up along the dirt path that pedestrians are meant to walk along. The driver clearly had no fear of crashing, and he seemed like he was in a desperate rush to get to Mlimani City to drop me off. Having cascaded down side streets and pathways, and avoided buses and cars alike, we somehow made it to University Road without any broken limbs or damage to the vehicle! I was more than impressed...the driver was rated as a better driver than Shorty (the irritating kid from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom).
With all of the adventures from the day to keep me occupied mentally, I went up to the not quite fully constructed third floor of my apartment building and took some photos of the full moon that was acting like a floodlight. It was a good day of interesting experiences, interesting people, philosophical reflection, and a daredevil stunt driver.
Sunday, 21 February 2010
Rain, Dalla-dallas, More rain, Churches and Italians...
22nd February 2010
As I am sure you must have guessed by now, dalla-dalla’s are by far, the most fun form of transport that is available on land in Tanzania. On Friday I endured a beast of a trip up to the campus of the university. There were 23 people and a whole lot of luggage in the dalla-dalla, and I was one of the lucky ones who got to stand for the journey. Behind the driver’s seat there is a metal bar that runs just above waist height, I think it is designed to let people hold onto it when they are standing. So as I clutched for dear life as the psychotic driver bounded up the meandering road, I got turned around by the movement of people and bags as they got on and off the bus. The bus eventually got to the fun point where the speed bumps are. As you are standing, far from upright, and feeling as though you would really benefit from being a hunchback of some form, you can’t see out of the windows. This makes the speed bumps an unpleasant surprise for those standing. You get thrown into the metal bar (thrown is quite accurate as the driver seems to think that speed bumps are a recommendation to slow down, not a requirement), and if you are very unlucky, like yours truly, you manage to experience a rib realignment service. My ribs were crushed to oblivion (not really, but they were impacted quite impressively) and this continued for a short while after.
A similar experience was had on the way back down on Friday, and I got in just as the rain started. The rain came down with the ferociousness of a thundering waterfall...for about 5 minutes, and then it stopped! This strange behaviour on behalf of the weather continued into the early morning of Saturday.
Saturday morning was another overcast day, which was quite disappointing because I was hoping to get on a ferry and go to one of the beaches south of Dar. Knowing how heavy the rain can be, and knowing how quickly it will come, I put of the trip, and told myself that I would go on Sunday instead. I needed to check my finances so I headed up to the University to make use of the internet. This time I had a whole dalla-dalla to myself. It was unbelievable; I’ve never seen one empty for so long. A few people got on at the stop before mine but it was still so quiet. I’m starting to think some of the students have gone home for holidays. The lack of people on the dalla-dalla, and the large amount of luggage that was taking up space the day before all seemed to point to this conclusion.
The rest of my exciting Saturday involved me heading to the shops to get some pencils. I’ve taken it upon myself to start sketching. My photography lately has been quite poor, and I can’t figure out why, so I thought I would see if I could get my eye into things a bit more and see if that will improve the pictures that I am taking. I spent the evening hunting around for things to draw and then felt shattered so I went to bed.
Sunday came and threatened once again to rain. It did not disappoint. The rain came down pretty heavy once again, but then the skies cleared, and the afternoon was available for me to go and play. I decided not to go to the beach because the weather was so unpredictable. Instead I went roaming around the city centre.
I jumped on a dalla-dalla to the Mwenge bus stand or as I like to call it, the haven for thieves and vice. The dalla-dalla sounded very ill indeed. It was quiet once again, and I am guessing that it had recently broken down. Every time the driver changed gears it would feel as though the floor was about to drop out. Somehow the struggling van managed to make it to the bus stand where I made a very swift beeline for a city bus to Posta. The pick pockets must have had the day off as it was a Sunday so I was undisturbed on my mission to get the bus. Making sure I sat on the non-greenhouse side of the bus, I had a nice relaxing journey. The bus was clean and quiet, and in surprisingly good health for a motorised vehicle in Dar. All was well until everyone got off the bus and moved onto another bus that was much grubbier, and far less comfortable. I don’t really know why they made us change bus, but it wasn’t too bad. I got a front seat, next to the driver, and was amazed by the approach to the city centre. The bus heads down a gently sloping road, which is tree lined, and has a few trees in the central reservation of the road. The road leads the eye to the built up area of the city, and it looks aesthetically pleasing...from a distance. As you get nearer to the city, there is a valley that looks slightly like it is supporting a shanty town. The view reminded me of the sort of image that you would see in a Year 9 Geography textbook. To the right hand side is a hotel called “Valley View Hotel”...it seems strange that the hotel would advertise and boast of such a view.
Jumping off the bus, I headed down past the Askari Monument, and was heading towards the sea front. There are a couple of churches on the waterfront that are quite fancy...especially when they are compared to the surrounding architectural monsters. I was hoping to go and have a quiet day of photography and sketching. This was not to be so.
A local man was following me since I had got off the bus, and he was shouting at me in Swahili, I only realised that it was me that he was shouting at after he started talking in English. He was looking to show me around the town, but having had a guided tour from Hans, I was okay without. He started talking to me about England, and football. The two staple conversation pieces of new-found Swahili speaking friends. He told me that I walked fast, and I responded that it was because I am European, and everything we do is at a faster pace than the people of Africa. We had got down to Anzio Front, and I eventually figured that if I tell the guy that I have been in Tanzania for 2 months then he may take the hint an leave me to my own devices. This worked, with surprising efficiency.
However, about 5 minutes later, a guy carrying a book on Globalisation by Joseph Stieglitz came up to me. He too wanted to show me around the city. I told him that I was okay, and all I wanted to do was to draw the buildings opposite me. He then took it upon himself to offer me the book he was carrying...for a mere 10,000/-. I really didn’t want the book and when I told him so he took off in search of someone else to try and sell the book to.
I sat and sketched the Lutheran Church for a short while, but then a guy from Angola came up to me. Sitting in the shade of a tree, with the figures of the angular tiles of the church in the background, he started chatting to me about England, in particular, Sunderland. He was a nice chap, and he had been a merchant sailor for a number of years. He’d travelled the best part of the world on the boats, and was now in Tanzania for a short while. We chatted about the politics of Africa, and I struggled to sketch whilst he was talking, in hindsight, this may have appeared to be rude! But he was the one who approached me so I don’t feel too bad. We chatted about the African Cup of Nations which had just happened in Angola, and we somehow got back on to politics. It turns out that a couple of years ago, the chap had stepped on a landmine in Angola. He had been in Tanzania to get a prosthetic leg, as he lost his left leg, just below the knee. He was stranded in Tanzania until he could get enough money to head back to Angola, and he asked me for a rather reasonable sum of 500/- so he could get some food. Whilst I don’t normally give people money in the street I did to this man. Earlier on in the day a local teenager had asked me for 2,000/-...just because he thought I was rich. The Angolan guy was sleeping on the floor at the Lutheran church each night, until he could find a means to get home. Although he used a sob story to get money from me, he did seem like a genuinely nice guy who had just fallen upon hard times.
I walked down along the front, and eventually came across the ferry terminals. Here I was hounded by several men from a variety of businesses who thought I was in the area because I wanted to get a ferry to Zanzibar. They didn’t seem to understand that I had no immediate plans to get to Zanzibar, and they kept asking when I will go. Just to shake them off I told them I would be back next week...I won’t be.
St. Joseph’s Cathedral is a clean looking building, that seems out of place in the slightly run down area of the Anzio Front. I was still being swarmed around by people offering to take me to Zanzibar, and I was quite conscious about having my camera out in an area that was quite obviously suffering from a lack of investment, and employment opportunities. I took a couple of quick snaps, and I didn’t even bother to try and draw the building. Instead I started making towards the markets.
I had managed to get about 500 metres before a drunk man stopped me and kept saying: “Try to understand what I am saying!” The man had good English, and I could understand him perfectly well, but he kept coming out with the same comments! I was getting annoyed at not being able to have a couple of minutes to myself that I told the man that my bus was coming (a purple city bus had just rounded the corner) and that I had to get back. Leaving the man in his strong odour of alcohol, and possibly in danger of catching alight if a naked flame were passed too close to him, I ran onto the bus and headed for Mwenge. I was a bit bugged by the fact people wouldn’t just let me be, and I probably shouldn’t feel that way, but it seemed as though my good way to spend the day was actually not panning out.
I walked through the pit of vice and theft (Mwenge bus stand), and plodded up towards the Mwenge Craft Market. Just outside the market I saw a couple of white guys who were looking very confused. I said hello, and it turns out that they were (and presumably still are) Italian Navy crew. They were looking for a shop called Game, which is in the shopping centre near to my apartment so I told them that I would walk that way with them. So Franceso and Victorio joined me on my able up the road. They had been in Dar for about a week, and they had some time out. They had been at sea for three months and they were spending two weeks in total in Dar before sailing to Mombasa and then to Egypt, before heading back to Italy. Somehow I was a fairly good guide to show the guys around the local area, and to explain a bit about life in Tanzania. They were both amazed when I said I was 23, and they couldn’t get over the fact that someone so young was living in a place so different from their home. I suppose it’s a bit rare, but it’s certainly not unheard of.
I dropped the guys off at the shopping centre, and then headed back to my apartment. Something strange then occurred. I stopped at the fruit stand (my equivalent to a green grocer) and Swahili poured out of my mouth. The proper greeting was issued, and I had asked for a couple of mangos without giving it any thought. It was the most bizarre thing! And to add to this miracle of miracles, I couldn’t for the life of me think what an embe was in English (embe is mango in Swahili).
Feeling pleased with myself I got into the apartment, ate a mango, and looked at my appalling photos from the day. Then the electricity cut out, and came back on, and cut out, and came back on, and cut out...and then came back on, and stayed on.
As I am sure you must have guessed by now, dalla-dalla’s are by far, the most fun form of transport that is available on land in Tanzania. On Friday I endured a beast of a trip up to the campus of the university. There were 23 people and a whole lot of luggage in the dalla-dalla, and I was one of the lucky ones who got to stand for the journey. Behind the driver’s seat there is a metal bar that runs just above waist height, I think it is designed to let people hold onto it when they are standing. So as I clutched for dear life as the psychotic driver bounded up the meandering road, I got turned around by the movement of people and bags as they got on and off the bus. The bus eventually got to the fun point where the speed bumps are. As you are standing, far from upright, and feeling as though you would really benefit from being a hunchback of some form, you can’t see out of the windows. This makes the speed bumps an unpleasant surprise for those standing. You get thrown into the metal bar (thrown is quite accurate as the driver seems to think that speed bumps are a recommendation to slow down, not a requirement), and if you are very unlucky, like yours truly, you manage to experience a rib realignment service. My ribs were crushed to oblivion (not really, but they were impacted quite impressively) and this continued for a short while after.
A similar experience was had on the way back down on Friday, and I got in just as the rain started. The rain came down with the ferociousness of a thundering waterfall...for about 5 minutes, and then it stopped! This strange behaviour on behalf of the weather continued into the early morning of Saturday.
Saturday morning was another overcast day, which was quite disappointing because I was hoping to get on a ferry and go to one of the beaches south of Dar. Knowing how heavy the rain can be, and knowing how quickly it will come, I put of the trip, and told myself that I would go on Sunday instead. I needed to check my finances so I headed up to the University to make use of the internet. This time I had a whole dalla-dalla to myself. It was unbelievable; I’ve never seen one empty for so long. A few people got on at the stop before mine but it was still so quiet. I’m starting to think some of the students have gone home for holidays. The lack of people on the dalla-dalla, and the large amount of luggage that was taking up space the day before all seemed to point to this conclusion.
The rest of my exciting Saturday involved me heading to the shops to get some pencils. I’ve taken it upon myself to start sketching. My photography lately has been quite poor, and I can’t figure out why, so I thought I would see if I could get my eye into things a bit more and see if that will improve the pictures that I am taking. I spent the evening hunting around for things to draw and then felt shattered so I went to bed.
Sunday came and threatened once again to rain. It did not disappoint. The rain came down pretty heavy once again, but then the skies cleared, and the afternoon was available for me to go and play. I decided not to go to the beach because the weather was so unpredictable. Instead I went roaming around the city centre.
I jumped on a dalla-dalla to the Mwenge bus stand or as I like to call it, the haven for thieves and vice. The dalla-dalla sounded very ill indeed. It was quiet once again, and I am guessing that it had recently broken down. Every time the driver changed gears it would feel as though the floor was about to drop out. Somehow the struggling van managed to make it to the bus stand where I made a very swift beeline for a city bus to Posta. The pick pockets must have had the day off as it was a Sunday so I was undisturbed on my mission to get the bus. Making sure I sat on the non-greenhouse side of the bus, I had a nice relaxing journey. The bus was clean and quiet, and in surprisingly good health for a motorised vehicle in Dar. All was well until everyone got off the bus and moved onto another bus that was much grubbier, and far less comfortable. I don’t really know why they made us change bus, but it wasn’t too bad. I got a front seat, next to the driver, and was amazed by the approach to the city centre. The bus heads down a gently sloping road, which is tree lined, and has a few trees in the central reservation of the road. The road leads the eye to the built up area of the city, and it looks aesthetically pleasing...from a distance. As you get nearer to the city, there is a valley that looks slightly like it is supporting a shanty town. The view reminded me of the sort of image that you would see in a Year 9 Geography textbook. To the right hand side is a hotel called “Valley View Hotel”...it seems strange that the hotel would advertise and boast of such a view.
Jumping off the bus, I headed down past the Askari Monument, and was heading towards the sea front. There are a couple of churches on the waterfront that are quite fancy...especially when they are compared to the surrounding architectural monsters. I was hoping to go and have a quiet day of photography and sketching. This was not to be so.
A local man was following me since I had got off the bus, and he was shouting at me in Swahili, I only realised that it was me that he was shouting at after he started talking in English. He was looking to show me around the town, but having had a guided tour from Hans, I was okay without. He started talking to me about England, and football. The two staple conversation pieces of new-found Swahili speaking friends. He told me that I walked fast, and I responded that it was because I am European, and everything we do is at a faster pace than the people of Africa. We had got down to Anzio Front, and I eventually figured that if I tell the guy that I have been in Tanzania for 2 months then he may take the hint an leave me to my own devices. This worked, with surprising efficiency.
However, about 5 minutes later, a guy carrying a book on Globalisation by Joseph Stieglitz came up to me. He too wanted to show me around the city. I told him that I was okay, and all I wanted to do was to draw the buildings opposite me. He then took it upon himself to offer me the book he was carrying...for a mere 10,000/-. I really didn’t want the book and when I told him so he took off in search of someone else to try and sell the book to.
I sat and sketched the Lutheran Church for a short while, but then a guy from Angola came up to me. Sitting in the shade of a tree, with the figures of the angular tiles of the church in the background, he started chatting to me about England, in particular, Sunderland. He was a nice chap, and he had been a merchant sailor for a number of years. He’d travelled the best part of the world on the boats, and was now in Tanzania for a short while. We chatted about the politics of Africa, and I struggled to sketch whilst he was talking, in hindsight, this may have appeared to be rude! But he was the one who approached me so I don’t feel too bad. We chatted about the African Cup of Nations which had just happened in Angola, and we somehow got back on to politics. It turns out that a couple of years ago, the chap had stepped on a landmine in Angola. He had been in Tanzania to get a prosthetic leg, as he lost his left leg, just below the knee. He was stranded in Tanzania until he could get enough money to head back to Angola, and he asked me for a rather reasonable sum of 500/- so he could get some food. Whilst I don’t normally give people money in the street I did to this man. Earlier on in the day a local teenager had asked me for 2,000/-...just because he thought I was rich. The Angolan guy was sleeping on the floor at the Lutheran church each night, until he could find a means to get home. Although he used a sob story to get money from me, he did seem like a genuinely nice guy who had just fallen upon hard times.
I walked down along the front, and eventually came across the ferry terminals. Here I was hounded by several men from a variety of businesses who thought I was in the area because I wanted to get a ferry to Zanzibar. They didn’t seem to understand that I had no immediate plans to get to Zanzibar, and they kept asking when I will go. Just to shake them off I told them I would be back next week...I won’t be.
St. Joseph’s Cathedral is a clean looking building, that seems out of place in the slightly run down area of the Anzio Front. I was still being swarmed around by people offering to take me to Zanzibar, and I was quite conscious about having my camera out in an area that was quite obviously suffering from a lack of investment, and employment opportunities. I took a couple of quick snaps, and I didn’t even bother to try and draw the building. Instead I started making towards the markets.
I had managed to get about 500 metres before a drunk man stopped me and kept saying: “Try to understand what I am saying!” The man had good English, and I could understand him perfectly well, but he kept coming out with the same comments! I was getting annoyed at not being able to have a couple of minutes to myself that I told the man that my bus was coming (a purple city bus had just rounded the corner) and that I had to get back. Leaving the man in his strong odour of alcohol, and possibly in danger of catching alight if a naked flame were passed too close to him, I ran onto the bus and headed for Mwenge. I was a bit bugged by the fact people wouldn’t just let me be, and I probably shouldn’t feel that way, but it seemed as though my good way to spend the day was actually not panning out.
I walked through the pit of vice and theft (Mwenge bus stand), and plodded up towards the Mwenge Craft Market. Just outside the market I saw a couple of white guys who were looking very confused. I said hello, and it turns out that they were (and presumably still are) Italian Navy crew. They were looking for a shop called Game, which is in the shopping centre near to my apartment so I told them that I would walk that way with them. So Franceso and Victorio joined me on my able up the road. They had been in Dar for about a week, and they had some time out. They had been at sea for three months and they were spending two weeks in total in Dar before sailing to Mombasa and then to Egypt, before heading back to Italy. Somehow I was a fairly good guide to show the guys around the local area, and to explain a bit about life in Tanzania. They were both amazed when I said I was 23, and they couldn’t get over the fact that someone so young was living in a place so different from their home. I suppose it’s a bit rare, but it’s certainly not unheard of.
I dropped the guys off at the shopping centre, and then headed back to my apartment. Something strange then occurred. I stopped at the fruit stand (my equivalent to a green grocer) and Swahili poured out of my mouth. The proper greeting was issued, and I had asked for a couple of mangos without giving it any thought. It was the most bizarre thing! And to add to this miracle of miracles, I couldn’t for the life of me think what an embe was in English (embe is mango in Swahili).
Feeling pleased with myself I got into the apartment, ate a mango, and looked at my appalling photos from the day. Then the electricity cut out, and came back on, and cut out, and came back on, and cut out...and then came back on, and stayed on.
Thursday, 18 February 2010
Pick pockets, sweat, treks, buses and markets...
18th February 2010
Yesterday I decided that I had enough of sitting around in the apartment, and occasionally flitting up to the university and across to the shop. The builders have finished adding another floor to the offices/apartments and now they are endeavouring to put up a roof. It’s a corrugated iron roof, so rather than the sleepy activity of putting up tiles, I instead have to endure a consistent pounding of hammers. This started early yesterday, so as I was just finishing off the report I had the lovely feeling as though there was a series of metallic vibrations flowing through my body.
I took a quick escape up to the university where I spent about an hour sitting in the ridiculous heat on the internet. I got back to the apartment in the hope that the roofing was happening at the other end of the building, but they were still above my head so after lunch I resolved myself to getting out.
I jumped into a dalla-dalla and headed to the Mwenge bus stand. I’ve been there a couple of times before, but mainly just passing through. The bus stand is a hot, compressed, exhaust filled, bed of hustle and bustle. There are crowds of people getting on buses heading to a variety of suburban locations, and some of the inner city areas. I worked my way through the crowds and hunted for the bus that was heading to Posta. Eventually, after passing five or six busses, I found the right one to get on. Just as I joined the cosh of people getting onto the bus, I noticed that my bag had developed an extra attachment. There was a person’s lower arm sticking out of the front pouch which led me to believe that his hand must be in the bag itself. So after a swift attempt to swing around and grab the bloke’s arm (all the while being pushed by the crowd to get onto the bus!) the little thieving bastard left me well alone and disappeared. The front pouch of the bag is a Velcro pocket, but you can get into the side of it without breaking the Velcro itself. I never store anything of value in that pocket for that very reason, but had he had ventured into the zipped main pocket he could have had access to the camera.
Less bothered by this attempt at pick pocketing than I thought I would be, I managed to get a window seat on the bus and soon enough we began the bumpy journey to Posta. Posta is one of the districts in the city centre. It is slightly further north than Kariakoo and there are lot of things to see and do in the area. The journey from Mwenge to Posta was about 30 minutes or so. Unfortunately, having never been on that particular bus, and not knowing the route that it takes, I was sat on the side where the sun pelts down upon you. Fearing sunburn and sweating something chronic, the guy next to me offered to move to another seat once the bus had cleared a bit, but being the over accommodating fool that I am, I said to him to move only if he wants to. Which he didn’t. The bus passed markets and street vendors, and houses and hotels, and eventually we pulled up outside the Holiday Inn hotel.
I had noticed on the map in my guide book that the Holiday Inn was right next to the Botanical Gardens, so I jumped out. However, the Holiday Inn has relocated since the book was published, and is now a couple of stops ahead of the main Posta dalla-dalla stand. I probably should say that I was in a city bus, rather than a dalla-dalla, these things resemble real buses, and with the exception of the number of people who run alongside the bus and try and squeeze in to stand for the journey, the conditions are generally less crowded. It’s probably worth telling you that there is little difference between the smells of the varying types of buses! And although city buses are less crowded, personal space is still something that would make the characters in a “Where’s Wally?” book feel claustrophobic.
So, where did I get to? Oh yes, I had jumped off the bus at the new Holiday Inn and I started heading down the road in the direction that I thought the Botanical Gardens would be. I passed the YMCA (which is handily displayed on my map!) and I had another look to see if I was heading in the right way. As I was there with my nose in the book, a local guy came up to me and started chatting away. The usual questions were asked, who am I, what am I doing in Tanzania, where am I from. We got to chatting, the guy had very good English, he said that he learnt it from the street, which made me chuckle as I had an image of a person with their ear pressed up against the pavement, listening to an English lesson. I think I may take some things a bit too literally! I was still a bit apprehensive of this chap, especially as one of his fellow countrymen had enjoyed hiding his hand in my bag a short while ago. We stood around and chatted for a bit, and he asked if I had been to the Botanical Gardens yet, he was heading in that direction. This I thought was a stroke of luck, so we walked that way. Eventually he told me his name was Hans, which possibly has something to do with the German colonisation in the nineteenth century. As it turns out, this guy goes by a few different names, depending on which part of Dar he is in. It seems as though he knows everyone, and he has been given different nicknames for the different way people know him. My favourite, and the only other one I can remember, was Taliyano. I like the sound of the name, but I don’t know why!
We strolled down Azikiwe Street until we got to the Askari Monument. This is a little statue on a roundabout which was put up in memory of the Tanzanian soldiers who fought in the First World War. As the road was pretty busy, I thought I would save a close up look at that for another day. Turning left, we headed up Samora Avenue, past the National Museum, and then into the Botanical Gardens. The gardens are much smaller than they used to be. The development in the city has restricted the space that the gardens can take up. However, in the small space there were a large variety of trees and plants that are found across Tanzania. Plants like Acacia trees, Royal Palms, Angel Palms, Mahogany trees, African Blackwood trees, and African Ironwood trees. There was a time when all of the trees were labelled, but these days only a few trees have their plaques. Towards the northern side of the gardens there were a troop of Vervet Monkeys. Hans told me to go ahead on my own. He was saying that the monkeys are more scarred of black men than white men, as the black people have hunted them for years. I was surprised that the monkeys let me get so close, and even stayed put when I had my camera pointed at them. There were several young monkeys, and directly above my head there was a mother with a baby holding onto her. The dominant male was in another tree; he was less keen for me to take his photo and bolted to the top of the tree as soon as the camera was raised.
We headed towards the coast along Chimara Road where Hans wanted to show me a huge Baobab tree. Baobabs are trees that have immensely thick trunks and quite spindly branches. They are very odd shaped, but the locals seem to prize them, almost as a national tree! The tree was in the gardens of the Ocean Road Hospital. Ocean Road Hospital was built in 1897, and is no longer operational. The architecture is incredible, and its beauty is set off nicely with the gorgeous bay view. It’s another site that I want to go back to for some photographic fun. The hospital looks out over the Indian Ocean, in particular over Dar es Salaam Bay. This small, natural bay is very photogenic; there are lovely headland cliffs, and white sand beaches. The tide was in, so the green grass on the cliff tops set off the blues of the sea nicely. The water reflected the pure blue sky, and the dhows and other fishing boats bobbed gently with the ebb of the waters.
We sat under the shade of a palm tree for a couple of minutes. Hans was telling me that he was an artist, but had recently had his work confiscated because he was selling it on the street without a license. This seemed a bit strange to me as hundreds of street vendors sell anything from fruit, to wood carvings, from telephone top up cards, to plastic tennis racquets. Hans was saying that he faces a fine of 1.5 million /- (£750) to get his paintings back. That is the official line, as it turns out, he could get the paintings back if he was to approach the right official, and offer him a bribe. We sat under the tree for a short while talking about corruption in the country, and about the art work that Hans produces. He had managed to smuggle five paintings from the officials, and he was looking to sell them so he can afford to buy the raw materials he needed to get started again. He had lost something in the region of 50 paintings, and if they were of the quality of the ones that he had with him, then I am sure that they would have been able to make the fine that he had to pay. He offered a price of 25,000/- for his paintings, because he had been speaking to me for a couple of hours at this point. Similar paintings are sold for 40,000/- in the Mwenge craft market. I paid him 40,000/- for the painting, and to pay for him to be my guide for the rest of the day.
We got up and headed towards the fish market on the shorefront, near Kivukoni Front. Heading into the market, after rolling up the trouser legs, we were met with the intense scent of fresh fish. Some of the fish smelt lovely, whilst others had an odour that was something close to oppressive. We wandered around looking at the fish that were being sold, and the fishermen took an interest at the Mzungu that was loitering in their midst. Down at the very back of the market Hans was talking to a fisherman who had just arrived in his hollowed-out bark boat. It was filled with different things like bed heads and plastic containers, and of course, a few baskets of fish. The fisherman had just come across from Zanzibar, and had bought a few bits that he was planning on selling once the boat had been unloaded. Heading out of the fish market, past the auction section (which was the worst smelling of the whole area), we crossed Ocean Road and headed into the fruit market. This was much less impressive than the fruit and vegetable market in Kariakoo, but had a friendlier atmosphere, and people were happy for me to be given a tour. I became very highly educated on the different fruits that were available in the market, and the custard fruits were the most impressive things that I had seen there. I have had custard fruit before, I think it was when I was in the Caribbean, and I’ll definitely be trying to find some in my local area, and if I can’t then it’ll be back to the Ocean Road markets for me!
From the markets we headed down Ghana Avenue, and past the embassies and foreign commissions. There was a beautiful peacock making a racket, with its plumage looking grand enough to nearly attract me as a mate. I was just about to pull my camera out of the bag when Hans grabbed my wrist and told me not to. There were signs a little bit further down the fence that quite clearly stated that no photographs were to be taken. I had read about this is my guide book and other books on customs and culture in Tanzania. I’ve no idea how I had forgotten not to take pictures of government or military buildings. No harm done though. We went along Ohio Street and headed towards the Mövenpick Hotel and to Nyumba ya Sana. Nyumba ya Sana is a local artists gallery, and on every couple of Fridays they have traditional dances and music being performed for a very reasonable sum of 3,000/-. We didn’t venture into the gallery at this point, it was getting on for 5 o’clock, and I was wary about travelling around at night. We passed Salum as he drove by us, having dropped the Professor off for tennis, and we headed up Mwinyi Road. The bus back to Mwenge runs along this road, and as we went further and further up the road, the traffic got heavier and heavier. The weather had cooled to a nice heat, and so we walked up the road, avoiding the buses because they were absolutely crammed from all of the office workers beginning to make their way home. We managed to keep pace with a bus for a few kilometres, before we headed down Kinondoni Road. We were a few kilometres from Mwenge still so we carried on walking. After a while a private bus passed us, and Hans ran after it. He caught up with it and the driver let him in as he shouted at me to join him. The driver of the bus was one of Hans’ many contacts so we got an easy ride for a kilometre or two.
We jumped off the bus and headed towards Hans’ house, which was in the Kinondoni area of Dar. We walked through what should be considered as authentic Tanzanian city suburbs, with low buildings and people sitting around outside with a beer, or just chatting in groups of six or seven people. We stopped and said hello to many people, this was the area that Hans has lived in for years, and he is apparently a popular person. We came to a traditional Swahili house, and I was ushered in. Hans lives with his aunt, her sons and daughters, and his grandmother who is quite ill. He dropped his bag into his room and changed from his trainers into flip-flops. I was told to sit down and I managed to say hello to the aunt, and to the children. When the grandmother came out, I used the wrong greeting (I said Mambo, when I should have used Shikamoo). I was corrected by the grandmother, and suitably embarrassed I was once again on my feet and heading out the door with Hans.
We walked for a couple of kilometres around some winding roads and paths, and took short cuts through social clubs, out of their back doors and through tiny alleyways. We were heading for an area where I could get a Bajaj from. It took about half an hour to get there, and once again, many people were greeted en route, and many hands were shook. Eventually finding the Bajaj owners, they were expecting 5,000/- for a journey that would cost only 3,000 at most. I noticed a couple of city buses passing, both of them heading towards Mwenge, so I told Hans that I’d rather jump on a bus and pay 250/- rather than fork out 20 times that amount on a short journey. I said my goodbyes to Hans as once again I wash crushed onto the bus by the crowd of people.
I’d managed to get a window seat and I was enjoying watching the sunset, and looking at the orange clouds that soon vanished into the darkness of night. Just as I got off the bus, I was called by my mum, so I thought I would walk up from the bus stand to the apartment, rather than jump into another overcrowded dalla-dalla. I had got home at about 7 o’clock, and was shattered. A quick feed of noodles was closely followed by a look at the photos from the day. Apparently I had left the camera on a low light setting from the night before (I was trying to take a picture of a beetle with a huge horn), and so most of the pictures were significantly over exposed. It’ll either take a lot of work on Photoshop, or I’ll have to go back and explore the same way again another day!
Yesterday I decided that I had enough of sitting around in the apartment, and occasionally flitting up to the university and across to the shop. The builders have finished adding another floor to the offices/apartments and now they are endeavouring to put up a roof. It’s a corrugated iron roof, so rather than the sleepy activity of putting up tiles, I instead have to endure a consistent pounding of hammers. This started early yesterday, so as I was just finishing off the report I had the lovely feeling as though there was a series of metallic vibrations flowing through my body.
I took a quick escape up to the university where I spent about an hour sitting in the ridiculous heat on the internet. I got back to the apartment in the hope that the roofing was happening at the other end of the building, but they were still above my head so after lunch I resolved myself to getting out.
I jumped into a dalla-dalla and headed to the Mwenge bus stand. I’ve been there a couple of times before, but mainly just passing through. The bus stand is a hot, compressed, exhaust filled, bed of hustle and bustle. There are crowds of people getting on buses heading to a variety of suburban locations, and some of the inner city areas. I worked my way through the crowds and hunted for the bus that was heading to Posta. Eventually, after passing five or six busses, I found the right one to get on. Just as I joined the cosh of people getting onto the bus, I noticed that my bag had developed an extra attachment. There was a person’s lower arm sticking out of the front pouch which led me to believe that his hand must be in the bag itself. So after a swift attempt to swing around and grab the bloke’s arm (all the while being pushed by the crowd to get onto the bus!) the little thieving bastard left me well alone and disappeared. The front pouch of the bag is a Velcro pocket, but you can get into the side of it without breaking the Velcro itself. I never store anything of value in that pocket for that very reason, but had he had ventured into the zipped main pocket he could have had access to the camera.
Less bothered by this attempt at pick pocketing than I thought I would be, I managed to get a window seat on the bus and soon enough we began the bumpy journey to Posta. Posta is one of the districts in the city centre. It is slightly further north than Kariakoo and there are lot of things to see and do in the area. The journey from Mwenge to Posta was about 30 minutes or so. Unfortunately, having never been on that particular bus, and not knowing the route that it takes, I was sat on the side where the sun pelts down upon you. Fearing sunburn and sweating something chronic, the guy next to me offered to move to another seat once the bus had cleared a bit, but being the over accommodating fool that I am, I said to him to move only if he wants to. Which he didn’t. The bus passed markets and street vendors, and houses and hotels, and eventually we pulled up outside the Holiday Inn hotel.
I had noticed on the map in my guide book that the Holiday Inn was right next to the Botanical Gardens, so I jumped out. However, the Holiday Inn has relocated since the book was published, and is now a couple of stops ahead of the main Posta dalla-dalla stand. I probably should say that I was in a city bus, rather than a dalla-dalla, these things resemble real buses, and with the exception of the number of people who run alongside the bus and try and squeeze in to stand for the journey, the conditions are generally less crowded. It’s probably worth telling you that there is little difference between the smells of the varying types of buses! And although city buses are less crowded, personal space is still something that would make the characters in a “Where’s Wally?” book feel claustrophobic.
So, where did I get to? Oh yes, I had jumped off the bus at the new Holiday Inn and I started heading down the road in the direction that I thought the Botanical Gardens would be. I passed the YMCA (which is handily displayed on my map!) and I had another look to see if I was heading in the right way. As I was there with my nose in the book, a local guy came up to me and started chatting away. The usual questions were asked, who am I, what am I doing in Tanzania, where am I from. We got to chatting, the guy had very good English, he said that he learnt it from the street, which made me chuckle as I had an image of a person with their ear pressed up against the pavement, listening to an English lesson. I think I may take some things a bit too literally! I was still a bit apprehensive of this chap, especially as one of his fellow countrymen had enjoyed hiding his hand in my bag a short while ago. We stood around and chatted for a bit, and he asked if I had been to the Botanical Gardens yet, he was heading in that direction. This I thought was a stroke of luck, so we walked that way. Eventually he told me his name was Hans, which possibly has something to do with the German colonisation in the nineteenth century. As it turns out, this guy goes by a few different names, depending on which part of Dar he is in. It seems as though he knows everyone, and he has been given different nicknames for the different way people know him. My favourite, and the only other one I can remember, was Taliyano. I like the sound of the name, but I don’t know why!
We strolled down Azikiwe Street until we got to the Askari Monument. This is a little statue on a roundabout which was put up in memory of the Tanzanian soldiers who fought in the First World War. As the road was pretty busy, I thought I would save a close up look at that for another day. Turning left, we headed up Samora Avenue, past the National Museum, and then into the Botanical Gardens. The gardens are much smaller than they used to be. The development in the city has restricted the space that the gardens can take up. However, in the small space there were a large variety of trees and plants that are found across Tanzania. Plants like Acacia trees, Royal Palms, Angel Palms, Mahogany trees, African Blackwood trees, and African Ironwood trees. There was a time when all of the trees were labelled, but these days only a few trees have their plaques. Towards the northern side of the gardens there were a troop of Vervet Monkeys. Hans told me to go ahead on my own. He was saying that the monkeys are more scarred of black men than white men, as the black people have hunted them for years. I was surprised that the monkeys let me get so close, and even stayed put when I had my camera pointed at them. There were several young monkeys, and directly above my head there was a mother with a baby holding onto her. The dominant male was in another tree; he was less keen for me to take his photo and bolted to the top of the tree as soon as the camera was raised.
We headed towards the coast along Chimara Road where Hans wanted to show me a huge Baobab tree. Baobabs are trees that have immensely thick trunks and quite spindly branches. They are very odd shaped, but the locals seem to prize them, almost as a national tree! The tree was in the gardens of the Ocean Road Hospital. Ocean Road Hospital was built in 1897, and is no longer operational. The architecture is incredible, and its beauty is set off nicely with the gorgeous bay view. It’s another site that I want to go back to for some photographic fun. The hospital looks out over the Indian Ocean, in particular over Dar es Salaam Bay. This small, natural bay is very photogenic; there are lovely headland cliffs, and white sand beaches. The tide was in, so the green grass on the cliff tops set off the blues of the sea nicely. The water reflected the pure blue sky, and the dhows and other fishing boats bobbed gently with the ebb of the waters.
We sat under the shade of a palm tree for a couple of minutes. Hans was telling me that he was an artist, but had recently had his work confiscated because he was selling it on the street without a license. This seemed a bit strange to me as hundreds of street vendors sell anything from fruit, to wood carvings, from telephone top up cards, to plastic tennis racquets. Hans was saying that he faces a fine of 1.5 million /- (£750) to get his paintings back. That is the official line, as it turns out, he could get the paintings back if he was to approach the right official, and offer him a bribe. We sat under the tree for a short while talking about corruption in the country, and about the art work that Hans produces. He had managed to smuggle five paintings from the officials, and he was looking to sell them so he can afford to buy the raw materials he needed to get started again. He had lost something in the region of 50 paintings, and if they were of the quality of the ones that he had with him, then I am sure that they would have been able to make the fine that he had to pay. He offered a price of 25,000/- for his paintings, because he had been speaking to me for a couple of hours at this point. Similar paintings are sold for 40,000/- in the Mwenge craft market. I paid him 40,000/- for the painting, and to pay for him to be my guide for the rest of the day.
We got up and headed towards the fish market on the shorefront, near Kivukoni Front. Heading into the market, after rolling up the trouser legs, we were met with the intense scent of fresh fish. Some of the fish smelt lovely, whilst others had an odour that was something close to oppressive. We wandered around looking at the fish that were being sold, and the fishermen took an interest at the Mzungu that was loitering in their midst. Down at the very back of the market Hans was talking to a fisherman who had just arrived in his hollowed-out bark boat. It was filled with different things like bed heads and plastic containers, and of course, a few baskets of fish. The fisherman had just come across from Zanzibar, and had bought a few bits that he was planning on selling once the boat had been unloaded. Heading out of the fish market, past the auction section (which was the worst smelling of the whole area), we crossed Ocean Road and headed into the fruit market. This was much less impressive than the fruit and vegetable market in Kariakoo, but had a friendlier atmosphere, and people were happy for me to be given a tour. I became very highly educated on the different fruits that were available in the market, and the custard fruits were the most impressive things that I had seen there. I have had custard fruit before, I think it was when I was in the Caribbean, and I’ll definitely be trying to find some in my local area, and if I can’t then it’ll be back to the Ocean Road markets for me!
From the markets we headed down Ghana Avenue, and past the embassies and foreign commissions. There was a beautiful peacock making a racket, with its plumage looking grand enough to nearly attract me as a mate. I was just about to pull my camera out of the bag when Hans grabbed my wrist and told me not to. There were signs a little bit further down the fence that quite clearly stated that no photographs were to be taken. I had read about this is my guide book and other books on customs and culture in Tanzania. I’ve no idea how I had forgotten not to take pictures of government or military buildings. No harm done though. We went along Ohio Street and headed towards the Mövenpick Hotel and to Nyumba ya Sana. Nyumba ya Sana is a local artists gallery, and on every couple of Fridays they have traditional dances and music being performed for a very reasonable sum of 3,000/-. We didn’t venture into the gallery at this point, it was getting on for 5 o’clock, and I was wary about travelling around at night. We passed Salum as he drove by us, having dropped the Professor off for tennis, and we headed up Mwinyi Road. The bus back to Mwenge runs along this road, and as we went further and further up the road, the traffic got heavier and heavier. The weather had cooled to a nice heat, and so we walked up the road, avoiding the buses because they were absolutely crammed from all of the office workers beginning to make their way home. We managed to keep pace with a bus for a few kilometres, before we headed down Kinondoni Road. We were a few kilometres from Mwenge still so we carried on walking. After a while a private bus passed us, and Hans ran after it. He caught up with it and the driver let him in as he shouted at me to join him. The driver of the bus was one of Hans’ many contacts so we got an easy ride for a kilometre or two.
We jumped off the bus and headed towards Hans’ house, which was in the Kinondoni area of Dar. We walked through what should be considered as authentic Tanzanian city suburbs, with low buildings and people sitting around outside with a beer, or just chatting in groups of six or seven people. We stopped and said hello to many people, this was the area that Hans has lived in for years, and he is apparently a popular person. We came to a traditional Swahili house, and I was ushered in. Hans lives with his aunt, her sons and daughters, and his grandmother who is quite ill. He dropped his bag into his room and changed from his trainers into flip-flops. I was told to sit down and I managed to say hello to the aunt, and to the children. When the grandmother came out, I used the wrong greeting (I said Mambo, when I should have used Shikamoo). I was corrected by the grandmother, and suitably embarrassed I was once again on my feet and heading out the door with Hans.
We walked for a couple of kilometres around some winding roads and paths, and took short cuts through social clubs, out of their back doors and through tiny alleyways. We were heading for an area where I could get a Bajaj from. It took about half an hour to get there, and once again, many people were greeted en route, and many hands were shook. Eventually finding the Bajaj owners, they were expecting 5,000/- for a journey that would cost only 3,000 at most. I noticed a couple of city buses passing, both of them heading towards Mwenge, so I told Hans that I’d rather jump on a bus and pay 250/- rather than fork out 20 times that amount on a short journey. I said my goodbyes to Hans as once again I wash crushed onto the bus by the crowd of people.
I’d managed to get a window seat and I was enjoying watching the sunset, and looking at the orange clouds that soon vanished into the darkness of night. Just as I got off the bus, I was called by my mum, so I thought I would walk up from the bus stand to the apartment, rather than jump into another overcrowded dalla-dalla. I had got home at about 7 o’clock, and was shattered. A quick feed of noodles was closely followed by a look at the photos from the day. Apparently I had left the camera on a low light setting from the night before (I was trying to take a picture of a beetle with a huge horn), and so most of the pictures were significantly over exposed. It’ll either take a lot of work on Photoshop, or I’ll have to go back and explore the same way again another day!
Sunday, 14 February 2010
Not an awful lot to discuss...
14th February 2010
Whilst I myself haven’t been doing much, I still have the occasional musing to ensure that you have something to read whilst you underperform at work. The past week has been uneventful, and relatively dull. In fact, I don’t think that I have any personal experiences of adventures and ramblings to amuse you with.
I have had to do a bit of work, which has been something of a challenge as intermittent electricity supplies have caused havoc with life in general! I have been expanding my previous report on the BDA which is all fun and games, and it’s a great way to express a degree of self importance, especially when it is considered that the recommendations that I am making will change the way that the agency operates. So as I have been plugging away at the report, fighting the monster that it a lack of electricity, I’ve decided to try and examine the immediate area of Mwenge through a sensory capacity.
I’ve been in Dar for about 5 or 6 weeks (I’m beginning to lose count) and it has got to the point where the heat, the colours, the attitudes of people, the smells, the sounds and just about every other factor that batters the senses has become a norm. I was sitting outside last night whilst waiting for the electricity to power my air conditioning unit and restore my apartment to a walk in freezer, and I was giving some thought to the fact that I should have been doing something other than sitting in on a Saturday night. Somewhere, lost in my bored musings, a big sigh must have come out of my body, followed by a standard deep inhalation. It struck me that then that most of what should still be a new experience seemed to be washing over me. I picked up the familiar fruity smell of the early evening and I was swamped with the thoughts of when I had first arrived to the apartment, and how, although it was only 3 or 4 weeks ago, I had been feeling then. And that started my time of reflection.
As it turns out, my progresses since arriving in Tanzania has been going at unsteady paces. It seems to cascade between intense periods of acclimatisation and engagement in new experiences, to the mind-numbing boredom of waiting for something to happen. I’ve been trying to motivate myself to get up and get to experiencing as much as I can, but self-motivation has not been one of my strengths. I’ve attributed my recent lack of effort to a few factors, and most of them are regarding my ‘boss’. I’ve still not seen my boss since I have left Bukoba. I was meant to go to Dodoma with him, but that didn’t emerge. He was meant to be in Dar to see me a couple of weeks ago, but instead he went to Bukoba. He had arranged to meet with the Professor and me on Friday; this didn’t happen for unknown reasons. And then hopes were put up that he would appear on Saturday, but needless to say, this also didn’t come about. I have not been paid since the end of December, and my visa is threatening to become invalid. I’m trying to work out how to tackle that particular issue, but I’ve not found an alternative solution to me leaving the country, and then coming back. Whilst I realise that business runs differently in Africa, and I realise that I am not the most significant issue that my boss has to deal with, I am feeling a touch undervalued. It doesn’t seem right to put someone on the backburner when they haven’t properly started the job. Once a meeting has been arranged (and actually conducted) I am sure I will feel more positive about the scenario.
Right, that is enough of my disjointed rambling, and seemingly abrupt trains of thought. Let me tell you about the lack of events this week.
As I have said, much of the week has involved doing some work on the report. However, during the moments of power outages and the evenings of seamless boredom, I have tried to get out of the apartment here and there. Possibly one of my favourite discoveries during these jaunts out and about has to be the monkeys! There is a troop of monkeys that live on UDSM campus. If I am not mistaken they are vervet monkeys. According to the Lonely Planet guide to Tanzania, the vervet monkeys are the species of primate that epitomises East Africa. They are a black faced, light brown backed, off-white fronted, long-tailed monkey that has some fantastic blue and red colouring that flares up when the monkey gets excited! As I have only seen one troop so far, and they are near to the northern gate of the campus, I would not hesitate to guess that there may be more hiding around! The campus of UDSM is huge. There are trees, and grassy areas, a road that meanders through the grounds, occasional houses (owned by the lecturers), large tower blocks which house the students who live on campus, and then there are the smaller buildings which are where the learning happens. The campus is probably about 5km squared. There are lots of little paths leading off from the main road, and each one looks like it could lead anywhere on campus! When I head up to UDSM I am usually in a dalla-dalla and I don’t tend to get out until I am up on the hill and right outside the computing building. I think that I will have to head off the beaten track and explore some of the mystical paths!
I go running a couple of times a week, and I normally run up to the university on the same route as the dalla-dalla, but this week I broke that habit and went running along the dirt road that is just off from the main campus road. It’s a flatter route, and easier to run but it uncovered a couple of small lakes that are part of the university campus. There are a variety of huge birds that nest around the lakes, and I have made it my mission to try and photograph them when I venture off the campus next. The dirt road eventually comes out to the main road, south of the apartments. I had planned to walk along the road and see what was along there, but now I am glad that I didn’t. There is nothing of interest when you head in that direction, nothing except a road and cars.
I think that these two excursions are actually a bit dull. I am sure you’ll be fascinated to know that I have been buying local papers to keep up with current affairs. By local papers I mean East African editions of the Guardian and I have bought one copy of the Express, just for a change. The Guardian is of a similar vein to the Guardian in the U.K. It basically sits back with a gentle nonchalance occasionally making the point that perhaps something should be done to ease the suffering of those who aren’t located in the stately home. On the other hand, the Express has done nothing but appal me! It is less a newspaper, and more a scrapbook of articles that should have made the news several years ago. The lack of journalistic talent is displayed as subtly as the number of teenage pregnancies in Portsmouth. ‘Articles’ litter the first 7 to 8 pages telling you absolutely nothing about the current political discussions, instead they will discuss the facts behind Princess Diana’s death, and the growth of some trees that were planted several years ago. Flipping the paper over to see if anything notable has happened in the world of sports, once title struck me as breaking news...”Ferguson is not sorry to have let Beckham go”. Having moved to Real Madrid several years ago, and then ventured across the Atlantic to play for L.A. Galaxy, it seemed odd that this story was making its way into the paper. The only thought that I have that could possibly explain this strange way of reporting the news is that as the Express is a weekly paper they are catching up on all the stories that they may have missed when they actually happened. Having enjoyed reading this historical document, I turned to the puzzles section, on a page called ‘Kiddies Corner’. Here were some easy puzzles that may have been designed for kids, but I am not so sure. The spot the difference which is meant to have 5 differences only has 4, and yes I have thoroughly examined it, the crossword had some very bad numbers place in it, and spelling mistakes littered the clues. But most importantly, the opposite page has content that may not be suitable for children. A large picture of a ‘glamour girl’ is present, and so are some rather inappropriate jokes. These jokes were the sort of thing that you wouldn’t even see in The Sun. It was like the newspaper had managed to put down a discussion that you would from some vulgar builders, who happened to be sitting in Weatherspoons. Now all in all, this is not a crime, but to put it right next to the page that the children will be attempting to find the missing difference in the pictures...that is borderline child abuse.
Now with that rant out of the system, I think the majority of the ‘interesting’ events have been discussed. I’ll leave you with the thought that a mango that I had purchased was filled, rather pleasantly, with teeny-tiny maggots. Yummy.
Oh no, hang on....wait a second. I did have something else to tell you. I went over to the Professors house on Tuesday night and had dinner with some of his friends who live in Arusha. There was a local lady who moved to England with her husband (the husband was not present), her daughter Victoria, and a Dutch woman called Harriet. The evening was quite enjoyable, and it was good to have some of Charles’ cooking again. I’ve missed the bananas and beans, and the curries and spinach and all of the other yummy goodness. The Dutch woman was possibly in her mid-40s and she was incredibly irritating. She was under the impression that several local guys, who were around 25-30 years old, were completely taken with her. She is not an attractive lady, physically or personality-wise. I wonder whether she was exceptionally deluded and if she was in a perpetual state of drunkenness. She started to attempt to flirt with Kim, the Professor’s son. This was concerning. Victoria’s mother (I can’t for the life of me remember her name) and Victoria had been living in England for the past few years, possibly since Victoria was born, judging by her accent. And as conversation went on, the inevitable question of where I came from came up, I said Brighton, and they laughed. This concerned me, and my immediate thought was relating to the stereotype of many Brightonian dwellers. It turned out that they live in Eastbourne, so my paranoia was unnecessary. It was nice talking about England with people who know it, but conversation ended up drifting back to more African issues, such as, how to prepare grasshoppers in different ways. That was a less exciting tale to regale to you than I thought it would be.
On a final note, the Swahili word for bug or insect is mdudu. Remember it, it is likely to come up in the test.
Whilst I myself haven’t been doing much, I still have the occasional musing to ensure that you have something to read whilst you underperform at work. The past week has been uneventful, and relatively dull. In fact, I don’t think that I have any personal experiences of adventures and ramblings to amuse you with.
I have had to do a bit of work, which has been something of a challenge as intermittent electricity supplies have caused havoc with life in general! I have been expanding my previous report on the BDA which is all fun and games, and it’s a great way to express a degree of self importance, especially when it is considered that the recommendations that I am making will change the way that the agency operates. So as I have been plugging away at the report, fighting the monster that it a lack of electricity, I’ve decided to try and examine the immediate area of Mwenge through a sensory capacity.
I’ve been in Dar for about 5 or 6 weeks (I’m beginning to lose count) and it has got to the point where the heat, the colours, the attitudes of people, the smells, the sounds and just about every other factor that batters the senses has become a norm. I was sitting outside last night whilst waiting for the electricity to power my air conditioning unit and restore my apartment to a walk in freezer, and I was giving some thought to the fact that I should have been doing something other than sitting in on a Saturday night. Somewhere, lost in my bored musings, a big sigh must have come out of my body, followed by a standard deep inhalation. It struck me that then that most of what should still be a new experience seemed to be washing over me. I picked up the familiar fruity smell of the early evening and I was swamped with the thoughts of when I had first arrived to the apartment, and how, although it was only 3 or 4 weeks ago, I had been feeling then. And that started my time of reflection.
As it turns out, my progresses since arriving in Tanzania has been going at unsteady paces. It seems to cascade between intense periods of acclimatisation and engagement in new experiences, to the mind-numbing boredom of waiting for something to happen. I’ve been trying to motivate myself to get up and get to experiencing as much as I can, but self-motivation has not been one of my strengths. I’ve attributed my recent lack of effort to a few factors, and most of them are regarding my ‘boss’. I’ve still not seen my boss since I have left Bukoba. I was meant to go to Dodoma with him, but that didn’t emerge. He was meant to be in Dar to see me a couple of weeks ago, but instead he went to Bukoba. He had arranged to meet with the Professor and me on Friday; this didn’t happen for unknown reasons. And then hopes were put up that he would appear on Saturday, but needless to say, this also didn’t come about. I have not been paid since the end of December, and my visa is threatening to become invalid. I’m trying to work out how to tackle that particular issue, but I’ve not found an alternative solution to me leaving the country, and then coming back. Whilst I realise that business runs differently in Africa, and I realise that I am not the most significant issue that my boss has to deal with, I am feeling a touch undervalued. It doesn’t seem right to put someone on the backburner when they haven’t properly started the job. Once a meeting has been arranged (and actually conducted) I am sure I will feel more positive about the scenario.
Right, that is enough of my disjointed rambling, and seemingly abrupt trains of thought. Let me tell you about the lack of events this week.
As I have said, much of the week has involved doing some work on the report. However, during the moments of power outages and the evenings of seamless boredom, I have tried to get out of the apartment here and there. Possibly one of my favourite discoveries during these jaunts out and about has to be the monkeys! There is a troop of monkeys that live on UDSM campus. If I am not mistaken they are vervet monkeys. According to the Lonely Planet guide to Tanzania, the vervet monkeys are the species of primate that epitomises East Africa. They are a black faced, light brown backed, off-white fronted, long-tailed monkey that has some fantastic blue and red colouring that flares up when the monkey gets excited! As I have only seen one troop so far, and they are near to the northern gate of the campus, I would not hesitate to guess that there may be more hiding around! The campus of UDSM is huge. There are trees, and grassy areas, a road that meanders through the grounds, occasional houses (owned by the lecturers), large tower blocks which house the students who live on campus, and then there are the smaller buildings which are where the learning happens. The campus is probably about 5km squared. There are lots of little paths leading off from the main road, and each one looks like it could lead anywhere on campus! When I head up to UDSM I am usually in a dalla-dalla and I don’t tend to get out until I am up on the hill and right outside the computing building. I think that I will have to head off the beaten track and explore some of the mystical paths!
I go running a couple of times a week, and I normally run up to the university on the same route as the dalla-dalla, but this week I broke that habit and went running along the dirt road that is just off from the main campus road. It’s a flatter route, and easier to run but it uncovered a couple of small lakes that are part of the university campus. There are a variety of huge birds that nest around the lakes, and I have made it my mission to try and photograph them when I venture off the campus next. The dirt road eventually comes out to the main road, south of the apartments. I had planned to walk along the road and see what was along there, but now I am glad that I didn’t. There is nothing of interest when you head in that direction, nothing except a road and cars.
I think that these two excursions are actually a bit dull. I am sure you’ll be fascinated to know that I have been buying local papers to keep up with current affairs. By local papers I mean East African editions of the Guardian and I have bought one copy of the Express, just for a change. The Guardian is of a similar vein to the Guardian in the U.K. It basically sits back with a gentle nonchalance occasionally making the point that perhaps something should be done to ease the suffering of those who aren’t located in the stately home. On the other hand, the Express has done nothing but appal me! It is less a newspaper, and more a scrapbook of articles that should have made the news several years ago. The lack of journalistic talent is displayed as subtly as the number of teenage pregnancies in Portsmouth. ‘Articles’ litter the first 7 to 8 pages telling you absolutely nothing about the current political discussions, instead they will discuss the facts behind Princess Diana’s death, and the growth of some trees that were planted several years ago. Flipping the paper over to see if anything notable has happened in the world of sports, once title struck me as breaking news...”Ferguson is not sorry to have let Beckham go”. Having moved to Real Madrid several years ago, and then ventured across the Atlantic to play for L.A. Galaxy, it seemed odd that this story was making its way into the paper. The only thought that I have that could possibly explain this strange way of reporting the news is that as the Express is a weekly paper they are catching up on all the stories that they may have missed when they actually happened. Having enjoyed reading this historical document, I turned to the puzzles section, on a page called ‘Kiddies Corner’. Here were some easy puzzles that may have been designed for kids, but I am not so sure. The spot the difference which is meant to have 5 differences only has 4, and yes I have thoroughly examined it, the crossword had some very bad numbers place in it, and spelling mistakes littered the clues. But most importantly, the opposite page has content that may not be suitable for children. A large picture of a ‘glamour girl’ is present, and so are some rather inappropriate jokes. These jokes were the sort of thing that you wouldn’t even see in The Sun. It was like the newspaper had managed to put down a discussion that you would from some vulgar builders, who happened to be sitting in Weatherspoons. Now all in all, this is not a crime, but to put it right next to the page that the children will be attempting to find the missing difference in the pictures...that is borderline child abuse.
Now with that rant out of the system, I think the majority of the ‘interesting’ events have been discussed. I’ll leave you with the thought that a mango that I had purchased was filled, rather pleasantly, with teeny-tiny maggots. Yummy.
Oh no, hang on....wait a second. I did have something else to tell you. I went over to the Professors house on Tuesday night and had dinner with some of his friends who live in Arusha. There was a local lady who moved to England with her husband (the husband was not present), her daughter Victoria, and a Dutch woman called Harriet. The evening was quite enjoyable, and it was good to have some of Charles’ cooking again. I’ve missed the bananas and beans, and the curries and spinach and all of the other yummy goodness. The Dutch woman was possibly in her mid-40s and she was incredibly irritating. She was under the impression that several local guys, who were around 25-30 years old, were completely taken with her. She is not an attractive lady, physically or personality-wise. I wonder whether she was exceptionally deluded and if she was in a perpetual state of drunkenness. She started to attempt to flirt with Kim, the Professor’s son. This was concerning. Victoria’s mother (I can’t for the life of me remember her name) and Victoria had been living in England for the past few years, possibly since Victoria was born, judging by her accent. And as conversation went on, the inevitable question of where I came from came up, I said Brighton, and they laughed. This concerned me, and my immediate thought was relating to the stereotype of many Brightonian dwellers. It turned out that they live in Eastbourne, so my paranoia was unnecessary. It was nice talking about England with people who know it, but conversation ended up drifting back to more African issues, such as, how to prepare grasshoppers in different ways. That was a less exciting tale to regale to you than I thought it would be.
On a final note, the Swahili word for bug or insect is mdudu. Remember it, it is likely to come up in the test.
Sunday, 7 February 2010
Just a short one...
7th February 2010
Hi and hello.
As it has only been a few days, which in honesty have been relatively uneventful, I have decided I would fill you in on the interesting elements of the days gone by. Friday evening, at about 10:30-11:00pm, the sky got very angry. There was a whopping electrical storm and some immense rain. It was like a series of unfortunate events had occured in the heavens and Zeus and his friends were desparately upset, and so they had a bit of a cry...only they flung their tears to the earth with an intensity and anger that is unrivaled. It was amazing to listen to the thunder and the rain, and to get the eyes tested by the incredible flashes of lightning that illuminated an already lit room. It was the first significant rain that I have experienced in Dar. All was good until this one flash of light (and very soon after, clap of thunder) provided me with a split second of the kind of white that Daz can only give. And then nothing. The lightning had struck the building, or at least near by, and the electricity had been wiped out. Now as I was trying to read, I found the pitch blackness to be something of a hinderence. So I got up and went outside to the fusebox. Having waited for the next burst of lightning I quickly reset the trip switch and went back into my air conditioned room thinking that I probably shouldn't play with electrics during the storm.
A brief snooze later, and it was early morning, around abou 5:30ish. There was no gentle hum from the air con, so I went and investigated the fuse box again to find the switch tripped once more. I tried resetting it, but it was not working. It turned out that lightning had hit Dar with some cursed efficiency and had wiped out the electrics. Luckily I have mosquito gauze on my window frames now so I cracked open the windows and attempted to get the breeze flowing through the apartment. I had decided to spend the day working, and the Professor's brain child seemed to evolve something chronic in my mind. I now have plenty to do to keep me busy. It got to about 6 in the evening and there was still no electricity so I went off to buy some candles. I sat around for much of last night reading by candle light. I was feeling a bit anti-social so I decided against venturing out for the evening. At about half 9 I went to visit the fuse box to see if I could get some air conditioning going, and to provide some power to my fridge. Somehow I had electricity for a while. But then it tripped out again...only to be restored.
And so all was well this morning, until the electrics went again. I headed up to here (UDSM) so that I could come and tell you all of my life without electricity. I am sure you care. I am really just wasting time before going back to the heat trap, that is, my apartment. I may go for a swim if there is no power. I fancy a swim! Hmmm...swimmy swim swim.
Oh yes, must mention my journey home the other day. The dalla-dalla had 21 people in it, which isn't bad, but not my record, but I was sitting at the door, and that is possibly the worst seat to have! I got the privilage of sharing the front seat this morning. Three of us, on two seats, when there should be a central panel/arm rest...Tanzanian's know how to use space effectively...of course at the expense of comfort!
Toodles.
Hi and hello.
As it has only been a few days, which in honesty have been relatively uneventful, I have decided I would fill you in on the interesting elements of the days gone by. Friday evening, at about 10:30-11:00pm, the sky got very angry. There was a whopping electrical storm and some immense rain. It was like a series of unfortunate events had occured in the heavens and Zeus and his friends were desparately upset, and so they had a bit of a cry...only they flung their tears to the earth with an intensity and anger that is unrivaled. It was amazing to listen to the thunder and the rain, and to get the eyes tested by the incredible flashes of lightning that illuminated an already lit room. It was the first significant rain that I have experienced in Dar. All was good until this one flash of light (and very soon after, clap of thunder) provided me with a split second of the kind of white that Daz can only give. And then nothing. The lightning had struck the building, or at least near by, and the electricity had been wiped out. Now as I was trying to read, I found the pitch blackness to be something of a hinderence. So I got up and went outside to the fusebox. Having waited for the next burst of lightning I quickly reset the trip switch and went back into my air conditioned room thinking that I probably shouldn't play with electrics during the storm.
A brief snooze later, and it was early morning, around abou 5:30ish. There was no gentle hum from the air con, so I went and investigated the fuse box again to find the switch tripped once more. I tried resetting it, but it was not working. It turned out that lightning had hit Dar with some cursed efficiency and had wiped out the electrics. Luckily I have mosquito gauze on my window frames now so I cracked open the windows and attempted to get the breeze flowing through the apartment. I had decided to spend the day working, and the Professor's brain child seemed to evolve something chronic in my mind. I now have plenty to do to keep me busy. It got to about 6 in the evening and there was still no electricity so I went off to buy some candles. I sat around for much of last night reading by candle light. I was feeling a bit anti-social so I decided against venturing out for the evening. At about half 9 I went to visit the fuse box to see if I could get some air conditioning going, and to provide some power to my fridge. Somehow I had electricity for a while. But then it tripped out again...only to be restored.
And so all was well this morning, until the electrics went again. I headed up to here (UDSM) so that I could come and tell you all of my life without electricity. I am sure you care. I am really just wasting time before going back to the heat trap, that is, my apartment. I may go for a swim if there is no power. I fancy a swim! Hmmm...swimmy swim swim.
Oh yes, must mention my journey home the other day. The dalla-dalla had 21 people in it, which isn't bad, but not my record, but I was sitting at the door, and that is possibly the worst seat to have! I got the privilage of sharing the front seat this morning. Three of us, on two seats, when there should be a central panel/arm rest...Tanzanian's know how to use space effectively...of course at the expense of comfort!
Toodles.
Friday, 5 February 2010
A bit of culture...
5th February, 2010
Somehow it has been nearly a week since I last wrote anything on the Bloggy blog space. Much has happened in the past week, but it was not as expected. Let me start this tale for your enjoyment...
As I may have mentioned in the past couple of blogs, I was supposed to be heading to Dodoma with Kagasheki to see if how Tanzanian parliament operates. This trip did not materialise, I am yet to see and hear the sights and sounds of Dodoma. As it turns out, Kagasheki had a motion rejected, so I think he has run off with his tail between his legs a little bit. It was Sunday, the day I was meant to be leaving, at about 10 in the morning, about 2 hours before I was meant to be leaving, that I got a call from the Professor with this information. Since I have been in Dar, I have not actually heard from my boss. It’s a strange scenario.
The Professor himself had gone off on a jaunt to Nairobi for a couple of days, so I was free to do as I wanted. I took this opportunity to stretch my travellers’ legs a bit. I did some touristy things to pass the time, and this my friends is the tale of my roaming around Dar.
Having consulted the guidebook for advice for things to do, I spent most of the morning highlighting passages, and areas on the maps in the book so I would have an idea of what I’d like to be doing. Most of Monday morning was wasted looking through the book and using my pretty highlighter! In the afternoon I decided I would go to Mwenge Craft Market, and possibly to the Village Museum. They looked like they were located close to each other on the map in the book. As it turns out they aren’t. I was able to find the craft market as I had accidently stumbled upon that the other day, but I carried on past that to see if I could find the museum. It turned out that I couldn’t find it. Nevertheless the Craft Market provided me with lots of entertainment.
The market is a little square of tiny shops that are filled with various craft items, some of which are made onsite, right before your eyes. Most of the crafts are wooden sculptures of different things, ranging from chess sets to elephants, to outlines of the African continent. Some items are quite simplistic; some are carved with intricate details. Much of what is found in one shop is found in another, and it must be the case that prices are so competitive. It doesn’t make sense to have so many people selling the same products. Yet, having been into one shop, you are encouraged by the shop owners to go into another, and what could take a couple of minutes to walk around, eventually makes you spend the best part of an hour (and that is with avoidance of most shops) walking around and talking the shop owners. I snapped a couple of photos of people who were crafting away in the shops, and one of the owners has asked me to send him some of my photos. I didn’t spend any money at the market, mainly because I didn’t have very much with me at the time, but I’ll be going back to visit them again, because there are a few bits and bobs that I really liked the look of. I also would feel bad if I didn’t buy anything...the people are so friendly and welcoming, even if it is just to make a quick buck, it’s still nice! I had to explain to every shop owner that I spoke to that I live in Mwenge, and it’s not far for me to come back and make regular trips!
That evening I had a call from my mother, who told me that she and my father are coming over to see me at the end of March. I have still not told the boss that I will be spending time with them whilst they are here, but he hasn’t exactly made himself available to chat. They are coming over for a couple of weeks, during the Easter holidays, and I was asked to see if I could book them a hotel for a couple of nights. So that was my mission for the next couple of days...book a hotel.
As my explorations on Monday were only partially successful, I decided to set out and see some of the things nearer the city centre, starting with the National Museum. The National Museum takes the visitor on a historic journey of the political history of Tanzania/Tanganyika. Starting with the tribal ruling, the early explorers (e.g. Livingstone, Speke, Burton) then the German colonisation, then the British protectorate after World War One, and then to Independence, about 30-40 years later. The downstairs of the museum is primarily a photographic tour of the ages, and there is a number of cracking photos that go with the text. A couple of items are around, but most of the main artefact collection were either upstairs or in the other building. As you head upstairs there is a large airy room which houses the collection of fossils and stone tools, all relating to prehistoric man. The pinnacle item is the Australopithecus Boisei (or Zinjanthropos), which is a skull of an early human ancestor. It was found up near Arusha in the ‘70s by Mary Leaky (or so is claimed by the museum and most programmes featuring the skull, but in reality, a local Tanzanian found the skull and then told the Leakey’s about it). It is considered to be one of the most significant finds in anthropology related archaeology, and it is the main item in the museum. It would possibly be held comparable to the big-ass dinosaur in the main hall of the London Natural History Museum. A few other fossils of somewhat diminished significance are displayed, as are a small collection of small stone tools that were used over 1.7 million years ago. As you follow the room around there is a series of casts taken from various skull, but there is also a cast of some fossilised footprints. The footprints, which are also found near Arusha, are some 3.6 million years old, and they show the tracks of 3 early ancestors. The footprints have been preserved by a seemingly impossible combination of climatic circumstances and the presence of some freshly expelled volcanic ash. Nowadays the site is covered to preserve the footprints from the elements, but there are a number of casts that have been taken to show people in the worlds of museums. Across the courtyard of the museum there is a second building that houses a cultural and natural history section. The cultural room has a large collection of traditional Tanzanian items, which range from hand axes to spears, from baskets to traditional dresses, and other items such as musical instruments, and an example of a traditional house. The natural history collection has lots of coral and crustacean examples, it also has a large number of photographs of wild animals, all of which were taken by one photographer, and unfortunately I can’t remember his name. There are a series of stuffed animals, namely the ones that I saw running around Serengeti and Ngorongoro, so these seemed a bit tedious having seen their alive cousins. There are skulls of a dolphin and a manatee, and also a whole manatee skeleton, and a large model of one. I think they are pushing the conservation efforts on manatees as they have a tendency to be chopped up by boat propellers. Outside of the second building there is a small path that leads to some cars that were owned by Julius Nyerere (the first Prime Minister of The United Republic of Tanzania). There are a couple of beaten up Mercedes and also a couple of very nice Rolls Royce. The Rolls were far more impressive than the run of the mill Mercs.
The plan was to visit the Botanical Gardens whilst I was in the area, however, due to the fact that I am a fool, I completely forgot to bring my other memory card for the camera, and I had used up the one I had with me at the museum. This annoyed me greatly, but it also means that I have something that I can go and see one day when I have nothing to do. On the return journey in a taxi, the driver was talking about the Village Museum. We drove by the museum, which happened to be on the way back to the apartment, and I had a good idea of what I would be doing the following day.
So as Tuesday predictably turned to Wednesday, I ventured out in the afternoon, following a very lazy morning. I jumped in a Bajaj and gave directions to the driver on how to get to the Village Museum. My experience at the National Museum the day before had left me a bit cagey about visiting more museums. Whilst the content of the National Museum is good, I found it quite depressing to see how little investment has been used for the facility. I went to the Village Museum with the notion of not getting my hopes up. When I got to the Museum I was eventually admitted by a friendly clerk, and I chatted to an American guy who is a World Bank consultant with a Nigerian wife. There is a split path as you enter the museum grounds. The term grounds needs to be used as the museum is and outdoors museum. It holds 14 or so different traditional huts that are found in various regions of Tanzania. Each hut is accessible by the public, and you can go in and around the buildings. Some are made from clay that has baked hard, others from bamboo, and others from wood with thatched roofs. There is a couple of notice boards that explain a bit about the people who live in the particular hut, what they do to survive, how they build the hut, and other information that is relevant. It was fantastic to see the traditional huts, and it was brilliant noting how people from the particular region came down to Dar to have their region represented by museum. Some of the huts themselves had different rooms, and you could enter into a fairly light room, and find yourself feeling along the walls of the next room which is pitch black. In the background as you go around the Museum there is a drum being beaten by a local musician. I had just got to one of the last huts before a woman came up to me and asked me for some money to dance. In normal circumstances I would have found this a bit odd, but the guidebook had prepared me by saying something about traditional dances that are performed for a small fee. I sat down on the benches and five women came dancing out from behind a tree, whilst four people played a variety of drums and they all sang. It was brilliant to see and hear, and I wouldn’t hesitate to go to the museum again. It all seems very authentic and it’s an experience that you are unlikely to come across! There was a guy sitting at the Swahili house, who was crafting some clay sculptures. These things had incredible detail, and the guy was so talented. He wouldn’t let me take a photo of his work, but I will go back there with the parents and I will have to buy something, just because it is so amazing! Another guy was selling some paintings that he had done, and some of them were postcard sized so I ended up getting a couple of nice things which I’ll stick into a frame when I get back to England.
As Wednesday dipped its toe into Thursday, I wasted the morning thinking that I would see the Professor at some point. I had seen him the evening beforehand where he had told me about his jaunt to Nairobi. He told me that he’ll try getting the car from Kagasheki so I can start learning how to drive, and he gave me a couple of mangos and a pineapple. I was given a bit more work to do on the BDA, which is a relief because I am getting a bit worried about sitting around and having a long holiday in Tanzania and then having nothing to show on my CV at the end of it. As it happened, the Professor wasn’t around during Thursday day time, so I went to Picolo Beach for a swim and to book my parents into the hotel. Bakari, Ezra and Seif were all there to say hello to me, and I must say that I get treated very well by these people! There was nothing too exciting about Thursday, well except for the electricity tripping during the night.
This morning there was a power cut for a few hours so I went up to UDSM to use the internet and to do some research for the work that I am doing. Then I had a quick trip to the shop before heading back to the Uni which is where you find me now. I am not sure what the weekend has in store for me, but I am hoping that it’s going to involve something. I may even try to do some work on Saturday, mainly because I have wasted a while today writing this thing for the blog. I hope you appreciate it!
Toodles for the time being.
Oh yes, today I was in a dalla-dalla which had another 24 people in...two people had to stand. I think that has to be record breaking!
Somehow it has been nearly a week since I last wrote anything on the Bloggy blog space. Much has happened in the past week, but it was not as expected. Let me start this tale for your enjoyment...
As I may have mentioned in the past couple of blogs, I was supposed to be heading to Dodoma with Kagasheki to see if how Tanzanian parliament operates. This trip did not materialise, I am yet to see and hear the sights and sounds of Dodoma. As it turns out, Kagasheki had a motion rejected, so I think he has run off with his tail between his legs a little bit. It was Sunday, the day I was meant to be leaving, at about 10 in the morning, about 2 hours before I was meant to be leaving, that I got a call from the Professor with this information. Since I have been in Dar, I have not actually heard from my boss. It’s a strange scenario.
The Professor himself had gone off on a jaunt to Nairobi for a couple of days, so I was free to do as I wanted. I took this opportunity to stretch my travellers’ legs a bit. I did some touristy things to pass the time, and this my friends is the tale of my roaming around Dar.
Having consulted the guidebook for advice for things to do, I spent most of the morning highlighting passages, and areas on the maps in the book so I would have an idea of what I’d like to be doing. Most of Monday morning was wasted looking through the book and using my pretty highlighter! In the afternoon I decided I would go to Mwenge Craft Market, and possibly to the Village Museum. They looked like they were located close to each other on the map in the book. As it turns out they aren’t. I was able to find the craft market as I had accidently stumbled upon that the other day, but I carried on past that to see if I could find the museum. It turned out that I couldn’t find it. Nevertheless the Craft Market provided me with lots of entertainment.
The market is a little square of tiny shops that are filled with various craft items, some of which are made onsite, right before your eyes. Most of the crafts are wooden sculptures of different things, ranging from chess sets to elephants, to outlines of the African continent. Some items are quite simplistic; some are carved with intricate details. Much of what is found in one shop is found in another, and it must be the case that prices are so competitive. It doesn’t make sense to have so many people selling the same products. Yet, having been into one shop, you are encouraged by the shop owners to go into another, and what could take a couple of minutes to walk around, eventually makes you spend the best part of an hour (and that is with avoidance of most shops) walking around and talking the shop owners. I snapped a couple of photos of people who were crafting away in the shops, and one of the owners has asked me to send him some of my photos. I didn’t spend any money at the market, mainly because I didn’t have very much with me at the time, but I’ll be going back to visit them again, because there are a few bits and bobs that I really liked the look of. I also would feel bad if I didn’t buy anything...the people are so friendly and welcoming, even if it is just to make a quick buck, it’s still nice! I had to explain to every shop owner that I spoke to that I live in Mwenge, and it’s not far for me to come back and make regular trips!
That evening I had a call from my mother, who told me that she and my father are coming over to see me at the end of March. I have still not told the boss that I will be spending time with them whilst they are here, but he hasn’t exactly made himself available to chat. They are coming over for a couple of weeks, during the Easter holidays, and I was asked to see if I could book them a hotel for a couple of nights. So that was my mission for the next couple of days...book a hotel.
As my explorations on Monday were only partially successful, I decided to set out and see some of the things nearer the city centre, starting with the National Museum. The National Museum takes the visitor on a historic journey of the political history of Tanzania/Tanganyika. Starting with the tribal ruling, the early explorers (e.g. Livingstone, Speke, Burton) then the German colonisation, then the British protectorate after World War One, and then to Independence, about 30-40 years later. The downstairs of the museum is primarily a photographic tour of the ages, and there is a number of cracking photos that go with the text. A couple of items are around, but most of the main artefact collection were either upstairs or in the other building. As you head upstairs there is a large airy room which houses the collection of fossils and stone tools, all relating to prehistoric man. The pinnacle item is the Australopithecus Boisei (or Zinjanthropos), which is a skull of an early human ancestor. It was found up near Arusha in the ‘70s by Mary Leaky (or so is claimed by the museum and most programmes featuring the skull, but in reality, a local Tanzanian found the skull and then told the Leakey’s about it). It is considered to be one of the most significant finds in anthropology related archaeology, and it is the main item in the museum. It would possibly be held comparable to the big-ass dinosaur in the main hall of the London Natural History Museum. A few other fossils of somewhat diminished significance are displayed, as are a small collection of small stone tools that were used over 1.7 million years ago. As you follow the room around there is a series of casts taken from various skull, but there is also a cast of some fossilised footprints. The footprints, which are also found near Arusha, are some 3.6 million years old, and they show the tracks of 3 early ancestors. The footprints have been preserved by a seemingly impossible combination of climatic circumstances and the presence of some freshly expelled volcanic ash. Nowadays the site is covered to preserve the footprints from the elements, but there are a number of casts that have been taken to show people in the worlds of museums. Across the courtyard of the museum there is a second building that houses a cultural and natural history section. The cultural room has a large collection of traditional Tanzanian items, which range from hand axes to spears, from baskets to traditional dresses, and other items such as musical instruments, and an example of a traditional house. The natural history collection has lots of coral and crustacean examples, it also has a large number of photographs of wild animals, all of which were taken by one photographer, and unfortunately I can’t remember his name. There are a series of stuffed animals, namely the ones that I saw running around Serengeti and Ngorongoro, so these seemed a bit tedious having seen their alive cousins. There are skulls of a dolphin and a manatee, and also a whole manatee skeleton, and a large model of one. I think they are pushing the conservation efforts on manatees as they have a tendency to be chopped up by boat propellers. Outside of the second building there is a small path that leads to some cars that were owned by Julius Nyerere (the first Prime Minister of The United Republic of Tanzania). There are a couple of beaten up Mercedes and also a couple of very nice Rolls Royce. The Rolls were far more impressive than the run of the mill Mercs.
The plan was to visit the Botanical Gardens whilst I was in the area, however, due to the fact that I am a fool, I completely forgot to bring my other memory card for the camera, and I had used up the one I had with me at the museum. This annoyed me greatly, but it also means that I have something that I can go and see one day when I have nothing to do. On the return journey in a taxi, the driver was talking about the Village Museum. We drove by the museum, which happened to be on the way back to the apartment, and I had a good idea of what I would be doing the following day.
So as Tuesday predictably turned to Wednesday, I ventured out in the afternoon, following a very lazy morning. I jumped in a Bajaj and gave directions to the driver on how to get to the Village Museum. My experience at the National Museum the day before had left me a bit cagey about visiting more museums. Whilst the content of the National Museum is good, I found it quite depressing to see how little investment has been used for the facility. I went to the Village Museum with the notion of not getting my hopes up. When I got to the Museum I was eventually admitted by a friendly clerk, and I chatted to an American guy who is a World Bank consultant with a Nigerian wife. There is a split path as you enter the museum grounds. The term grounds needs to be used as the museum is and outdoors museum. It holds 14 or so different traditional huts that are found in various regions of Tanzania. Each hut is accessible by the public, and you can go in and around the buildings. Some are made from clay that has baked hard, others from bamboo, and others from wood with thatched roofs. There is a couple of notice boards that explain a bit about the people who live in the particular hut, what they do to survive, how they build the hut, and other information that is relevant. It was fantastic to see the traditional huts, and it was brilliant noting how people from the particular region came down to Dar to have their region represented by museum. Some of the huts themselves had different rooms, and you could enter into a fairly light room, and find yourself feeling along the walls of the next room which is pitch black. In the background as you go around the Museum there is a drum being beaten by a local musician. I had just got to one of the last huts before a woman came up to me and asked me for some money to dance. In normal circumstances I would have found this a bit odd, but the guidebook had prepared me by saying something about traditional dances that are performed for a small fee. I sat down on the benches and five women came dancing out from behind a tree, whilst four people played a variety of drums and they all sang. It was brilliant to see and hear, and I wouldn’t hesitate to go to the museum again. It all seems very authentic and it’s an experience that you are unlikely to come across! There was a guy sitting at the Swahili house, who was crafting some clay sculptures. These things had incredible detail, and the guy was so talented. He wouldn’t let me take a photo of his work, but I will go back there with the parents and I will have to buy something, just because it is so amazing! Another guy was selling some paintings that he had done, and some of them were postcard sized so I ended up getting a couple of nice things which I’ll stick into a frame when I get back to England.
As Wednesday dipped its toe into Thursday, I wasted the morning thinking that I would see the Professor at some point. I had seen him the evening beforehand where he had told me about his jaunt to Nairobi. He told me that he’ll try getting the car from Kagasheki so I can start learning how to drive, and he gave me a couple of mangos and a pineapple. I was given a bit more work to do on the BDA, which is a relief because I am getting a bit worried about sitting around and having a long holiday in Tanzania and then having nothing to show on my CV at the end of it. As it happened, the Professor wasn’t around during Thursday day time, so I went to Picolo Beach for a swim and to book my parents into the hotel. Bakari, Ezra and Seif were all there to say hello to me, and I must say that I get treated very well by these people! There was nothing too exciting about Thursday, well except for the electricity tripping during the night.
This morning there was a power cut for a few hours so I went up to UDSM to use the internet and to do some research for the work that I am doing. Then I had a quick trip to the shop before heading back to the Uni which is where you find me now. I am not sure what the weekend has in store for me, but I am hoping that it’s going to involve something. I may even try to do some work on Saturday, mainly because I have wasted a while today writing this thing for the blog. I hope you appreciate it!
Toodles for the time being.
Oh yes, today I was in a dalla-dalla which had another 24 people in...two people had to stand. I think that has to be record breaking!
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