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.
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