Still up to stuff!

Just to keep this blog somewhat alive, I should tell you what I'm up to these days. Apart from work, here in Ottawa, I've just finished taking my TESOL certification course to teach English as a second language. The Ottawa International Chamber Music Festival (Chamberfest) is in full swing here, and I've been volunteering at and attending many concerts, including Trio Alla Grande, Les Voix Baroque, Constantinople Ensemble, Fredrica von Stade, Ensemble Caprice, Ludis Modalis, the Tokyo String Quartet, and lectures by musicologist Harry Halbriech, among others. It's amazing to have such an intimate festival with so many huge names of classical music, especially as a volunteer - I find myself having casual conversations with Stewart Goodyear, Roman Borys, Jessie Parker and more! Once the festival ends and Harry gets back from England (oh yeah, did I mention my brother Harry is in England with scouts right now?) on August 8th we'll be hitting the road to the East Coast to see the Atlantic Ocean and our friends there. Mom and Dad'll be leaving me there, on PEI, for a CWY reunion with as many of the participants from our exchange as we can rally, then I'll be coming back to Ottawa with Edith and Andrea. A day or two later, on September 1st, I'll be hoping on a plane to Victoria, BC, to get ready for college at Camosun the following week! Phew!

Missive #10: Safari njema!

April 4th, 2010

Mambo!

Having finished our last EAD, we worked through our last full week in Chamazi. Poor Deborah, sick with typhoid, stayed at home and I worked mostly alone, or with Edith who had finished her work in the office. We actually completed all of the goals set for us: we computerized all of the work camp volunteer evaluation forms, catalogued and shelved all of the library books, edited all of the documents, and spent the last few days doing miscellaneous jobs such as sorting extra books, cleaning, and helping the tree-planters dig holes. At the end of the week, we had our de-briefing which involved reflecting on our experiences, discerning what we had learned and how we had advanced, considering ways in which to continue to make a difference to issues that concern us, evaluating the program and organizations, and preparing to bid farewell to the people with whom we had become so connected.
Sunday was Colin's birthday, and we went to the beach with the Tanzanian participants from the Chamazi/Cranbrook exchange which had been held at the same time as our program only in opposite countries. On the beach, we presented Colin with his cake and we went through the ceremony of feeding each person a piece. Then we hit the water and swam for the last time in the beautiful waters of the Indian Ocean.
The next day was our last in Tanzania. We spent the day preparing for our huge farewell party which was held under the trees and stars with music and a huge delicious feast prepared by Dina and her army of cooks who had toiled all day long. All of our host families, the Cranbrook CWY team, another work camp that happened to be in residence consisting of Japanese, Greek and Tanzanian volunteers, and our entire team attended. Our team, following up on an idea proposed by Sarah, all had clothes tailored in a matching kitenge pattern, which surprised everyone. “We're like zebras!” Colin and I said together and doubled over laughing. It is said that zebras, when in a herd with their identical coats, are safe from predators because they cannot be singled out. After the delicious dinner, MJ and Sarah said a few (sometimes embarassing) things about each member of the group, then Julie, Hoyce and Joel called us up individually to present us with certificates for having completed the six-month volunteer exchange. Finally we Canadians, the ones who would be leaving the next morning, were called up in a row and all of our UVIKIUTA friends came and gave us a last hug and handshake. By the time our own counterparts arrived at the end of the line many of us, and many of them, had torrents of tears flowing down our faces. We took our final group pictures, then set to work cleaning up. By the time the Everest of dishes had been washed, we'd caught a ride back to Magole, I'd finished my last-minute packing, exchanged parting gifts and farewells with Jacob, Mary and Anna, and got to bed, it was after midnight.
Jackson and I slept for about two hours before getting up again in the pre-dawn darkness to carry my things over to Sean and Suzan's place to wait for our bus. It soon arrived and we picked up the whole team to go to the Julius Nyerere International Airport. We lined up together, but we were on our way through security and had to bid our final goodbyes - “safari njema, karibuni tenaa” (bon voyage, welcome again) - all too soon. After we Canadians had checked our baggage, we gathered together and were touched to see that our counterparts were still clustered outside of one of the big windows to wave goodbye to us as we headed up to our flight. As we waited at our gate, feeling slightly empty inside, a rain storm passed overhead unleashing a downpour which set the roof leaking in a couple of places. Our flight arrived on time, we boarded, and Africa was soon becoming smaller far below us. Despite the brief rains, it was a cloudless day across most of the continent, and we flew over Zanzibar in the Indian Ocean, then Kilimanjaro, then forest which blended into farmland into barren oasis-dotted desert into the unblemished sea of sand that stretched to the indiscernable horizons, the Sahara. After a long time of marvelling at the endless desert and wondering how a human could survive a passage across the surface of it, I read for awhile and watched “Angels and Demons” so that I missed my view of the snow-capped Atlas Mountains, but excitedly watched the shores of Africa fall below and behind us as we flew out over the Mediterranean, over what had once been Carthage. To my disappointment, Italy was shrouded with clouds, but they broke just after the Alps and I had a fairly clear view of Austria and France. We flew over Calais and the English Channel, of which I had heard stories of being crowded with shipping, but had never realized to what extent until I saw it then, even from the air. England was blanketed with cloud which we penetrated, and I saw the land below in full detail, including an undeniable castle, before we landed in Heathrow.
We hurried through Heathrow to our next flight to Toronto, and soon we were on our way home. Having felt wide awake for the duration of the first flight, the fatigue suddenly hit when I sat down on the next. Despite that, I couldn't sleep. We landed and set off to customs and baggage claim, fooling around on the conveyor belts along the way. Our baggage arrived safely, to our relief, although Sally's was torn. A lady from CWY greeted us and booked us taxis to our hotel. After having become used to riding daladalas about the same size as our mini-van taxi with the entire group in one for the equivelent of less than 25c each, I was kind of sickened that we could only have three people in one van for which it cost over $70 to get downtown. One of the first things that struck Scott, Edith and I, who were riding together, was how bright the streets were: all of the streetlights, screens, headlights, signs, and storefronts, even those which were not open. Having become used to the brilliant moon of Tanzania which makes street-lights obsolete, to markets such as Mbagala which are lit by candles and lamps at night, and to thinking of electricity as a valuable and exhaustable resource, it seemed very strange. The next thing we noticed were the advertisements. I suppose Toronto is Toronto and I may have been shocked almost as much had I arrived from Victoria as from Tanzania, but the scale and the quantity of the ads and the seemingly omnipresent feeling of commercialism made my belly squirm. When we evaluated this observation later in our de-briefing, we agreed that there is probably just as much commercialism in Dar es Salaam as in Toronto. However, we discerned, in Dar, it is a person or at least a hand-painted sign that is trying to sell you something, so your first impression is of the people being commercial, whereas here it is walls of flashing bill-boards, store-front displays, spotlights roaming the skies, and huge digital signs and screens on the sides of buildings, which makes it feel as though the place is commercial by nature.
When we entered the lobby of our fancy Marriott hotel, I asked Scott if I deserved recognition as the scruffiest guy ever to pass through its doors. Unshaven, long-haired, wearing sandals over British Airways socks, and my mis-match of light coats all worn in layers, I didn't necessarily blend in with the suited businessmen who seemed to frequent the place. The lady from CWY gave us our keys, some money for food and gave us the low-down on the rules and schedule for our last days of de-briefing. We took the elevator up to the 5th floor where we put our stuff in our rooms, marvelled at our huge pillow-laden white blanketed beds (despite the fact that we were sleeping two of us to a bed), then headed of to pander to our first priority: a pizza parlour. Only some very small patches of snow remained outside and the weather was far warmer than we had expected. It did feel very cold, nonetheless, coming back from a tropical summer. Most of the team were disappointed to have missed the snow and cast me dark looks as I scoffed “I'm from BC, I expect daffodils!” As we sat and ate our long-awaited pizza, we stared out the window with our eyebrows aloft at the parade of oddities that walked past: people in fashionable cloathes, people walking dogs, and girls in mini-skirts and leather boots. “Whaaat?!?” MJ would say, eloquently wording what I, at least, was thinking.
Back at the hotel Sean, Colin and I, in one room, utilised the rotational bed system we'd innovated in Moshi: each night everyone would rotate clockwise one space over so that everyone had the luxury of sleeping alone in a bed once. Once we and our stuff were consolidated into one room we realized just how bad we smelt... The next morning we went down to the breakfast buffet, and I went bug-eyed. I don't know how, but I fit three plate-fuls of food – eggs, bacon, sausages, ham, granola, yogurt, chocolate milk, juice, grapefruit, hash browns, a huge waffle with whipping cream, maple syrup, icing sugar, cinnamon and nuts on top – into my one skinny little body which is used to a piece of toast for breakfast. Lunch and dinner that day consisted of little snacks. Then we began our two days of de-briefing. We began by identifying and analyzing our reverse culture-shock, then continued to analyze our experiences and the conclusions that we had formed through them. We went for dinner at a Swiss Chalet across the road from a strip club called “Zanzibar”, which we had a laugh at. After another obnoxiously large breakfast the next morning, we continued our re-entry debriefing, this time looking at our future hopes and plans and discussing how we could integrate our experiences from the program and the values and ideas that we had built therein. Although there was to be another evaluatory session the following day, Edith and I had booked our train, I to Barrhaven and she to Gatineau, before we had known the schedule and unfortunately had to leave before the session began. We were thus very reluctant to leave the session, knowing that it would be our last official Canada World Youth session. We all went out for Korean BBQ that night to celebrate the past six months together, toasting ourselves, our counterparts, and our accomplishments.
The dreaded moment arrived the following morning when we were packed and in the lobby of the hotel hugging and saying goodbye to our friends. “It hasn't really registered yet, I don't think,” I said, “I'm not going to realize what's happening until a day or two from now when I'm going to want to say something to one of you and you won't be there...” After six months of working so closely and overcoming so many challenges together we had become more close than most friends that I have ever had. On top of that, they are the few people who will understand the best what I have experienced and what has changed in me. Eventually we had to part, Sean reminding us that it would be very anti-climatic for us to miss our train and have to come back again.
We caught a taxi to the huge, neo-classical train station within sight of the CN Tower in perfect timing to get our tickets and board our train. Edith and I sat with a cheerful couple and talked and reminised. She took out her Kiswahili book and we were surprised that we could open it at random near the middle and end of the book and understand most of the paragraphs listed. The train sped past the outskirts of Toronto and eventually into beautiful snowy countryside with Vs of geese returning overhead. Eventually we entered a familiar neighbourhood and I knew my stop was coming up. Edith and I said “Tutaonana kidogo” and I disembarked to find Dad waiting for me on the platform. We embraced and loaded my luggage into the car. We arrived at the house which had been beautifully renovated since I had last seen it. The green carpeting, dark wood and vinyl flooring, and all of Dad's artwork on the white walls looked great. My room was decorated with artifacts from Vanuatu, Fiji and the Kiribati, as well as one of Dad's murals. Clouseau, the cat and the only one I had around to speak Kiswahili to, was waiting for me at the top of the steps for a cuddle. Harry arrived home from the last day of school before Spring Break and we wrestled, making me realize how much he'd grown since I last fought him. Mom got back from work a little later while I was in my room and Dad pretended that I hadn't arrived.
During the first week back we went bowling with staff from Mom's office, went for daily walks around the neighbourhood, I helped Dad with projects around the house, prepared a dinner of Tanzanian food (a pale imitation though it was) and another of beef stew for St. Patrick's Day, and occupied all of the rest of my time working on the computer on my resume, applying for jobs, looking for volunteer opportunities, researching college, university and scholarships, arranging my many pictures from the trip, and reading my 150 emails that had piled up over three months of prioritizing my internet time.
On Sunday we had a large party to welcoming me back and as a belated house-warming which had been waiting until the renovations were mostly complete. Many of Mom's, Dad's and Harry's neighbors, friends and colleagues came over so I got to meet some of the community members. One had been to Kenya and Tanzania previously, and a few knew of CWY, but most of the others were fairly ignorant, saying things like “Not many people go there and survive to come back, do they?”
The most lasting impression that I have of Canada from my reverse culture-shock is the excessiveness of our way of life. I am trying to look at this analytically, not as an overly positive or negative thing. After having come to see such a thing as cold water as a luxury and juice as something reserved for special occasions, it is somewhat overwealming to have cold (or hot) water right out of the tap and a fridge never short of juice, to mention nothing of a fridge, freezer and cupboards full of whatever one's heart could desire to eat, plus a computer, bathtub, electricity, temperature control, comfortable seats... I have come to see some things which I had once thought of as necessities as luxuries, and things which I had once thought of as treats as extravagances. One might think that I would be in heaven, and I do enjoy it at times, but most often I feel overwhelmed, superficial, guilty, unappreciative, or that others are unappreciative. I sometimes find myself enjoying a bit of honest work more than any indulgency.
In terms of the situation in Africa, though, do not let anything that I have said (or anything that you have heard elsewhere, for that matter) affect your thinking. Going there with an open mind is the only way that you can know anything, and even then you will only know of the specific place, specific time, specific cirumstances, and specific people that you see through your own undeniably specifically biased lens. I thank God that when I went to Tanzania I was utterly ignorant about Africa, and any delicate preconceived notions that I may have had were quickly shattered. When I was copying volunteer evaluations from UVIKIUTA's work camps I was astounded by the self-righteous notions and pre-conceived prejudices of so many foreign volunteers (who were there for two weeks and were living apart from any actual community). They commonly criticized the projects chosen for them by the community that they were working for, saying that they wanted to address Africa's “real” problems: HIV/AIDS, orphans, poverty, hunger, etc. From the little that I have seen, I have realized that “Africa” is not universally identical, it is a continent of many unique nations and situations and is far more complex and dynamic than modern North America. The “pet problems” the Western donors have labeled the continent with are very serious and real, but to say that they are the only problems and that everyone faces them is like saying that homelessness is the only problem that developed nations have. When our counterparts were presented with this mentality, they were understandably disgusted. I will try not to put too much weight in my own experiences, as far as my view of Africa and Tanzania goes, because I have a very limited and restricted view into one isolated community myself. Please don't form any concrete notions around what I have told you, or manipulate them to serve any notions that you may previously have put your trust in.
MJ and her boyfriend, Mo came to Gatineau from Montreal for a week, and we got together with Edith and her boyfriend, Fred, for a Tanzanian dinner, enjoying each other's company again and swapping jokes that no one else would understand. A week later Scott and one of his Quebecois friends from Katimavik were on a road trip through Ottawa into Quebec where they would visit JP among other things, and they stayed the night at our place. I've been fortunate – others in the group are jealous of those of us who've been able to get together – but we're thinking of getting a bunch of the Canadian participants on a trip to the Maritimes to visit Colin and Sally this summer. Norbert and Frank of the Tanzanian team have been accepted for Seneca College in Toronto, where they applied while in Peterborough, so we may be seeing them in the country next school season.
As for me, my current, but yet malluable plan for the coming year is to find work here in Ottawa, and perhaps do some vending in a local market to help fund my post-secondary in September. As for that, I am yet deciding whether to study anthropology in Camosun College in Victoria, or the University of Ottawa, and am looking for any scholarships, bursuries or any other funds to that end. On top of that I am also seeking a place to stay in Victoria if I do return this August, so if you or someone you know there happens to have a corner with a roof over it that they would be willing to fit me into in return for some compensation, please let me know. In the meantime, I am also trying to keep up serving the world and my current community. I am looking to continue volunteering, and am registered to do so at the Ottawa Chamber Music Society's Festival this summer, among other things.
Thank you all so much for the support that you have given me, and I pray that I will someday be able to repay you for all that you have helped me to experience. Thank you also for your patience in reading through all of these Missives of mine and for keeping in touch over the past months (they are all archived on my blog, along with photos, videos, essays and other letters: bradleyclements.blogspot.com). I may not (or may, I don't know) be doing things so exciting in the next little while, but I hope that we can continue to stay in contact.
May life be amazing! Safari njema!


Bradley Clements
Ottawa, Ontario

Brad's Recent Readings...

Here is a selection of the books that I have been reading over the past eight months or so, and some comments on them. I'm not much of a critic I'm afraid, but I've given each my own personal star-rating based on the quality of the story and/or the translation/edition/medium:

- "The Iliad" by Homer: I listened to this translation as an audio book. I apologise because I have forgotten the publisher, the translator and the narrator's names! The narration was riveting, but the translation was not nearly so good as that of Robert Fagels, who I would recommend. ***

- "The Aeneid" by Virgil: This translation was by Robert Fagels and published as an audio book by Penguin, narrated by Ian McKellen. A very fine translation with a very engaging narrator. Listening to epic poems such as these completes the experience, as they were always narrated in their time and never or seldom read. *****

- "The Expedition of Cyrus" by Xenophon: What an adventure! If you were under the impression that the ancient classics were boring, read this and have that mind-set smashed. Published by Penguin, I can not recall the translator on the spot. *****

- "Saboteur": I was reading this non-fiction book about an Albertan eco-terrorist when I left Victoria and unfortunately had to leave it at the library only half-read. It was very well written and incredibly thought-provoking, presenting every side of a very complex and present-day problem. I'll have to find it and finish it when I get the chance. ****

- "The Complete Works of Michel de Montaigne" by Michel de Montaign: This volume contains translations by Donald M. Frame of all of the essays, letters and travelogues by this philosopher of the French Renaissance. I have only been reading the essays individually as my interest calls and have not completed the book, but they are though-provoking, amusing, insightful, interesting and conversational. It is often as though a personality from the Renaissance had time travelled here to have a conversation with me! Published by Everyman's Library. ***

- "Italian Rapier Combat" by Capo Ferro: This book, a translation of Capo Ferro's "Gran Simulacro" edited by Jared Kirby and published by Greenhill Books, I have only been referencing for bits and pieces. The technical writing and illustrations, faithfully copied from the original manual, are interesting not only to learn about Renaissance rapier techniques and the evolution of fencing, but also to understand the mentality of a swordsman of the age and his presentation of a book and an education to his ruler. **

- "The Dream of Eagles Series" by Jack Whyte: This novel series, published by Penguin Canada, dramatises the legends of King Arthur seeking to portray them as they may have unfolded in reality. He traces the roots of the legend back to ancient Roman times and up to Arthur's coronation. ****
- "The Skystone": This first instalment is told from the perspective of Publius Varrus, a veteran primus pilus of the Roman army, a weapons smith, and a friend of the Legate Caius Brittanicus. In it Brittanicus founds a colony, foreseeing the fall of Rome, and Publius Varrus searches for a skystone, a metal that will make the world's finest sword, all while living in fear of the Seneca family, rival of the Brittanici.
- "The Singing Sword": The best book of the series, in my opinion. Through a rich tapestry of history, philosophy, warfare, kingly politics, innovation, corruption and revenge emerges Excalibre, the singing sword, and the colony of Camulod.
- "The Eagles Brood": The first book from the point of view of Caius Merlyn Brittanicus, grandson of Caius Brittanicus, after the withdraw of Rome's legions from Britain. Beginning with Merlyn's childhood and growth with his cousin, Uther Pendragon. This leads into their coming of age and of command, Merlyn of Camulod and Uther of his Cambrian Celtic peoples, and their wars with the upstart king of Cornwall, Guthrys Lot.
- "The Saxon Shore": Probably the slowest book of the series, although worth reading. Merlyn adopts Arthur, the orphaned son of Uther and his mistress, the queen of Cornwall and princess of Eire. He makes connections with the Mac Athol ruling clan of Eire and puts down the potential rebellion of Peter Ironhair within Camulod's council of the round table.
- "The Sorcerer: The Fort at Rivers Bend" and "Metamorphosis": The two final books of the series are presented as the two volumes of "The Sorcerer". After an assassination attempt on the child Arthur, Merlyn flees with him and a group of trusted friends to inhabit an abandoned Roman garrison in Cumbria until Arthur is ready to take his command in Camulod. After completing Arthur's education and repulsing an attack from the Son's of Codran upon their allies in Ravenglass, they return to Camulod where Merlyn's half-brother has been on command. After a period of peace Merlyn's army is ambushed by allies of the re-risen Peter Ironhair, killing several of Merlyn's closest friends. Driven by revenge, he adopts a new style of warfare: poison, trickery, wit, and the assassins arts, earning him a reputation as a fearful sorcerer. With his help Peter Ironhair and his monstrous ally the demented nephew of Uther Pendragon, who are fighting for the kingship of Arthur's rightful lands in Cambria, are slowly weakened and eventually destroyed, leading to Arthur's coronation as the champion of Christian Britain.
- "Clothar the Frank": The first of a two-book mini-series following "The Dream of Eagles". It looks at the life and legend of Sir Lancelot. I have not yet finished this book.

- "Zen in the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance": An extraordinary revolutionary philosophical classic! This book will make you think and contemplate things you may never have before. I listened to this on audio book - I've forgotten the publisher - and the narration was down-to-earth, conversational, and thoughtful. *****

- "The Histories" by Tacticus: A wise and interesting account by an elderly man in an increasingly chaotic empire who, after a lifetime of employment by its rulers, has chosen to compose a final critical analysis of his own. I listened to this on audio book with a narrator who had a very academic-sounding stern british accent which may have matched the mood but was not necessarily exciting. **

- "In Flight Swahili": A quick and easy way to learn some Swahili, but many of the words and phrases suggested were overly formal, overly touristy, or said in a way that a native speaker (according to my native speaking friends) would never have said them. *

- "Modern Swahili Grammar" by Mohammed A. Mohammed: Reading this will give you a solid foundation of grammar on which to build vocabulary, but the academic linguistic lingo is either baffling or boring. *

- "Heaven's Mirror" by Graham Hancock: A very interesting and shockingly well-grounded alternative view of history. Monumental ancient sites from around the world are looked at in connection to one another and the constellations, revealing stirring evidence for a much more scientifically aware distant past than conventional history ever suspected possible. ****

- "Collapse" by Jared Diamond: Of all of the books on this list, this is the one that I would recommend the most. I have been reading it slowly because every time I read a chapter I lend it to someone because I think that this is one of the most books for people to read in the world today. Diamond methodically documents civilizations of the world, past and present, who have fallen or show susceptibility to fall due to primarily environmental causes. He makes clear the complexity and intimacy of the problems facing societies such as ancient Polynesia, Greenland, and North and Central America, and modern China, Haiti, Rwanda, and United States. He uses history in its most important function: to learn from the past to avoid the repetition of mistakes. Although easy to read for non-fiction, this book is mostly facts which allows you to look at it analytically before you reach the end of the chapter and start to piece the facts together into the horrifying reality that they suggest. A more sober, contemplative, fact-oriented, sympathetic, and intelligent look at the broad and long- and short-term effects of climate change I have never yet found. *****

- "Me to We: Turning Self-Help on its Head" by Craig and Marc Kielburger: Exactly the opposite of the books that made me sick of the idea of self-help. The founders of Save the Children - alongside the likes of Bishop Desmond Tutu, Oprah Winfrey and Steven Lewis - offer an inspirational look at how selflessness, community, and helping others can be the most communally and individually gratifying experiences of all. *****

Monkey vs. Bradley

It is said that the monkeys are not afraid of women or wazungu (white people). This may testify...

Tanzania Pictures

The cathedral of the mission in Bagamoyo; the door of a Zanzibar palace; Mount Kilimanjaro as seen from Moshi; Alpha; a small lanteen rigged dhow in Kilwa.

Tanzania Pictures

The 16th Century fortress at Kilwa; the 11th Century mosque at Kilwa; referee Norbert at the CWY vs. UVIKIUTA football bame; sunride near UVIKIUTA; the hyena that ate our goat on the night before Christmas.

Tanzania Pictures

School foundation trench in Lindi; monkey family comes to visit Deborah at work; the Chamazi Community Library after shelving; chai with Jacob, Mary, Jackson and Anna in Magole; bao in Lindi

Peterborough Pictures

Camp fire at orientation; digging organic potatoes; Andrea playing vintage Risk at mid-term camp; JP snowing an unfortunate friend; Sean pulling Sally on the scating rink.

Peterborough Pictures

Colin presenting Steven Lewis with a giant chocolate chip cookie at Flemming Colledge; jack-o-lantern carving at halloween; street hockey tournament; canoing on the Otanabee River; Frank in his cowboy hat at our welcome party.

Peterborough Pictures

Pow-wow at Randy's Ojibwa reserve; our team at our mid-term camp; the Catholic cathedral that Jackson attended on Sundays; Hoyce and Deborah volunteering at an organic farm near Peterborough; Jackson, Tegemeo, Rahel, Deborah, Saomu and Suzan during our orientation camp.

Missive #9: The Mountain and the Island

March 15th, 2010

Salaam alaikum,

February began with our Dada Anna’s seventh birthday, which brought all of the Magole residents and many others to our house to celebrate. We ate cake together and her parents gave speeches. Birthdays seem to come in twos around here, and the following week was my counterpart Jackson’s nineteenth. After secretively plotting amongst the whole group and host family, we snuck everyone over for a potluck party. We feasted, danced, socialized, and Jacob, Jackson and I delivered speeches.
Our EAD group – Deborah, Sally, Jackson and I – presented our first Educational Activity Day on the topic of Economy. We traveled to the Canadian High Commission where we were given a sleep-inducing lecture on Tanzanian economic trends by a economist from Winnipeg, and a much more interesting talk about recent policies by a local Tanzanian employee. We then learned about the community of Chamazi’s economy from Jackson and Deborah’s research, and had everyone go on a scavenger hunt around the business district of Dar es Salaam. We then returned to UVIKIUTA for a game in which everyone was divided into four groups, each with an imaginary country with unique natural, demographic, financial and infrastructure resources and handicaps. Each team had to discuss amongst and between themselves about how to create a strong economy under the given circumstances, linked with their neighboring countries, in a moral way which aided the advancement of the UN’s Millennium Development Goals. The following EAD, concentrating on Social Services, took us to a government school. The organizers of the EAD had expected a meeting with a class and its teacher, but they got more than they had bargained for. The entire student population was splayed out before us in their white and purple uniforms, their prefects, head boy and head girl in one formal row and the teachers in another, all ready to engage in a discussion with the Canadian emissaries concerning the challenges facing the development of their school. After the initial awkwardness it became a very interesting and inspiring discussion.
I have been very surprised at my remarkable good health since I’ve been here. I expected at least some stomach issues due to unfamiliar food at first, but even that has not been a problem. The warmer climate has even removed my usual back and joint pain and stiffness. I am a lucky one, though. Since mid-January Tegemeo and I are the only ones who have not been to the hospital with one ailment or another, such as malaria, typhoid, scabies, back pain, urinary tract infection, coughs, or mysterious cases of excessive vomiting and diarrhea, among others. I have only had to take two days off of work in the whole Tanzanian phase due to minor sicknesses, which I think may have been cases of malaria which were just suppressed almost entirely by my medication. If many of the night-time mosquitoes here have malaria, then it is hardly surprising that it is so common. In our first nights of sleeping here we quickly learned not to touch the nets that we sleep under – any flesh in contact with it is quickly given a thick coating of bites which we first mistook as a strange rash until we realized the truth of it and were surprised that we had any blood left for ourselves.
On the 10th of February Sean, Deborah, Sally and I slept over at UVIKIUTA in order to get up early the following morning to leave for Moshi in northern Tanzania. Sally had received a request from her former university, Mount Allison, to make a presentation to the students of the Moshi International School, and our supervisors had given those of us who wished to come permission to accompany her. Sean’s alarm awoke he and I at 3:30 am in Frank and Scott’s house’s spare bedroom. We pulled ourselves out of bed into the pre-dawn blackness and stumbled over to Hoyce’s house where we ate a hushed breakfast. The bus arrived to take us to the station soon after and the driver found that he had no reverse gear, meaning that we had to push the bus out of the driveway. “It wouldn’t be a morning in Chamazi if we didn’t have to push-start one vehicle or another,” Sean reminded us. Reverse gear or none, we headed off to the main bus station in Dar where we found our bus, a Sai Baba Express. After long hours amongst hundreds of idling and revving buses sitting and waiting in the station (despite the high cost of gas here, most people haven’t figured out that it’s financially and environmentally beneficial to turn off unused engines) we eventually headed underway as the sky slowly brightened. We were soon driving through the outer reaches of Dar es Salaam, passing into amazing and ever-changing landscape. City blended into village into wilderness into farm land. Eventually we were looking out over the vast expanse of the Serengeti Plains, the ocean of grassland reaching a shore of alien-looking sisal plantations that extended towards it from the highway. Amidst the sea of flat vastness would rise unexpected sheer mountains, sometimes dim in the distance, sometimes towering in rocky crags directly over the road. Apart from the many short stops that we made to allow local farmers and salesmen attempt to sell wares to the passengers through the bus windows, we made one lunch stop-over a little over half way. At the end of the eight hour trip we arrived near Moshi and were dropped on the roadside where Hoyce’s brother, Job, waited to welcome us. Having grown up nearby, Job still lived in his home town and had invited us to stay at his house. We crammed into a couple of cars and he took us to his home, an apparently solidly middle class complex of buildings for the whole family, their guests, and small household staff. All were there to welcome us profusely, including many of Hoyce’s relatives. We were shown our rooms and set about strategising how we could fit six boys into the two double beds and remaining space. In the end we concluded that, since Colin and Tegemeo were to be staying with Tegemeo’s uncle, the rest of us could make do by pushing the two beds together, sleep three on them, and take some cushions from the living-room sofa for the fourth person to lay on the floor. We agreed to rotate nightly so that each of us could have a turn in both the cushy and less desirable locations.
After settling ourselves in we went to explore Moshi town before dinner. Renowned as Tanzania’s cleanest city, Moshi is a haven for tourists en route to a safari to Mount Kilimanjaro, the Serengeti, or Ngorongoro Crater. This was evident by the number of wazungu and expensive stores and cafes pandering to them. As the sun neared the horizon the curtain of cloud that had covered us parted slightly and the imposing bulk of Mount Kilimanjaro was unveiled to us. I was stunned by its sheer enormity, having expected it to see it only as a distant presence. There are times when I don’t want to take out a camera – either because it is inappropriate, unsafe, or degrading of the experience – but the image of which will never be erased from my memory. I think that the sight of the towering white minarets of the mosque on the slope on which Moshi is perched, with the omnipresence of the mountain dominating the skyline behind them, is one such memory.
The next day we went on a day trip to Arusha. Job kindly took us to the bus station, but when a man heard Job wish us a good time in Arusha he said “You are going to Arusha? This bus, quickly!” and he grabbed Deborah’s bag and headed off. Sean and Deborah chased him and made him give back the bag on the promise that we would take his bus, and he got in a pushing and shouting match with the other bus conductors who were trying as hard to haggle us onto their buses. It was a relief to get underway. I sat between a man in a suit and a pair of maasai in their traditional kitenge as we drove alternately through rainforest, scoured by deep stream gorges, and ox- or donkey-ploughed farmland dotted with mud huts and termite mounds. Upon our arrival in Arusha we were set upon by another throng of men attempting to fill their buses. “Bus to Moshi, come quick!” “We just came from Moshi.” “No you didn’t, come quick!”
We went to the crafts market, frequented by tourists. I had very little money and was aware that everything was much more expensive than in Bagamoyo, where it was mostly made, and was thus only going because the group was, although most were merely for the sake of looking. Although there was the occasional cordial shop-owner, who probably overheard me bemoaning my lack of money, most would stop at no end to make a sale. Some would put you on a guilt-trip, annoy persistently, or would physically bar the way out of the stall. Thankful to be away from the market, we went on a hike up a nearby hill with a local guide. We walked through the city, passing a huge new glass sky-scraping hotel and the UN International Court for the Tribunal of the Rwandan Genocide, and we were soon on the outskirts of town. Soon we were on a dirt road between cement shop-buildings which slowly gave way to ever thinner clusters of mud huts nestled amidst beautiful gardens where children played. The road angled steeply as we started our assent of the hill, and we soon jutted off on a side-path that was even steeper. As climbed the extraordinary scenery laid itself out below us in a broad map. Arusha was a hardly noticeable exception in the sea of lush green vegetation that spread over rolling hills to fade into the distance. Occasional farms and huts scattered across the scene, noticeable from the plumes of smoke where fields were being burned off. Mountains spurred up in the distance, the most noticeable being the three summits of the broad walls of Ngorongoro Crater, the discovery site of the oldest evidence of humanity’s existence. As we neared the top of the hill (our guide told it was too small to have a name, albeit bigger than most of the so-called “mountains” in Victoria – Sean dubbed it Kilimanjunior in sympathy) we began to come across farms and gardens hewn out of the forest. Our guide spoke with an elderly maasai man who welcomed us into his tiny dark wattle and daub boma where he, his two wives, several children, and livestock lived. He was very welcoming, but his wives did not seem to agree with our presence and were adamant that we take no pictures except of specific things which we asked permission to. One was sorting maize kernels on a mat on the ground of the boma complex, while the other was tending to the livestock who were out of the field. All of the children were out either at school or tending the cattle who were out grazing. We descended back down into Arusha and took the bus back to Moshi in the evening.
The next morning the sky was clear and Scott, JP, Andrea, Sally, Edith, MJ and I went out at 6 o’clock to see Mt. Kilimanjaro, much clearer than it had been before. The snow at the huge mountain’s crest stood out starkly, reflecting the sunrise that trickled slowly down the slopes to illuminate their details long before the sun showed its face to us bellow. That day the others went off to hike to a waterfall and I chose to stay behind to do my own exploration. Jordan, Job’s young son who had very good English, happily employed my help in turning the chicken-yard into a jury-rigged tennis court. We dug holes in the dirt with a hoe, planted some sticks in them, and tied a rope between them as a net. Then we hit Jordan’s little rubber rugby ball back and forth over our “net” with a dead electric mosquito-swatter and a piece of wood as rackets. When that grew tiring we up-rooted the tennis court and converted it into a soccer field for a game with much collateral hitting of chickens. That game ended when I accidentally kicked the ball over the wall of the compound and Jordan had to run and get it, scraping his knees on the wall as he climbed back over it. We then went to the huge market which had materialized just around the corner. We went to it, passing a joyous church service, and wandered amongst the amazing variety of wares: fruit, spices, coffee, vegetables, fish, soap, kitchen wares, kangas, kitenge, knives, knife sharpeners, coconuts, baskets, mats and much more… People were very friendly and prices were good as they had no expectation to serve anyone but the locals. Sean and Andrea purchased things for a weighty gift basket which we presented to Job and his extended family the following morning before our departure, thanking them for their warm hospitality and delicious bountiful meals. We headed back to Dar watching “The Gods Must Be Crazy” on the bus television while we passed through scenes very similar to those in the movie. We arrived back in Magole only slightly late for our Sunday evening potluck, then collapsed into our beds.
A mere two days of work and an EAD stood between that trip and our next – this time to the island of Zanzibar. Sean and I met at Sally’s house at 4:30 in the morning where she prepared us a filling breakfast of oatmeal which reminded us of home. The bus arrived and took us to the ferry in Posta where we waited until the gates were opened and we joined the throng rushing for the best places on the boat. The three-hour trip, infamous as being rough and sea-sickness inducing, was neither and we had a very comfortable passage. We pulled into harbour where many fishing boats, dhows, and an ugly cruise ship were moored, disembarked along with many tourists, locals, and crates of baby chickens, and had our passports stamped as we passed customs into the semi-autonomous region of Zanzibar. We ate a cheap lunch which was typical of an average Swahili meal except for the addition of samosas and the flat Arabic nam bread. We met our guide, Ali, who took us to our modest (only by way of price and comparison – we were delighted) hotel, a former mansion in Stone Town.
As we entered Stone Town my jaw dropped. Many of the cobbled allies were just wide enough for me to hold my arms straight out, and most were only slightly wider. All of the towering buildings were of Arabic or Indian architecture, the magnificently carved double-doors studded with bronze, the shuttered windows going up four or more stories. After the Zanzibari Revolution, Ali told us, when the Omani and Hindi aristocracy who had formerly lived in Stone Town had been driven out and back where they came from, Zanzibar fell under a Communist government which granted the former mansions to common people and artisans whose descendants still live in them today. As ancient as the town felt, it was certainly bustling with life. Although there is a very prominent tourist district, most of Stone Town is still occupied by local shops and residences. Bicycles weave through the streets with huge baskets of fresh baked bread, street-side stall owners haggle with their customers, people meet one another and stand and talk, veiled women in long dresses bear baskets on their heads, crowds of white-robed men gather around virtuosic games of bao, boys in shops crafted beautiful brass-bound mahogany boxes and chests, groceries from the market are put into baskets that are lowered with a rope from a fourth story window and hauled up to save stair-climbing, and children dart through the narrow labyrinth of alleyways in excited games of tag, or ride bicycles or play cricket in the wider courtyards. I thought to myself that this fantasyland would probably be a very fun place to have ones childhood. When the call to prayer began sounding from all of the many mosques, the streets were suddenly abandoned and the experience changed entirely. Then we wandered through empty streets with the wailing Arabic prayers resounding in our ears, only glancing sights of people – kneeling bare foot on prayer mats, facing Mecca – through the open doors of the mosques.
We went by several of the sights: the spice market, Freddie Mercury’s (of “Queen”) childhood home, the old fortress where we had unfortunately just missed a big music festival, and ended at the “House of Wonders”, the former Sultanate palace which has been converted to a museum. So called because it was the first building in Zanzibar to have electric power in the mid-1800’s, the House of Wonders boasted not only electric lighting but also an elevator which saved a trip up the huge but beautifully carved staircases to the five stories that each have balconies out into the central courtyard and the outer sea-side air. The view from the top story (not even the top of the clock tower) is impressive, and on a clear day one can see to Bagamoyo. In front of the palace, between it and the Indian Ocean, are the Floroudani Gardens which flocks of tourists and locals descend upon in the evening to purchase food in all of its varieties from the vendors who set up stalls. “Jambo, sir, welcome, how are you this evening? Would you care to see what I have here? This is [insert name – Mr. Happy, Mohammed the Fisherman, or some such tourist snagging equivalent], he has very fresh food – see the colour? We have lobster crab marlin tuna barracuda shark prawns snapper and kingfish, chapatti nam breadfruit and chips. Now sir, we offer you the freshest food at the finest prices so what would you like…?” and on and on it goes at every stall. The food is good, and we sample much of it before filling ourselves for about 4000 tsh (about $3.80, if one defeats the temptation of the sin of gluttony and moderates one’s seafood consumption). We then loll around and digest, and I converse in Kiswahili to the best of my abilities with the local people around us while trying to avoid the notice of the fly-catchers and drug-dealers. We then walk back down the moon-shadowed allies between tall crenelated walls to our hotel and climb the winding uneven steps to our rooms. Colin and I shared a room with a pair of double doors and windows out into the vibrant ally bellow. When there was water and electricity (that is, when the generator was on: Zanzibar was in the middle of a long period with no electricity and even diesel supplies were beginning to run low) we even had a shower and a flushing toilet, and sometimes a light to use them by.
After a fitful night’s sleep under our square mosquito nets with a fan on (mmm… resource intensiveness!) we went up to the roof-top for breakfast where there was a view of the surrounding buildings and alleys. They had cereal and not-hot milk there! You can tell where there have been Westerners… We then went off for a tour of a shade-grown spice farm in the junglely area just past Bububu (named after the sound of the railway that runs through there). We were shown many different spices and fruits which we learned about, including nutmeg, cardamom, cinnamon, cocoa, lemongrass, starfruit, pampelmouse, durian, jackfruit, cloves, coconuts, and many others. We then were shown the dome-vaulted bath house of a long-ago Sultan's queen before going to a beach. There we descended into a cave – by a recently built stairway – which had been used as a slave prison after the trade had become illegal due to the pressuring of the British. Prior to the stair's construction, when it was in use by the slavers, people had to be lowered down into the oxygen-scarce depths by rope. Once inside, the cave was huge. There was a fresh water spring lower down and the darkness stretched far beyond it: according to our guide it went on for miles where there were crocodile-inhabited streams and large spiders and millipedes. We saw many of the latter. When we started to pant in the thin air we realized how so many slaves could have suffocated to death, packed in such dense numbers. Climbing back out into the light and plentiful oxygen, we went down the path through the makita coral to the white beach graced by beautiful rock formations, dhows, and outrigger canoes where we swam before returning to Stone Town.
The following day the rest of the group headed off to visit a forest inhabited by the unique Columbus Monkeys, found only on Zanzibar. I, however, being conscious of my budget and interested in getting away from the tourist-oriented side of the town, chose to remain behind and do my own exploration. I left my camera, backpack and wallet behind, pocketed enough money for a humble lunch, and wore the most inconspicuous clothes that I had. I knew it would be impossible to be mistaken for a local, but I wanted to appear as open and exceptable to the locals as I could. I was successful beyond my expectations. I wandered, setting myself locations to try to find amidst the labyrinth of buildings, taking the most interesting and least touristy looking routes and getting hopelessly but blissfully lost. I stopped to watch children playing and to chat with occasional people. Generally when one walks past a tourist shop the owner will call out “Jambo”, the greeting reserved only for foreigners, and demand their attention with shouts of “Rafiki! My friend, welcome to my shop! Looking and touching is free, hakuna matata.” When one replies as though the caller had said the proper Kiswahili word of “hujambo”, and responds correctly with “sijambo” the caller will pretend to be astounded and say “Oh, my friend, you speak Swahili!” On this occasion, however, I was very surprised when almost no shop-owners called out to me. One, a dread-locked guy from Dar sitting with a maasai warrior and a turbaned Indian, called me over but with a sincere invitation to sit and talk, curious about where I was coming from, what I was doing in Tanzania, and very interested in the Chamazi Community Library where I was working. After a long conversation I continued on. Only one other shop-owner sought my attention, and I cordially accepted his welcome but he instructed me to return when I had money. As I walked away it struck me that I had never said or done anything to indicate to him that I had no money. I later asked Frank about this: “Can you tell if I have money on me or not?” I asked. “Sure,” he replied. “How?” “The way you walk, man. People walk a different way when they have money, whether they know it or not.”
As I walked between a white mosque and a set of residential manors, an elderly hook-nosed Arab, wearing a cylindrical cap, a white robe, a white mustache-less beard and heavy eyebrows over suspicious eyes called me over to where he was standing on a chair, wiring in a door-bell to the ornately carved frame of his door. With him stood an intelligent-looking boy with sharp, clean features who seemed embarrassed but long-suffering of his grandfather. “You,” the old man said, discarding the common formal greetings, “where are you from?” “Canada,” I replied, abashed but happy for the summons. “Canada is a very good country. Very good salaries. Zanzibar has many problems. Like right now – we have no electricity! Zanzibar was the centre of Africa before the Omani left. Zanzibar was a very good country, too, but now the Africans have the way of things and we have no electricity.” A passing african, also in muslim garb, passed by and laughed, earning a scowl from the man. “Canada has its problems too,” I pleaded, but realized that even though I'd been able to cope with such inconveniences as lack of electricity I had no right as a transient to rebuke his statement. “Now the Omani are gone and we no longer have a Sultanate,” he continued as though I hadn't said anything, then added in a surge of progressiveness, “a president is better than a sultan I suppose.” “Is your family Omani?” I inquired, hoping to change the topic. “Yes! My great-grandparents came from Oman. They were Omani, my grandparents were Omani, my parents were Omani, I am Omani, my children and my grandchildren are all Omani. Oman is a very good country, like Canada. I was there last year, I have family there. There are many mosques near here,” he informed me, changing the subject yet again and pointing in the direction of the four nearest ones, calling them by name and denomination. “Do you know Salt Lake City?” his grandson asked me, “in the United States? My cousin is studying there.” A middle aged woman in a black dress and headscarf whose eyes, voice and bearing resonated with proud confidence and intelligence arrived with three laughing little children and spoke about me with the man in Kiswahili before turning to me, greeting me respectfully, and asking me to confirm everything that the old man had told her about me. “Get inside,” he told her when we had finished, and she complied in her own good time, smiling gently up at him on his stool. He finished installing the door-bell and tested it, cocking his head and listening before yelling up to someone on the fourth or fifth story to ask if they could hear it. “We speak four languages in this house.” He counted them off on the fingers of his hand. “Kiswahili, English, Arabic and Hindi. Four.” I eventually left him to his task saying “Salaam alaikum” (peace be on you). “That's Arabic,” he informed me before responding. “Alaikum salaam.” (Peace be on you too)
I ate a lunch of nam and samosas from a street-side vendor for 900 tsh and walked on to a bustling square where I stopped to watch a group of men playing a highly complex game of Indian bao. “Alaikum salaam,” one of the players responded to my greeting with a raised eyebrow. “Ninapenda kutecheza bao,” I said (I enjoy playing bao). “Ndio? Ka. (Yes? Sit.) You will play the next game,” he said bluntly. Their experienced virtuosity was astounding – one played could calculate when the other's turn would end well before it was over and he would begin his own turn, making my attempt to decipher the rules of this complicated version futile. When they were down to the last three of their unplayed seeds they would fling them with a flick of the wrist to have them fly up and land effortlessly in the intended holes of the large finely crafted wooden board. They talked amongst themselves in Kiswahili about me, and I understood most of it until I added a statement in their own language, then they changed the subject and accepted me friendlily. After over an hour of watching and chatting with them I bid them farewell, thankful that the masters had forgotten my challenge to play.
When I met up with the group again at the hotel they excitedly told me about their experience with the Columbus Monkeys which were very tame, even though they were not offered food, and would even sit on JP's lap. We ate again at the Gardens, packed, and headed back to Dar es Salaam the following day. Again the ferry trip was very smooth and we took daladalas back to Mbagala and then UVIKIUTA. Colin and I got on one daladala after asking “Unaenda Mbande?” (Are you going to Mbande?) and the conductor calling “Ndio, saizi.” (Yes, right now.) So we hopped on board, but the faithless conductor emptied his daladala at Chamazi market, a long walk from UVIKIUTA. Another man from the daladala was in an argument with the conductor, and he later came over to us and said that he had been berating the man for having cheated us and he helped us to catch another daladala. Sean, Sally and I got back to Magole just in time for our communal potluck, then went to bed.
The following Wednesday was Deborah, Sally, Jackson and my last EAD. Focused on history, we had an elder medicine man who had lived his entire life in Chamazi come to talk to us about the community's history, changes he had seen in his lifetime, and the traditions of his profession. We then went to the National Museum in Kivukoni, I leading everyone on a very round-about route to get there. There everyone divided into four teams focusing on four of the major influencing cultures of Tanzania’s history – Native Africans, Arabians, Germans and British – and did a scavenger hunt around the museum to piece together ideas related to their culture and to the MDGs.
On the 25th a representative from the Canadian International Development Agency (CIDA) visited to see UVIKIUTA and our CWY team, both of which were heavily funded by the agency. In lieu of a projector to do a slideshow, we had all drawn pictures of our favorite or most interesting time in the exchange and showed and explained them to her, after we had all feasted on a huge honorary lunch. She was staying at Dar's fanciest hotel, and CIDA's budget for her week-long visit was almost equal to that of our three-month exchange.
After work on Friday I learned that Ben was leaving for Germany the following day and needed a bunch of promotional materials, so I worked from 8 till 6 on Saturday to edit them and copy them to fifty-five CDs. I might have been resentful, but Ben is such a marvelous person to work for, even when he's stressed and grumpy, that I was happy to be of service. After that I had to wait two more hours for a ride to Magole, and in the meantime I helped MJ, JP and Scott roust a chicken out of Scott's house. “It was, like, just wandering casually by on the porch, then it, like, suddenly turns and darts into the house,” Scott explained. We chased it around until MJ finally caught it and unexpectedly thrust it in JP's face with a yell, making him scream and leap back and all of us laughed. “Tabernac!” he panted, looking as though he'd almost had a heart-attack.
Jackson arranged a football (soccer) match for the following day, CWY vs. UVIKIUTA. Norbert made a hilarious referee, spoofing a professional with hyperbolas severity except when he danced to the cheering girl's songs. Some great shows of virtuosity were displayed, such as when Tegemeo did a backwards flip-kick to save the ball from going off-side and landed heavily on his back in the dirt, only for the ball to go off-side anyways. No thanks to our Canadian players, the CWY team made a resounding victory and great fun was had by all.
I am very glad that I am here in my capacity as a volunteer rather than as a tourist, but I have realized that Tanzania seems to have it all: culture, wildlife, beaches, stability, people, prices, and amazing natural and historical wonders. Although I am not at all under the illusion that I know this country, I have now seen parts of the North, the East, and the South which is rarely penetrated by whites. My expectations are exceeded.
I have one last Missive on its way following this one, concerning the conclusion of our program, our parting and our return to Canada. May all be well with you and yours.

Rafiki yako,

Bradley A. Clements
Chamazi, Tanzania

Missive #8: Bwagamoyo

February 26th, 2010

"There is always something new out of Africa..."
Pliny the Younger


Mambo!

The chalk-drawn bao-board in the open dining area of the Mtwero work camp in Lindi was my first destination after rolling out from under my mosquito net and showering in the open-air palm frond shower stalls. Any hope of an early game was thwarted though, by the quantity of packing, cleaning, and carrying that had to be done on the morning of our departure. Hoyse had informed us the previous night that our booked bus to Dar es Salaam had broken down and that we would be traveling instead on two separate buses. It so happened that the Tanzanians had been put on a smaller, earlier bus, and we Canadians, along with Hoyse and Mariam on another. So we saw our counterparts off, wishing them "safari njema", and settled in to wait for our own bus. We constructed lean-toos with our luggage and kangas, and I scratched a new bao board on the little strip of sidewalk, collected the seventy-two pebbles, and challenged Edith to a tournament. When we boarded our own bus, ruefully breaking off our game, we found that our booked seats had been taken by the people from the back, so we peacefully accepted the seats in the rear (resisting the urge to make some inappropriate comment about Rosa Parks...). We sped happily along over the spectacular African vistas and picture-book villages splayed out in the valleys bellow us, with only some amusing bounciness to warn us of what was to come when the paved road ended and we set off along the rough dirt track. When we did I understood the foresight of those who had stolen our seats... We bashed over the uneven, uncompleted road so that we flew several feet above our seats to have our tail-bones come jarring back down, our spines ram up into our skulls, and our ribs accordion. Julie borrowed my rope belt to tie Edith and Sally's seat in place, which had broken loose. The seat in front of theirs, however, was beyond our help and it collapsed into their laps with its occupant placidly ignoring the fact that she was now sitting on the floor. Jimmy, our Irish friend from the work camp who was traveling with us, also had his seat come loose and Andrea behind him had to hold it in place while Sean masterfully held her new ebony tea set intact on his lap. Next to her, my seat slowly drifted forward and Scott's in front of me came back until my legs were rather stuck between them. "This could conceivably be worse," I commented cheerily between stifled grunts of pain. "So could sodomy," Sean retorted, "but congratulations on your sunny out-look." After two hours of this we finally returned to a paved road, although our aching bodies still felt every little bump. We had no right to complain, however, as we learned shortly afterward when Hoyse received a call on her cell saying that our counterpart's bus had broken down twice and that they were now faced with finding themselves a place to stay the night and some form of transport into Dar the following day. As for us, we arrived mostly in one piece (even if the bus didn't) in Mbagala where we gratefully devoured ice-cream cones from a bicycle stand and chicken shishkabobs from a street-side grill for 100 tsh (about $0.09) each. We then somehow crammed ourselves, our luggage, and three weeks worth of work camp supplies into the UVIKIUTA bus to go to Chamazi. When we unloaded at UVIKIUTA our host fathers were there to welcome us, including mine, a beaming man named Jacob. We hugged and greeted one another, then those of us who were going to live at with families in UVIKIUTA unloaded, and those of us going to the Mgola Eco-Village (Sean, Sally and I) headed off about five minutes further down the road.
The sun was just falling into a smooth wash of pale orange extending into a deeper one before fading into a rich ultramarine as we arrived among the young trees and seven houses of Mgola. Jacob helped me to carry Jackson's and my own luggage to the house where I met his shy six-year-old daughter, Anna, and his wife, Mary, a Chaga from Kilimanjaro. They welcomed me and proudly gave me a tour of their house which they had only occupied for three months. I was very pleased with our room, which comfortably held our two large beds (almost as long as me, and almost square) on which I could stretch out if I lay diagonally and put something over my feet where they touched the mosquito net (which was blessedly lacking in holes). The bathroom was inside the house, right across from our room, and had a squat toilet and a drain and buckets for showers, and all together I had a new spring in my step. Jacob explained that the solar panels and water tank for the eco-village had not yet been installed, so our only light at night came from kerosene and battery fueled lamps, and our water had to be pulled up and carried from the near-by wells. Imagine my surprise when I saw a bottle of Canadian maple syrup on the table! I asked, and was told that it had been left by previous CWY participants. Jacob himself had been a volunteer with CWY about five years ago, in North Bay, Ontario. Mary knew how to make “pancakes” which, although they tasted the same and were quite good, were flat and rubbery. A few weeks later I made some, and my proposal to add baking powder sent Mary’s eyebrows halfway up her forehead. “It’s what we do in Canada,” I explained quickly, hoping not to be banished from the kitchen where men traditionally had not right to be. She accepted, and when Jackson saw the result he exclaimed “Wow, big chapatti!”
After I’d finished occupying the new room we all went over to Sylvester, Rosie and Peter’s house – where Deborah and Sally were staying – for the weekly rotational Sunday evening communal potluck. Sylvester had his diesel generator running to power the lights and TV, on which a preacher and his translator were vigorously hollering out a passionate sermon.
The next morning, after waking up from a solid night’s sleep, I headed into Dar es Salaam with Sean, Sally and Adolphina, the Tanzanian volunteer from the Lindi work camp who was now working as a maid in her uncle Julius’ house. We walked through the fields and the village to Mbande market where we caught a daladala through Mbagala to Posta. Getting onto the Posta daladala was a violent affair at rush-hour with everyone pushing and elbowing to get seats. In the midst of the press I looked down and saw someone’s hand in my pocket and spun around yelling “hey!” The man was already running, but there had been nothing worth stealing in my pocket anyways. Once in Posta we went to the Barklay’s Bank, a huge building surrounded by tourists and businesspeople of all races. We then went to the post office, the internet café, and the YWCA where we ate lunch before returning to the eco-village. By the time we got back our counterparts had already arrived after a very long trip, and Jackson was chatting with Mary who came from the same tribe and had a similar dialect as her mother tongue.
The following day we went into UVIKIUTA to be introduced to our work placements. Having been away from the group for a single day seemed like a long time after not having been separated for almost a month. Ben gave us a tour, first showing us around the environment-focused work placements. He outlined a history of Chamazi, the name of the village which was in a local dialect of the Kiswahili words “chai maji” meaning “tea water” after the colour of the river on which the village depended. He explained how the quality of the water and the eco-system of the river had suffered due to deforestation along the banks, the use of fertilizers on farms which extended right down to the water, intentional and unintentional damming, and pollution caused by recent practices such as washing cars next to the river. Now the river which was once swift-moving and bounteous in life was stagnant and covered in oxygen-leaching vegetation. Despite the sadness of that, I felt inspired and hopeful because at least some of the challenges presented here I could see obtainable solutions for and paths of action that I and others could take to improve the situation considerably, something uncommon in most environmental issues that I had previously faced. We were then shown the office and library where Deborah and I would be working, meeting our hip and well-dressed twenty-three year-old supervisor Boven. Many books had been donated and a special building had been built for the library to-be. The entire group then came out to the eco-village for the first time to see the tree nursery and composting work that the people posted there would be working on. After lunch we went to the final work placement – Suzan and Sally’s – the Yatima Group Trust Fund orphanage in Chamazi who we had raised money for in Peterborough. The many children of all ages came and sat on our laps on the steps of one of the buildings as a staff member spoke to us about the organization, then clung to our hands as we were given a tour of the huge property and its farms and dormitories. We then played sports and games with the kids who were very skilled and enthusiastic and who we had to pry ourselves away from when it was time for us to leave.
Following that we began our work. On an average weekday, Jackson and I would get up at 6 o’clock in the morning, roll out from under our mosquito nets, tie them up, make our beds, and get dressed. We then carry water from the wells, I going first to the closer well – past Hoyce and Ben’s future houses – to the edge of the forest where I avoid the giant centipedes in my bare feet as I go down into the watering hole. I do this circuit two or three times, carrying two 10 or 20 litre buckets at a time, to fill the big bucket in the bathroom to flush the toilet with. I then go to the further well, near Sylvester’s house, where I hope that there will be water left to pull up with a bucket on the end of a rope. The first time I threw it down I could imagine the rope pulling free of my hand and that I would have to climb down to get it, triggering my Dad’s voice in my head saying “What’d you do that for, you dork?!” Needless to say, I never dropped it. Once I’ve filled the buckets I carry them back and shower with a kibobo (a small pail) over the drain, then have chai. Chai often consists of tea or milo with mandazi, bread, chapatti, buns, or – when we’re very lucky – vitumbua, and oranges or mangoes. Jackson told me that Mary was very happy when I said that I prefer mandazi and vitumbua to bread, because they are cheaper, and I considered it a definite win-win scenario although I was maybe winning a little more. After chai we inevitably leave late, pushing Julius’ big blue truck until it stubbornly decides to start, then we all pile into the back and bounce down the dirt road to UVIKIUTA, passing UVIKIUTA’s conservation area and the desolation of the sand mines which surround it. Deborah and I then go to the office and say “Mambo” and “Mzuka” to Boven and set to work dusting and sweeping the offices. Once that is done we continue with whatever project we happen to be working on at the time. Sometimes we are summarizing and feeding volunteer registration and evaluation forms into the computer, sometimes proofreading documents which are sent to volunteers and partner organizations, and sometimes labeling, cataloguing, stamping, sorting and shelving the more than five hundred books in the Chamazi Community Library’s current collection. Despite the disproportionate quantity of Christian books, there is also a good number of philosophy, sociology, science, history, literature and story books. These include many withdrawn from the Vancouver Island Regional Library, the Grater Vancouver Public Library and the Trinity Western University library, such my own Science 9 textbook and book of Renaissance history, plus names such as C.S. Lewis, Naomi Kline, Craig Kielburger, Rudyard Kipling, Mark Twain, Plutarch, Tacticus, Herodotus, Cervantes, Theucydides, Marcus Aurelius, Galen, Hypocrates, Machiavelli, Darwin, Hobbs, Marx, Micheal de Montaign, Shakespeare, and others. I’ve been reading several books borrowed from the library and from other participants: Jack Whyte’s Dream of Eagles series, the fourth, fifth and sixth books; Tacticus’ Histories, which I had not finished in Peterborough; “Collapse” by Jared Diamond, which I was very engaged by until I lent it to another participant; a book on basic philosophy; and “Me to We: Turning Self-Help on its Head” by Craig and Marc Kielburger, which I would highly recommend. We met the former CWY participant who had helped to found the library, Sarah from Comox, B.C., when she dropped by to deliver some more materials en route from Egypt via Tanga, where she was visiting her boyfriend, to Uganda where she was working with another library project. Although we may arrive late for our 8 am start, Deborah and I generally take a fraction of our two hour lunch break and work past our technical ending time at 5 pm. We then wait awhile for the truck to pick us up, hanging out on someone’s porch or at the nearby bar where we gratefully drink cold pineapple juice or Stoney Tangawizi and eat donuts or half-cakes. When the truck is available it picks up us Mgola residents and takes us home. Once there Jackson and I are back at work carrying water and helping Mary to prepare dinner. Work in the kitchen began with washing dishes, and I have graduated to cutting ingredients, stirring, and eventually to preparing and cooking dishes. When those chores are done we shower and enjoy Mary’s amazing Swahili cooking together, listening to the Kiswahili news on the little battery-powered radio, then Jackson and I converse as we sit on the floor and wash the dishes in basins. We then read or relax on the porch under the brilliant light of the sky-full of stars, or, if there is even the slightest crescent of it showing, the glow of the moon which is bright enough to cast a shadow even before the light of the sun has left the sky. We turn in between 9 and 10 pm and sleep fitfully. Generally there is a blessed cooling breeze that blows through Mgola. Our room is on the lee of the house, but when a storm rolls in, heralded by distant flashes of lightning in the evening, the wind swings 180o and howls in through our window. The rain falls in deafening torrents on the metal roof, but we are happy because we can put the water buckets under the eaves and don’t have to walk to the wells the following morning.
On Wednesdays we have our Educational Activity Days, which tend to be much more interesting and imaginative now that we have very limited access to PowerPoint and Wikipedia. One such EAD, focused on arts, took us to the wattle and daub home of George – a gentle-voiced artist with a limp and a smile that took up his entire face – in Mbande. He taught us how to make kitenge using the batiki and sewn tie-die techniques. On weekends we have free time to run errands into town, hand wash our laundry, do more intensive chores, hang out, relax, have our communal Sunday evening potluck, and go to church. Entering the Lutheran church at UVIKIUTA, converted from the hall where Deborah and I often work during the week, with the choir singing and drumming, is like ascending a stairway into heaven. The preacher, although his sermons are solely in Kiswahili, has a sense of humor which transcends language barriers and makes even me laugh, although I may not know at what.
Our routines are solid enough that I can write of them thus simply, but there is always enough deviation to keep us on our toes. On Andrea’s birthday, for example, I witnessed a solar eclipse for the first time. Looking cautiously through my fingers and sunglasses I watched the disc of the sun wane into a crescent. When I arrived at work I found Boven with a little bird he’d found on the ground. We perched it on a roll of masking tape where it sat tamely blinking until it flew to the window sill and out and away. An exploring black-faced monkey later entered through another window and was surprised by our presence. He leapt back out of the window, but remained to play peek-a-boo over the sill. To celebrate Andrea’s birthday we went to a place near Mbande for kitimoto, slow-fried pork and plantains served on a communal platter in the middle of a table. In the card that the entire group signed I poked fun at her about someone who’d inaccurately guessed her age in Peterborough: “Happy Birthday – nineteen, isn’t it?” She paid me back the following week on my birthday, again at Kitimoto, writing in a card with a picture of a caribou in a sauna (a word play on the Kiswahili welcome “Karibu Sana”): “To think that just yesterday I would have resented being mistaken for someone your age. Now we can be resentful together. P.S. Aren’t nineteen year-olds annoying? Yeah.”
Near the beginning of our time with Jacob and Mary, just before Anna began her first day at school, Jacob suggested that Anna, Jackson and I each plant a tree seedling in front of the porch for him and Mary to remember us by when we were no longer with them. The trees, he said, would be of medium size once they were fully grown, and would bear beautiful flowers throughout the year. We did so, and they have been growing swiftly under our care.
Although many of us Canadians generally resent going into the city for any but practical purposes, we sometimes like to explore. On one such occasion some of our counterparts took a group of us into Kariako, a very culturally diverse shopping district. We wandered through the market, our senses bombarded by the clashing smells, sounds and colours – fish, spices, hand-made kitchen-wares, and more... We gleefully discovered an ice cream store and succumbed to temptation. A group of elderly maasai – tattooed, toothless and toga-ed, wearing an abundance of jewelry, including huge ornaments in their massively elongated ear-lobes – sold us beadwork. Then, trying to look nonchalant rather than awe-struck, we went to the Shoprite – a grocery store nigh on identical to any in Canada – and we experienced a preview of the culture-shock that we are bound to encounter when we return home. Jackson and I went on another occasion to visit his Babu (grand-uncle) who was in hospital with some health problem. The private hospital was beautiful, far beyond what one would expect in Canada, but the prices were staggering.
On another weekend when the surf was up we took another trip to the beach and body-surfed until we were quite pickled with salt water. Counter-intuitively, Sean from Winnipeg and MJ from Montreal were by far the best body-surfers, and the rest of us became their disciples.
At the end of the month we headed to Bagamoyo, north of Dar es Salaam, for our mid-term camp. After a few hours of driving we entered through a tunnel of trees with a welcoming statue of Jesus Christ at its end, arriving at our accommodations in a specialty school located amongst the over one hundred year old mission buildings and cathedral. There we moved in two to a room, with a bunk-bed each, in two four-room complexes which each had a moldy shower (with a showerhead!) and toilet stall. There was also a western-style washroom building, better than what one might expect to find in a Canadian mall. We visited the museum inside the old mission house, the spire of the old cathedral where Dr. Livingstone’s body rested for a night en route back to Great Britain, the 200 year-old baobob tree, and the newer, hundred year-old, cathedral. Bagamoyo had been a primary slave-trading town of the Omani Sultanate, shipping slaves from the interior to Zanzibar after the fall of the city-state of Kilwa to the Portuguese. We took a tour of several significant historical sights, and my jaw dropped as we entered the narrow streets hemmed in by ancient Arabic houses in stages of repair varying between ruins and complete restoration, all with intricately carved symbolic doors. Passing through this scene with the guide’s words about dhows, ivory, Zanzibar, spices, sultans and slaves echoing in my ears, I felt as though I had just stepped into a childhood storybook. We explored the old fortress and slave house, its crenellated walls still standing imposingly. There we saw the rooms in which slaves were held, forty to a cubicle-like dormitory with a tiny hole in the wall for air, if not for light. We then drove down the Indian Ocean coast to the ruins of Kaole, Kilwa’s trading partner which had declined after the conquest of its co-dependant. There we saw the sight of the former mosque with its well of sacred water, and the burial grounds of the city’s nobility. Many of the tombs boasted detailed stone-work, and some had towering spires over them. One pyramid-topped tomb was said to be that of a sorceress descendant of Mohammed, and is a pilgrimage destination to this day. Our next stop was a crocodile farm, where the fearsome reptiles were raised for their meat and hides. We saw them at all stages of their growth, from tiny babies which one wouldn’t mind having as a pet to imposing giants who could swallow me without bothering to chew.
The name Bagamoyo, a corruption of the earlier “Bwagamoyo”, means “throw down your heart”. This took on different meanings for different people who arrived in Bagamoyo: for slaves shipped through there it signified the place where their hearts were crushed into suppression and where the anguish of their forced march from their homes and families and of their impending auction into a life of labor forced them to leave their heart behind. For the slavers an arrival in Bagamoyo meant that they had successfully completed a long journey and that they were soon to make a profit, so they threw the worries from their hearts and celebrated. One phrase; two radically different connotations. We threw down our hearts in another way during our mid-term discussions about our experiences in the program. Jackson and I talked of how we had developed over the course of the program, reading our goals as we had written at the beginning and analyzing how close we had come to accomplishing them. Afterwards we had to tell the group what we had deduced about each other. “Jackson seems to have achieved all of his goals,” I reported, “he hoped to share his culture, learn about Canada, and improve his language skills, and he has done all of those over the course of the program so far. He has also learned through his experience in Canada and with Canadians, and especially through his work in the Brock St. Mission in Peterborough, that not all white people are rich, as he once believed. Now he is trying to convince his fellow Africans who have not been overseas of this, that people struggle everywhere, that nothing is a simple case of give or take, but he is having difficulty. There are always achievements and always failures, but as far as Jackson’s goals go, he can say that he has succeeded.”
“I appreciate that guy so much,” Jackson said, “that Bradley, because he wants so much to learn about African culture, and he do. And also, I appreciate because he wants to learn Kiswahili. Up to now he knows so much Kiswahili. And also, in this program, he wants to decide for sure what he wants to study in the college, but up to now he is not sure yet, but he still wants to study the anth-ro-po-logy…? Yeah, that one. But now he knows that he will follow his heart and go to the way that God wants him to go.”
The next day Scott, MJ and I, the three broke adventurers, wandered around the Old Town of Bagamoyo together while others went shopping. My God. I never knew that such a place existed outside of imagination and story-books. We wandered slack-jawed through the cobbled streets hemmed by ancient buildings, many still inhabited today. We went down to the crenellated walls of the former German customs house on the beach where lateen-rigged dhows were beached, and we could as well have been in the 19th, 18th or 17th century. Friendly people came to talk to us, somehow aware that we had no money and thus talking as truly interesting people rather than as salesmen. “You know,” I said to Scott, “I had written off the possibility of anything being truly ‘ideal’ some time ago. But, I don’t know, within the past months I may have changed that verdict…” There is always something new to be found I suppose…
Sorry these letters have come to be so late – computer access is limited and schedules are busy. I hope that all is well with you, and I look forward to hearing from you all again!
Kwaheri!

Bradley A. Clements
Chamazi, Tanzania