St. Patrick's day in Tanzania.

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!