I can hear the orphanage's goats bleating outside the open door as I sit in front of the computer. I am not goofing off by writing this post, I am waiting for the latest update of the anti-virus software to finish loading. The sound of the goats reminds me that Tanzania is known as being one of the most bio-diverse countries in Africa. In particular, the guide books speak about incredibly diverse populations of birds and plants.
I don't know about plants, and the only birds I have seen around the orphanage are crows, purple grenadiers, and the scrawny chickens that will eventually end up on the supper table, but I can state with certainty that there are a lot of bugs around here. I have seen a millipede that had to be at least 8 inches long, a grasshopper that was the size of my thumb, and wasps and bees that make their counterparts back home look like dwarfs in comparison. Some nights, we are visited by a moth that is larger than the bats that pick off insects that hover around the porch light. I have seen incredibly beautiful and strange insects like the green creature that looked more like a space alien than a terrestrial animal and incredibly ugly beetles scurrying on the ground. Much to my regret, I have become intimately acquainted with bedbugs and other biting insects that have decided I am the main item on the daily smorgasbord. (I hope the goats appreciate how I am diverting the nasty little buggers from biting them.)
My favourite animals, however, are the skinks and geckos that live in and around the big house here at the orphanage. The skinks live outside the house and patrol the walls and grounds in search of insects to eat. They generally run away when you approach, but if you are patient they sometimes come close to you. The geckos, in contrast, live inside the house. They generally only come out at night, but once in a while they go hunting during the day.
Geckos were involved in a rather unexpected sight the other night at dinner time. We were just finishing supper when I saw the tiniest gecko I have ever seen. It could not have been more than an inch-and-a-half long and, judging by the tentative way it was making its way down the wall, it was clearly not very old. I had just pointed it out to the twins who are volunteering here with me when a larger gecko appeared on the wall that was perpendicular to the youngster. Blame it on Disney, but we assumed that it was the mother gecko coming to shepherd its baby back to the nest. Instead, the bigger gecko suddenly attacked as soon as it noticed the baby. I swear I heard the baby gecko cry out in fright as it tried to run down the wall to evade its attacker. The chase continued down the wall, onto the floor, and behind a cabinet, so I was spared what I imagine was a bloody climax to the encounter. It was a a fitting reminder that even on the walls of a residence, life can be a jungle over here.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Public Transit, Tanzania Style
Having lived in Vancouver and Toronto for most of the past 23 years, I have become accustomed to taking buses, subways, and light rail public transit. Although there are sometimes service delays or periods of waiting between connections, one can usually get where he needs to go with relative ease.
Dar Es Salaam is another world entirely. There are no subway systems. There is no Skytrain LRT. There are not even city buses. There are, however, dala dalas. These converted vans are the workhorses of the public transportation, such as it exists. All appear to be privately owned; to the best of my knowledge, there is no government-run urban transportation system.
I have mentioned dala dalas several times, but I have never really described them in all their glory. As is the case with most vehicles in Tanzania, dala dalas are inevitably of Japanese make, usually Toyota or Isuzu. As is often the case with larger touring buses and commercial trucks, dala dala owners frequently give their vehicles names that are proudly displayed on the windshield. My all-time favourite name for a dala dala is "Beware of Dog", a name whose significance is lost on me.
Passengers enter and leave the dala dala through a sliding door on the side, although in some cases (i.e. at crowded dala dala stations), limber young men enter through open windows in order to get a seat. Dala dalas are fitted with three full rows of seats capable of holding 4 to 5 people each to the rear of the sliding door as well as one 2-person seat adjacent to the door. Sometimes as many as 3 passengers are crammed into the front seat next to the driver. That, of course, leaves enough room for up to a dozen standing passengers. When the dala dala is full, the result can only be compared to the infamous vans of the Fraser Valley which transported up to 20 berry pickers at a time.
Most dala dalas have had handles installed on the interior walls so that standing passengers have something to grasp when the road gets bumpy, as it so often does. Unfortunately, the handles are often broken, so many standing passengers steady themselves by holding onto edging on the walls or by bracing themselves on one of the seats. When the dala dala is really packed, there is little need to brace oneself at all because people are so jammed in that you couldn't fall even if you wanted to.
Dala dalas are not a bad form of transportation if you are lucky enough to get a seat, and that can be a difficult feat to accomplish. At busy dala dala stations like Mwenge, a flood of people attempt to board the van to claim a seat even as the passengers are departing. It is hard to describe the flow of people getting on and off of the vehicle except to say they are two short, powerful floods of frenzied people that collide at the door of the vehicle. Think of it as a rugby scrum held in a van and you'll have a pretty good idea what I am talking about.
It would seem to make sense for departing passengers to be allowed to get off before new passengers get on, but that is not how it works. Given the obvious desirability of getting a seat rather than standing, passengers tend to push themselves forward with little regard for manners. Elderly people, parents with children, and the handicapped are left to fend for themselves, both entering and exiting the vehicle. I once saw a young mother with an infant swept towards the back of the dala dala by the incoming flood of passengers. She was only able to squeeze her way through the mob when people realized that if she got off, they just might be able to get on.
I used to try to use my size to block other passengers so that elders and mothers could get on, but having been slammed against the van by the pressure of the mob, I now attempt to navigate myself onto the dala dala in time to get one of the precious seats. Sometimes, the local passengers are kind and they hold a seat open for me, even though my broad shoulders mean that I take up space that two Tanzanians could share. I am not sure that it is a reflection of the hospitality that Tanzanians always seem to display or whether it is a pragmatic assessment that one mzungo sitting means room for three locals standing.
Sometimes, however, I am forced to stand and this is truly an unforgettable experience. The first time I took the dala dala from the orphanage to Dar was at 5:30 in the morning. Since it was the first dala dala of the day, it was especially packed and I was forced to stand on one foot since there was no space on the floor for me to place the other foot. It was hot and cramped, and I felt as if I was going to have an anxiety attack because it felt so claustrophobic. I have since learned to plant both feet on the floor and to use my feet to move other people's feet.
As I mentioned in another post, standing on a moving dala dala is rather like playing a standing game of Twister. Tanzanian roads are sometimes paved, but often they are dirt roads that have been ravaged by deep potholes caused by the rains. Standing passengers feel each bump as the dala dala hits it. Bodies lurch against each other, and faces are pressed into fellow passengers' backs, shoulders, or armpits. Even sitting passengers are not immune, since standing passengers often wind up falling into them after a particularly nasty bump. That is how I have become far more familiar with the fleshy attributes of Tanzanian derrieres than I would otherwise have hoped to become.
As you may well imagine, there are no seat belts on the dala dala. (In fact, I have only been in one vehicle that had seatbelts in the entire four weeks I have been in Tanzania.) I imagine that an accident would result in a number of injuries. However, when your options are to take a dala dala to the city for less than TSH 1,000 or take a taxi for TSH 75,000, there is really no choice but to get on board the dala dala and join the Muslim passengers in saying, "I will arrive safely, inshallah" (if Allah wills it).
Dar Es Salaam is another world entirely. There are no subway systems. There is no Skytrain LRT. There are not even city buses. There are, however, dala dalas. These converted vans are the workhorses of the public transportation, such as it exists. All appear to be privately owned; to the best of my knowledge, there is no government-run urban transportation system.
I have mentioned dala dalas several times, but I have never really described them in all their glory. As is the case with most vehicles in Tanzania, dala dalas are inevitably of Japanese make, usually Toyota or Isuzu. As is often the case with larger touring buses and commercial trucks, dala dala owners frequently give their vehicles names that are proudly displayed on the windshield. My all-time favourite name for a dala dala is "Beware of Dog", a name whose significance is lost on me.
Passengers enter and leave the dala dala through a sliding door on the side, although in some cases (i.e. at crowded dala dala stations), limber young men enter through open windows in order to get a seat. Dala dalas are fitted with three full rows of seats capable of holding 4 to 5 people each to the rear of the sliding door as well as one 2-person seat adjacent to the door. Sometimes as many as 3 passengers are crammed into the front seat next to the driver. That, of course, leaves enough room for up to a dozen standing passengers. When the dala dala is full, the result can only be compared to the infamous vans of the Fraser Valley which transported up to 20 berry pickers at a time.
Most dala dalas have had handles installed on the interior walls so that standing passengers have something to grasp when the road gets bumpy, as it so often does. Unfortunately, the handles are often broken, so many standing passengers steady themselves by holding onto edging on the walls or by bracing themselves on one of the seats. When the dala dala is really packed, there is little need to brace oneself at all because people are so jammed in that you couldn't fall even if you wanted to.
Dala dalas are not a bad form of transportation if you are lucky enough to get a seat, and that can be a difficult feat to accomplish. At busy dala dala stations like Mwenge, a flood of people attempt to board the van to claim a seat even as the passengers are departing. It is hard to describe the flow of people getting on and off of the vehicle except to say they are two short, powerful floods of frenzied people that collide at the door of the vehicle. Think of it as a rugby scrum held in a van and you'll have a pretty good idea what I am talking about.
It would seem to make sense for departing passengers to be allowed to get off before new passengers get on, but that is not how it works. Given the obvious desirability of getting a seat rather than standing, passengers tend to push themselves forward with little regard for manners. Elderly people, parents with children, and the handicapped are left to fend for themselves, both entering and exiting the vehicle. I once saw a young mother with an infant swept towards the back of the dala dala by the incoming flood of passengers. She was only able to squeeze her way through the mob when people realized that if she got off, they just might be able to get on.
I used to try to use my size to block other passengers so that elders and mothers could get on, but having been slammed against the van by the pressure of the mob, I now attempt to navigate myself onto the dala dala in time to get one of the precious seats. Sometimes, the local passengers are kind and they hold a seat open for me, even though my broad shoulders mean that I take up space that two Tanzanians could share. I am not sure that it is a reflection of the hospitality that Tanzanians always seem to display or whether it is a pragmatic assessment that one mzungo sitting means room for three locals standing.
Sometimes, however, I am forced to stand and this is truly an unforgettable experience. The first time I took the dala dala from the orphanage to Dar was at 5:30 in the morning. Since it was the first dala dala of the day, it was especially packed and I was forced to stand on one foot since there was no space on the floor for me to place the other foot. It was hot and cramped, and I felt as if I was going to have an anxiety attack because it felt so claustrophobic. I have since learned to plant both feet on the floor and to use my feet to move other people's feet.
As I mentioned in another post, standing on a moving dala dala is rather like playing a standing game of Twister. Tanzanian roads are sometimes paved, but often they are dirt roads that have been ravaged by deep potholes caused by the rains. Standing passengers feel each bump as the dala dala hits it. Bodies lurch against each other, and faces are pressed into fellow passengers' backs, shoulders, or armpits. Even sitting passengers are not immune, since standing passengers often wind up falling into them after a particularly nasty bump. That is how I have become far more familiar with the fleshy attributes of Tanzanian derrieres than I would otherwise have hoped to become.
As you may well imagine, there are no seat belts on the dala dala. (In fact, I have only been in one vehicle that had seatbelts in the entire four weeks I have been in Tanzania.) I imagine that an accident would result in a number of injuries. However, when your options are to take a dala dala to the city for less than TSH 1,000 or take a taxi for TSH 75,000, there is really no choice but to get on board the dala dala and join the Muslim passengers in saying, "I will arrive safely, inshallah" (if Allah wills it).
Friday, June 08, 2007
A Good Traveller
A good traveller has no fixed plan and is not intent on arriving. Lao Tzu
I am not sure if Lao Tzu is correct about travellers, but I do know that his comment applies to volunteers in Tanzania. Today I found myself in the awkward position of being the fifth wheel on a tricycle. It is hard to be believe that an orphanage that lacks practically everything would have a surplus of teaching staff, but that was the case. With one full-time teacher and four volunteers to be split between less than 60 girls, it was apparent that we had too many people in the classrooms. Bearing another ancient bit of wisdom in mind -- "When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping" -- I decided to head into Dar Es Salaam to see if I could find some books to augment the rather meagre library.
This was to be my first solo trip from the orphanage into the city, and for the most part it went well. It took me three different dala dalas and two-and-a-half hours to travel the 30 kilometres from the orphanage to downtown Dar, but I wasn't doing anything of value anyways, so the waiting and gridlock did not bother me. When I arrived downtown I was able to post a handful of post cards that had been written out, addressed, and stamped a week ago. That critical bit of business out of the way, I had an entire day to myself.
I decided to see the National Museum on Samora Avenue before I did any of the shopping tasks. It rather reminded me of the local museums that one visits in North America, rather than the huge edutainment mega-complexes that pass themselves off as national or provincial museums in Canada, but it made a valiant attempt to address the sometimes complicated history of this beautiful country.
After the museum, I began my foray to find books for the girls. I went to no less than four book stores to come up with a good (albeit tiny) start to to a decent school library. For the younger readers, I bought a variety of books for various reading levels including some abridged versions of classic novels such as A Tale of Two Cities, Tom Sawyer, and Alice in Wonderland, along with locally published books of stories. For the older girls, I bought a volume of East African poetry, as well as novels by African authors such as Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe.
The business part of the trip completed, I proceeded to find the downtown ice cream parlour, where I had a delicious "Hawaiin Delight" concoction of vanilla and chocolate ice cream, fresh oranges and pineapple, and passion fruit juice. It was the first Western food I have had since I got here, and I couldn't have been happier. After lunch I went to the local version of the supermarket to pick up cookies for the three full-time staff members and chili sauce for me and the other volunteers.
The ride home was another exercise in enduring uncomfortable positions while on public transportation, this time livened up by a pick pocket. But like the locals say, Hakuna Matata. When the rest of the day was productive, who is going to worry too much over the one dark cloud in the sky?
I am not sure if Lao Tzu is correct about travellers, but I do know that his comment applies to volunteers in Tanzania. Today I found myself in the awkward position of being the fifth wheel on a tricycle. It is hard to be believe that an orphanage that lacks practically everything would have a surplus of teaching staff, but that was the case. With one full-time teacher and four volunteers to be split between less than 60 girls, it was apparent that we had too many people in the classrooms. Bearing another ancient bit of wisdom in mind -- "When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping" -- I decided to head into Dar Es Salaam to see if I could find some books to augment the rather meagre library.
This was to be my first solo trip from the orphanage into the city, and for the most part it went well. It took me three different dala dalas and two-and-a-half hours to travel the 30 kilometres from the orphanage to downtown Dar, but I wasn't doing anything of value anyways, so the waiting and gridlock did not bother me. When I arrived downtown I was able to post a handful of post cards that had been written out, addressed, and stamped a week ago. That critical bit of business out of the way, I had an entire day to myself.
I decided to see the National Museum on Samora Avenue before I did any of the shopping tasks. It rather reminded me of the local museums that one visits in North America, rather than the huge edutainment mega-complexes that pass themselves off as national or provincial museums in Canada, but it made a valiant attempt to address the sometimes complicated history of this beautiful country.
After the museum, I began my foray to find books for the girls. I went to no less than four book stores to come up with a good (albeit tiny) start to to a decent school library. For the younger readers, I bought a variety of books for various reading levels including some abridged versions of classic novels such as A Tale of Two Cities, Tom Sawyer, and Alice in Wonderland, along with locally published books of stories. For the older girls, I bought a volume of East African poetry, as well as novels by African authors such as Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe.
The business part of the trip completed, I proceeded to find the downtown ice cream parlour, where I had a delicious "Hawaiin Delight" concoction of vanilla and chocolate ice cream, fresh oranges and pineapple, and passion fruit juice. It was the first Western food I have had since I got here, and I couldn't have been happier. After lunch I went to the local version of the supermarket to pick up cookies for the three full-time staff members and chili sauce for me and the other volunteers.
The ride home was another exercise in enduring uncomfortable positions while on public transportation, this time livened up by a pick pocket. But like the locals say, Hakuna Matata. When the rest of the day was productive, who is going to worry too much over the one dark cloud in the sky?
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Waiting for a Train
I wonder if I'll end up like Bernie in his dream,
A displaced person in some foreign border town
Waiting for a train, part hope, part myth
While the station changes hands.
Bruce Cockburn
How I Spent My Fall Vacation
I can say without a doubt that the verb that best describes my three-and-a-half weeks in Tanzania is not "to thirst" or "to hunger". It is not "to work" or even "to sing". It is not even "to perspire", although that is a close second. No, the dominant verb in my life at the moment is "to wait".
I wait for the dala dala to arrive. Once I am on it, I wait for that standing, sweaty version of public transit Twister to end, hoping against hope that the circulation returns to hands and feet. I wait in line at the currency exchange house when I wish to cash in traveller's cheques, and I wait even longer while the clerk processes them. Sometimes, I wait for the rains to come. Most days, I wait for the students to come up with questions that I can help them with. Rain or shine, weekday or weekend, I wait.
This is a new experience for me, and I must confess that I am not always comfortable waiting. I suppose that is natural since I am the guy who used to work 14 hour days and not take breaks. Sometimes I really enjoy my waiting time because it gives me a chance to think about things I would otherwise not think about. Other times, I feel that this is what prison must be like, although without the gang fights and sodomy to liven things up. Most of the time, though, I just sit and wait like Bernie in his dream.
A displaced person in some foreign border town
Waiting for a train, part hope, part myth
While the station changes hands.
Bruce Cockburn
How I Spent My Fall Vacation
I can say without a doubt that the verb that best describes my three-and-a-half weeks in Tanzania is not "to thirst" or "to hunger". It is not "to work" or even "to sing". It is not even "to perspire", although that is a close second. No, the dominant verb in my life at the moment is "to wait".
I wait for the dala dala to arrive. Once I am on it, I wait for that standing, sweaty version of public transit Twister to end, hoping against hope that the circulation returns to hands and feet. I wait in line at the currency exchange house when I wish to cash in traveller's cheques, and I wait even longer while the clerk processes them. Sometimes, I wait for the rains to come. Most days, I wait for the students to come up with questions that I can help them with. Rain or shine, weekday or weekend, I wait.
This is a new experience for me, and I must confess that I am not always comfortable waiting. I suppose that is natural since I am the guy who used to work 14 hour days and not take breaks. Sometimes I really enjoy my waiting time because it gives me a chance to think about things I would otherwise not think about. Other times, I feel that this is what prison must be like, although without the gang fights and sodomy to liven things up. Most of the time, though, I just sit and wait like Bernie in his dream.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
The First Condition
"The first condition of understanding a foreign country is to smell it." Rudyard Kipling
I am usually the last to agree with Kipling's take on anything, but in this case I think he may have a point. I had a South Asian friend who always used to say that he knew he was back home when he got off the plane and was hit with the wall of smells that is India.
Tanzania has its own unique collection of smells. In Dar Es Salaam, the air is filled with a combination of diesel, gasoline, and charcoal from the cooking fires of the street food vendors. Out here in the country, gasoline and diesel are replaced with the smells of earth and plants and, on occasion, goats. Everywhere you go you are likely to recognize a slight undersmell of perspiration, unless it is so cool that nobody sweats.
Even church smells slightly different. I went to Mass with the orphans today and I experienced a not unpleasant mix of perfume, perspiration, and incense.
I am usually the last to agree with Kipling's take on anything, but in this case I think he may have a point. I had a South Asian friend who always used to say that he knew he was back home when he got off the plane and was hit with the wall of smells that is India.
Tanzania has its own unique collection of smells. In Dar Es Salaam, the air is filled with a combination of diesel, gasoline, and charcoal from the cooking fires of the street food vendors. Out here in the country, gasoline and diesel are replaced with the smells of earth and plants and, on occasion, goats. Everywhere you go you are likely to recognize a slight undersmell of perspiration, unless it is so cool that nobody sweats.
Even church smells slightly different. I went to Mass with the orphans today and I experienced a not unpleasant mix of perfume, perspiration, and incense.
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