Welcome to Tanzania

Jambo Mazungus. As you can see, my Swahili vocabulary has already more than doubled. Translation: Hello Whites (what the locals often say to us, not very PC, but fortunately the PC movement has not reached this country yet). Tomorrow will start the beginning of our official Swahili language training here in Mwanza, so expect some more Swahili jargon in future blogs. But I’m already getting ahead of myself, since our journey from Dar to Mwanza needs some transcription.

Well if you have been following the news regarding Tanzania back home you may have heard that there was a corruption scandal in the upper echelons of Tanzanian government. A story many African countries are finding to be annoyingly redundant. In any case, the Prime Minister tendered his resignation and provided some news fodder for the media, pubs, and dinner tables across the country. Our dinner conversation was no exception. That night, the Italian owner of our hostel was throwing a dinner party for members of some local NGO’s on the rooftop/terrace and the conversation soon turned over to the day’s proceedings. The group consisted of a couple from the Netherlands, a priest from Italy and a handful of other Italians, and an elderly man from the UK. The conversation was not heated – perhaps because there were no actual Tanzanians present – in fact, the tone ranged from good-natured joviality to some light cynicism. In short, each one in a different way seemed to suggest that such a scandal was not surprising, to some it seemed almost inevitable. What struck me most though was the disconnect most of these Europeans felt from a country that, to some of them, has become their home. “Here comes another Kenya,” suggested the Dutch man nonchalantly. “No, that will never happen here,” said the Italian priest. “Well, at least the Kenyan situation will improve Tanzania’s tourist industry” laughed our host. So far the priest has been right. Let’s hope it stays that way.

The following night was already our last in Dar and was spent at Margaret’s. She prepared us a traditional African meal of rice, chapattis, beans cooked in coconut milk, cabbage and carrots, and some mangos and bananas for desert. Now Margaret has a peculiar habit of making a noise to show she is not happy with something. It goes like this.

Driving down the road and someone is blocking traffic: “Aww, these drivers are just...Dzzzzzz”
Noticing the days humidity: “Oh this sun is just so hot. I always sweat...Dzzzzzz”
Talking about the recent turmoil in Kenya: “Yes, my home needs a lot of the blood of Christ. The people there are just...Dzzzzzz”

To me making the noise of a mosquito to articulate that which is (apparently) incommunicable is a quirky trait limited (at least in my experience) to Margaret. But I’m trying to expand it: “Vanessa, I like the chappatis...but honestly, the cabbage and carrots...Dzzzzzz.” “Romney dropped out of the race and its looking like a McCain victory...Dzzzz” Ok, maybe this won’t catch on, but I’m passing the torch on to you blog readers.

So where was I... oh yes, Margaret’s. As the dinner was being prepared she took us on to her rooftop balcony which overlooked her garden and the CRWRC offices and suddenly it got dark. Now the sun had already set for quite a while, but this darkness was the darkness of Algonquin Park at night – no electrical light. It is somewhat disconcerting to see an entire city (not to mention the capital city of a country) lose its power. This again brought up the current political situation since the corruption of the Prime Minister had been that he had siphoned the funds which were to go to stabilizing the countries electrical power into a separate account for him and his friends. “Well,” Margaret said as we ate dinner around a candle, “Welcome to Tanzania.”

The next morning we left for Mwanza around six in the morning. I was somewhat tired and completely cranky (I’ve never been nor will be one who gets up before the sun does) and when a lady at the airport asked to carry my bags to the line-up (a grand total of 20 yards) I (perhaps not-so-politely) refused. I can understand if my tone was lost in translation (and I honestly hope it was) but I didn’t think the message was. No means no means no. It’s universal right? Well she took our bags for us and stood in line and I looked at Vanessa and said, “Is she expecting money?” Well, turns out she was. As our bags proceeded through the check in and out the door and onto the plane, she approached us. Perhaps it was the early morning or the fact that deep down in our Dutch DNA we are wired to be cheap/frugal (poe-tay-toe, poe-taw-toe), but we persisted to resist as she persisted to persist. The game was on. It probably lasted less than two minutes, but for what felt like, at least two and a half minutes, I was locked in a battle. I’ll admit, there was a point – around the minute mark – where I almost caved in. I wondered, I’m refusing to give 30 000 shillings (the equivalent of three dollars). Do I really want to be this guy? But I held to my principles and she left, to both our dismays out the door where our luggage had gone. So Vanessa and I, weary from this tournament of willpowers, headed onto our plane without (or so we expected with good cause) our luggage.

The plane ride was a short one but we had two little Indian boys who decided to make it nice and long. The first boy was sick and proceeded to cry (and by cry I mean scream and gasp at the top of his lungs) for the first 30 minutes. When he finally stopped his brother (as if tag-teamed) decided that now it was time to turn around and bug the passengers behind him, which turned out to be us. First he played some hide and seek or peek-a-boo with Vanessa and started laughing. Somewhat `cute` I guess. Then he tried to imitate everything we were doing. Vanessa stuck out her tongue, he stuck out his tongue, Vanessa blinked, he blinked, Vanessa winked, he blinked (he couldn`t wink. Also somewhat `cute` I guess. Then, thinking this was perhaps an amusing way to pass the time, I thought...hmm I`ll join in. So I whistled a little tune, and he... well he couldn`t whistle, but he tried. And pinching his lips together, blowing as hard as he could, spit all into my face. But that`s not the end. Trying to save face, I wiped my face, hid my annoyance, stopped the whistle game and snapped my fingers. Maybe he could do that. Well he couldn`t. And instead of snapping he decided that he wanted to punch me. So he started swinging his little fists at my hands (oh, and I should mention that Vanessa is faking to sleep this whole time so she can remain safely out of this). Well it got ugly, I tried to ignore him and read some Steinbeck...which he swiped out of my hands every time I tried to take in a word. Alright `Stop`I finally said in as much annoyance as is polite on a plane and his mother, finally getting the gist that her son was a scorpion child, intervened and relieved me. I`d like to say that was the end of this boys exploits, but to put the exclamation point on this trip from Hades, the little boy decided to puke as the plane landed, but not only puke on the floor, he saved some for my shoes as well. Well that day was... Dzzzzz.

At the airport we were picked up by Steve and two of his three boys. The city of Mwanza has a much more provincial feel and is beautifully nestled in the granite mountains on the coast of Lake Victoria. Steve lives on an acre (or so) lot on one of the hillsides with a beautiful home and array of chickens, goats, and dogs. When we arrived at his place he informed us that today he was going to slaughter two roosters and eat one for dinner, but first we have to catch them. Now I`m thinking, this could be fun and maybe a good way to prove myself...break the ice, whatever. How hard can it be to catch a rooster? Plan A, corner the chicken along the walls and pick up the huddled chicken. No sooner are we within five yards of the surrounded rooster than he makes a bolt for the gap between me and Max (an English teacher at the local school from the UK). As I pondered if now was my chance to make a dive for the chickens legs and risk becoming the hero or looking like an idiot, the chicken was already well past me and onto another part of the lawn. We made eight or nine valiant efforts at Plan A, but when the chicken finally decided not to run past all of us, it then decided to fly up and over the wall, not without taking a few victory struts and clucks at us below. I`ll be honest, this chicken was putting up a huge fight, but with what was at steak, I hardly blame him. Plan B involved each of us having long pieces of bamboo in order to make our human wall a little more impenetrable. Steve also gave us licence to kill since that was the fate of the chicken anyways. With this new strategy we walked around the wall and onto the street where the chicken (who by now must be on the verge of a heart attack) sat pecking away at the roadside grass. Well as soon as this chicken caught sight of us it made for the protection of a large thistle hedge surrounding one of the neighbours walls. Now I`m not an animal expert, but just based on the size of the chicken`s head, his brain cannot be that large. Yet believe it or not, this chicken refused to cluck as it lay hidden in the thistles while we poked and jabbed through it with our bamboo shoots. After almost thirty minutes of this, Steve decided to call it a day, but with one last jab by Max, the chicken jumped from the thistles and made a dash for the roadside and started to head up the mountain. The hunt was on. By now a large crowd of the locals were gathering on the surrounding hillsides to watch three crazy muzungus chasing one rooster around and I realized we must have looked quite ridiculous. Nevertheless, the chicken, who probably thought he was miles away from home, deciding to bid us farewell and jump the closest wall he could find and be forever rid of us. Unfortunately for the chicken (fortunately for us), we had only been running around the wall of Steve`s property and the chicken had jumped right back into the yard. Now to make a long story shorter, Steve`s wife, while we had given up for the moment and were taking a drink, went out to the yard and managed to corner the rooster in a clump of banana trees and catch it. Of course, we had tired it out. That night the chicken we ate was probably the freshest chicken I will ever eat. I can just see Steve hanging it up on the tree upside down, cutting off the head, and as the blood dripped onto the earth and over the closed eyes of the severed chicken head (so at peace now) Steve looked up at Vanessa and I and said, ``Welcome to Tanzania``

That afternoon we went for a drive of the surrounding hillside. Up and down the mountains with breathtaking views of Lake Victoria and her many islands, we saw old German fortresses, Sikh and Buddhist temples, Islamic Mosques and Catholic churches. We saw garbage dumps being picked through by large white storks, and an array of Kites and Mice bird crossing our paths. At the top of one hill we decided to get out of the jeep and get some air, but were confronted by a little boy of eight or nine, who had been running after the jeep. The boy asked for money from Steve, than Vanessa, than myself. Steve offered him 2000 shillings, but he said he needed 5000. He was wearing trackpants that were about 3 inches too short and an old and dirty osh kosh shirt I couldn`t help but wonder if it had not been a product of some red cross donations years ago since it was also quite small. There was obviously more than money on this boys mind, in fact, he looked downright scared. His pleas for money soon became nervous sobs and he sniffed and cried and jumped onto his heels, almost shaking with the urgency for money. Steve tried to console the boy, but finally told us to get back in the car and we headed home. As we drove away Steve told us that the boy was sent there every day by his parents to beg. They did not send him to school, but forced him to bring home a certain amount every day or he gets beaten. Most likely, even with the amount he will get beaten. And I`ll admit it broke my heart that we had driven away without giving him the 5000 shillings. That is five dollars. Most of us work less than 30 minutes for that at home. That was the first time I`ve ever encountered anything like that, and I`m sure in the next few months it won`t be the last. Welcome to Tanzania.