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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. *****
March 24, 2010
March 15, 2010
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
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
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