In Tanzania

Where Africa is really annoying

ella_out_there — Mon, 4 Aug 2008 17:30:00 GMT

So, there I was. all packed, all ready and quite eaqer to go home. I really have enjoyed my time here but I was also very ready for some normality, being able to walk in the city without being hassled and ready for a hot shower. I arrived well in time at the airport, not too many bags ect... BUT the lady at the check-in did not like my 'ticket'. Because I had extended my flight I had received a confirmation that actually said an e-ticket has been issued. So all I took to the airport was that piece of paper. But they wanted my paper ticket. Which of course I didn't have since the actual travel date had elapsed. So they told me no ticket, no travel. I'd have to buy a new ticket. Which would be easily available as I am already booked on the flights. SO, my seat was secure. And I really, really, really wanted to be home now. So I agreed, there and then, to buy a new ticket. Which would have been only to Nairobi and then I'd have to buy a new ticket for the second leg of the journey. Fine, fine, let's just get over with. Here's my card. Ah, yes, of course, you don't take cards. Sure, it;s an intenational airport but it's quite un-intenationally located in northern Tanzania. Well, let me pay you in Tanzanian shillings. Would have been a good idea had the cash machine actually worked! SO, no card, no cash. Teh lady found me a taxi driver to take me to the nearest hole in the wall. About 20 miles from the airport. And 1 hour before flight time. for an extortionate fee (I was in his hands) the driver shot down the Arusha highway, overtaking in blind bends and over hills and chasing any living being (that's pedestrians and cyclists populating the edges of the unlight road) out of his way. At that point I began to think its' probably better to fly at a later date but to still be alive! THe smell in the taxi was really bad - both of us sweating like mad from the white knuckle ride. Adn then we arrived at the machine which only offered me to check my balance. The taxi driver was so touched by my tears that he offered to give me the money for the ticket and I could transfer the money later into his account! But of course, the plane had left anyway and all I could do is grab my bags from the check-in desk (at least they were still there) and leave the airport building, only slightly cheered up by all the airport workers expresing their compassion.

The taxi driver then agreed to a ridiculous low fee to take me back to my hostel (via a cash point because of course I still had no money to even pay him). At least the drive back to \moshi was quite relaxed. And coming back to the hostel was like being back with my family.... I really could not have done with an anonymous hotel or anything like that. There was even some food left.

So, today I went to the travel agent, booked a ticket, brand spanking new for a brand spanking new price. But at least it's KLM (a civilised operator) and arriving in Manchester (at least in parts a civilised city) tomorrow, 5 Aug 10.35 terminal 2. I fanyone is free to pick me up I'd be delighted!

And this should be it from me in TZ. Just a few words to keep you amused:

keepi-lefti - roundabout

car washi - mhm, you might be able to work it out

milki, saldi and breadi, lunchi, weeki - same here

tax - taxi (the 'i' sounds so assimilated, apparently)

and now find the Swahili word for occtupus ...

I'll see you all very soon!!!!!

final countdown

ella_out_there — Sun, 27 Jul 2008 21:15:00 GMT

Right, here we are, just one more week to go. And I have very mixed feelings about this. On the one hand I am very much looking forward to my washing machine, my hot shower, decent public transport (you can imagine how tragic the local one must be if I refer to the Manchester buses as ‘decent’) and other amenities. On the other hand I am quite sad having to leave this friendly little town, where people are generally really interested in helping you, showing you a good time; the pretty flowers everywhere, the fantastic simplicity of living and the relaxed atmosphere altogether. Well, but this is it – Africa fills me with mixed feelings. Even the weather has that effect… it’s humid enough to make you sweat but then a cold breeze provides a unexpected and really unwanted chill factor. So, you’re hot and cold at the same time. Which has resulted in my second chest infection during my stay. One that had me actually going to hospital for a check for malaria (it’s not) and other nasties. All they could find was AN infection. Now there’s a surprise. I’m better now tho, probably for knowing it’s nothing too serious.

So, hot and cold – I find the scales can tip rather easily from ‘totally enjoyable’ to ‘fucking infuriating’. Yes, it’s nice that people are so relaxed and the rules can be bent every which way – until you want that piece of equipment delivered this week so that you can open the shop. Or the creative interpretation f traffic rules – until you’re in a cab speeding down the Arusha highway, overtaking a daladala in a bend. Or the enthusiasm with which people want to make contact but then never show up for the arranged meeting. Or how little alcohol costs – but then to see how many people do have a serious alcohol problem.

The ease which with the locals seem to be dealing with everyday hardship – but to realize that it’s them who causes the hardship by simply accepting them. Ignorance towards basic hygiene and AIDS protection for example is high. I don’t know, it’s really hard to put my finger on it but there is something raw about this place. Something very genuine, honest, warm, lively, carefree, life affirming, uncomplicated. But to me it also seems that it’s exactly that that makes sometimes so unbearable. Not only for the westerner, I hasten to add as many people suffer tragically. But probably even more so for a mzungu who is used to comfort, rules and a working health system. So, there, I’m immeasurably sad having to leave but also looking so very much forward to coming home… Well, another week to drink it all in, ey? Remember, alcohol is cheap here!!!!!!!!

You better sit down for that one

ella_out_there — Sun, 27 Jul 2008 21:10:00 GMT

…which will you be doing anyway, considering you’re reading this online. Anyway, I’d advise you to sit down as this is a truly astonishing and, sadly, very nasty one:

When you wonder through Moshi you see quite a few albinos. And to be fair, they can be a bit of a scary sight, just because it’s unusual. And the very right eyes are kind of haunting. But hey, you walk past and that’s that. Not so for Tanzanians. Or at least not for all of them. You realize how different a local’s perception of albinos are when you go the YMCA to find that there is a Centre for the protection of Albinos. Yup, they are an endangered species. Because, because, there is a superstitious belief that if you sacrifice an Albino (or any part of one) you’re wishes will be fulfilled. So, if you have just set up a business and you want this very business to flourish, you kill an Albino, cut of his hand or hair or leg and take it to a which doctor who will use the Albino part to support your venture. Albino babies are a big tragedy to the family and usually get killed off. Not for any ceremonial purposes but just because they shouldn’t be there in the first place. And it’s good business as many people can earn their share – one who finds the Albino, another one to kill him/her and take the needed parts and of course the which doctor. No, honestly, this is happening in this day and age. The situation is slowly changing, thanks to charities challenging the superstitions and setting up protective centers. But, still, it’s happening. In some aspects Africa is still a very dark continent….

Gallery: moshi things

ella_out_there — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 23:24:00 GMT

back at the ranch

ella_out_there — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 23:16:00 GMT

Well, just in case you’re wondering if I’m actually working. Yes, of course I am. The trip to Tanga was totally necessary to recover from all the stress. Chasing after Tanzanian business men to come up with the goods is a precarious thing. You get easily insulted. And after 6 week’s waiting for something that should have been delivered 7 weeks ago you simply need a break. Well, ok, ok, it’s not that bad, but it’s rather easy to lose your rag here. I have to remind myself a lot of my friend’s advice to never show that you’re angry. But with the arrival of a new ‘project manager’ (a volunteer intending to stay for 6 months – lucky cow!) hopefully helps to speed things up and to pull things together. So, apart from the waiting game, things are moving along nicely. The girls are pretty good now with their sandwich preparation and their customer service skills. So next week we’ll tackle salads and, shock, horror, the coffee making. We purchased a dated espresso machine that could wake the whole street with it’s tremendous noise when foaming the milk. And then, if things go well, we’re planning a week of mock operation and then, this is the exciting but also the mean bit – the shop will open! Exciting of course because the project goes live. But also mean because I won’t be there. So maybe, if I stay another 2 weeks? No, no, it can’t be done. Don’t even think about it.

But then, I haven’t even started in the OT department, maybe if that goes really well? It’s good for my CV, innit? Nah, as much as I’d love to – money is running out and, yup, I admit it, I start to miss hot showers and my car and my cats and my friends!!!!!

So, in the meanwhile a few more pics for your entertainment. I particularly like the one of the dresses… you can see why I might like it here – no worrying about size 0!!!

Gallery: pangani

ella_out_there — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 22:59:00 GMT

Gallery: tanga

ella_out_there — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 22:38:00 GMT

I'm a convert!

ella_out_there — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 22:26:00 GMT

Honestly, I have always thought that bright white beaches, palm trees and turquoise water looked rather nice in brochures but that I could live quite happily without having experienced it myself. Sure it must be unbearably hot and sticky, boring and generally a waste of kerosene and mainly accessible through exclusive resorts. What’s all the hype…

Well, then, when I first arrived in Tanga, a sleepy port on the east coast of TZ I immediately fell in love. It might have been helped by the fact that it finally gave me the chance to get out of the coach from Moshi. Simba Video Lines have neither the strength of a lion (simba – lion in Swahili) nor does it have a video. Of course it doesn’t. You wouldn’t be able to watch it anyway because you have a hip or a bum or an arm or any other body part right up against you at anyone time of the 5 hr journey. Not like European coaches where no-one is allowed to stand during the journey. No, here, the buses are crammed to the extend that no-one actually can fall over in the event of an emergency break. You can’t move your little finger, let alone lose balance. Ok, I admit, I exaggerate slightly but it is chaos, that’s for sure. And then the stops – as soon as the coach slows down enough to approach a stop, vendors will run alongside the bus and stick their boxes full of goods up onto window level so that all you see is boxes full of water, peanuts or trays with boiled eggs floating next to the coach. But of course you can hear the shouting of the guys trying to attract your attention, hoping you buy their goods at three times the usual price. Ha, but I had brought provisions, so, no luck with me…. On arrival you have to fight your way through a wall of taxi drivers to get to a safe place where you try to get your bearings. But Carmen and I cracked after 3 attempts to find the way to the chosen hotel, swallowing dust in the humid heat and overpaid only a little bit. The hotel was totally deserted but clean and the girl working there was so happy to have us as guests that she kept embracing us every two minutes. We found her later on the kitchen floor, passed out, having incense wafted around her head for a quick recovery. Ok, African first aid….

So, Tanga… it used to be a hot spot for slave trade and until 1898 it was the capital for the German colonialists. You can still spot some of the former splendour but due to the salty and humid air things decay rapidly. And the locals are not overly concerned with the upkeep of the intruder’s history. Throw in a couple of marvelously carved wooden doors from the Portuguese and Islamic period, holding up the otherwise collapsing buildings, great light from an ocean reflected sun, mosques, slowly passing cyclists and shambly grid of busy roads and you may get the picture. I really loved it. Carmen thought it was a shithole…. Well, different folks and so on.

After one night and a gloriously uneventful morning we moved on to Pangani. A tiny town on the coast, again, a slave trading hotspot, and one of the few spots along the coast that’s not covered in mangroves and has accessible beach. The bus ride there was even worse than the one to Tanga but thankfully shorter. The coach looked like a happy beast with not a care in the world, not minding detours, obstacles, time in general or even death. It lurched along the dirt road, roughly controlled by the driver and encouraged to stop at every other palm tree to spit out a few passengers and to drop off some cargo. Well, ok, it was man-operated, also the loading and unloading was but it didn’t feel like that. Not knowing the language and not being au-fait with the rules of getting the bus to stop didn’t help. But I thought it quite an adventure.

And then we reached Pangani to be greeted by Mr Hot-Hot ( so called because he talks so much that his mouth runs hot) who is the official tourism officer for the region. He directed us to the only bar/restaurant in town (Bar Central, apt) where we had the usual rice and beans and beef. As our camp site was south of the river we had to cross the mangrove lined river Panrani to meet our pick-up. The ferry – a wooden boat a bit bigger than a fishing boat and with a see-through floor. No, not glass, just wood not totally joined together. Water splashing through, of course. And you access it via a narrow plank. Praying you won’t slip and make a total prat of yourself. I managed. And then you get squashed again. Because that boat is capable to handle around three times the amount of people you had envisaged. All good fun. At the other side awaited Alex to stow us in his 1768 VW Camper to take us to the resort. And that’s where I became a believer! A tented resort under coco nut palms, mango trees, along a white sand beach with the Pacific gently lapping the shore. You can go into the water almost anytime of the day, it’s always warm, no jelly fish and only a few sea weeds. And you just walk along the beach in a gentle breeze for hours on end, stumbling across fishing villages where you can get the boys to climb a palm tree to get you a coco nut, open it for you and cut a spoon from the shell. Then you hop into the sea again to cool down, then you stroll back, looking for shells, to arrive at the resort in time for another swim and to get ready for a 3 course meal on the beach, listening to the waves. And then you hit the bed to get up to see an amazing sun rise. And I was totally relaxed. Just slowed down. Being there is enough. I surprised myself with being so enchanted, enjoying it so much and finding everything just fine.

Well, I’m back now, getting back into my project, tying up lose ends today, doing more painting and chasing up people. And I am enjoying that as well. But, quite honestly, I am thinking of how I can throw in a few more days at the beach…

random thoughts

ella_out_there — Sat, 5 Jul 2008 20:20:00 GMT

I like, live in this like, hostel? With like, quite a few like Americans and Canadians? Will this like corrupt my language?

The OT department of the YWCA (Woman's Christian Association) runs 'therapeutic weeks' for mothers and their disabled children. They come from as far as 4 hours away, stay for a week and receive holistic care and training in how to hadle their children. Some with learning disabilities (mentally retarded, as it's called here), physical or mental illnesses. After a week the pairs go home, get some outreach support and then come back for evaluation and refresher training after 3 months. What a splendid idea. And I saw how some of the mothers treat their children - they get chucked onto a chair, pressed down hard and then left their. Or one child likes to play with a white plastic lid. He's into self-stimulation and seems to have a visual impairment so he holds this lid close to his eyes and runs it through his hands a lot. But that's not the done thing in the mother's eyes.... she grabs the lid and chucks it across the room on the floor. The boy leaps after it and retrieves it, to promptly have it chucked under the bed by Mum again. And that's on day 3... But then, the euipment is ingenious, all handmade wooden stuff, like walking frames, graded standing frames, slanted boards to enable the cild to play laying on his tummy when he can't control the neck muscles ect. The tactile stuff is simply sand and some seeds (they are incredibly soft, velvet coated) - does the job fine. I'll be starting to go there the week after next for a few afternoons a week to help and to observe. Mixed feelings about that one.

Have you ever wondered through a 'ethnic minority' neighbourhood and thought, why on earth those guys don't integrate a bit better? Try to learn the lingo, mix with the locals ect? Well, I am telling you - I love being in an area where mostly muzungus (europeans) live. Africa can be such a strange place - for one, one is clearly the exception and people in the street will either stare or try to drag you into their shop. And there are no real sidewalks, thieves get burnt at the stake, driving is hair rising (or even just trying to cross the streets), liver lies next to piles of lard on wooden blocks and are getting covered in flies perpetually ect. So, coming home to a place wehy they speak your language, do your food, know what you're talking about when you mention washing mashines is a nice thing. And going to the muzungu food shop. Wow, look, Weetabix. And you don't get hit with the obligatory 'muzungu tax', i.e. three times the price of what the seller quotes a local. The price is fixed. On display. Yes it's more expensive, but it's the same for everyone and everyday. Well, I can much better grasp now why immigrants would hang around each other. BEing lonely is bad enough, being lonely in a foreign country is frankly shite.

Greetings and such things. There is a 5 minute ritual to be observed when meeting people. Depending on their age and respectability you chose (hopefully) the right phrase and then you tell them how the morning, the evening, the night ect has been. For the elders: Shikamoo - literally, I touch your feet. Teh other then will reply Marhaba - get of the floor. And if you're in a Masai village, the children will bow in front of you and expect you to touch their head. Great stuff if you don't know about it and you think the little boy is about to throw up on your feet any minute. But you get the hang of of it rather fast. Then there is mambo vip, reply poa or shwari or safi and then there is the habari list of mornings and evenings ect to which you say nzuri. Good. But then you come up with the next question ect. 3 weks in and I still get confused. Oh, and when you enter a house you call 'hodi' and wait for the 'karibu' bit. Only then may you proceed. But, hey, at least I know how to order a cold beer!

Talking of which - the beer is nice. There's the KIlimanjaro, the Safari, the Tusker and some other animal named one. All of them a re nice. The first time when I went out I wanted a Kili but in my flustered state I ordered a Himalaya. Well, a big mountain is a big mountain, right?

'Westerners have a button for everything" - statment of my friend's Tanzanian boyfriend on seeing the dryer being turned on when on his visit in America. Our laundry gets done by one of the maids. The food preparation is done by 2 cooks (peel and cut and whathaveyou veg for 22 peole, cook on 2 gas rings), the hostel also employs a gardener and 3 night watchmen. Replace all that electrical goods and you have to sack at least 4 people. I can see how the industrial revolution was a big pain in the arse for labourers. And also, where obesety comes from. NOt many people are fat here...

Fat actually is a neutral statement if not a compliment. You obviously ar wealthy and healthy and people like to see it. The girls in the orphanage wobbled my bingo wings and chirped with delight. I did not, really.

One last thing - along the lines of this continent being so damn full of opposites - you can wal around town fairly unmolested (see above) and usually nothing gets tolen. But at night - under no circumstances are we allowed to walk in the darkness. No one should, really. Machete toting Masai and other chancers are about and ready to take it all of you. Your life included. And all the muzungu houses have black watch men as an unguraded house is in invitation and to help yourself to the goods. And if you get in the way you get shot. Infuruatingly frustrating. Err, not the being shot bit, that too, but the danger in general.

Ok, that's me for today, went out partying last night and need to catch up on sleep. Nightclubs are really great, by the way. Chilled, rhythmical music, sometimes openair and everyone is boogying. They just know how to...

announcement

ella_out_there — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 22:29:00 GMT

Hi there - just a quick one: as Africa is sooo far away, and there is soooo much to see and the air tickets are sooo expensive, and I am rather enjoying this experience I thought, I might as well hang around for a bit longer. So, new coming home date is 4 Aug, the party will have to be rescheduled accordingly. More soon. Promise. Hope you're all enjoying your summer. And, Gill, sparrows CAN be very exciting! xxx

dance on the volcano

ella_out_there — Sat, 28 Jun 2008 18:29:00 GMT

warning - this is along one and ends suddenly. I wrote it on Sinead's laptop while wating for the high temperature to go down (mine, not the lap top's. Yes, I cought a bad cold, caused by all the dust and smoke. I'm better now but the laptop is out of battery and it's freezing in the internet cafe, so I'll continue this one some other day)

This is what the guide book says about Lake Natron and the volcano: ‘a desert rat’s haven’, ‘hellishly hot’ and ‘bizarrely beautiful’. Why I still went I have no idea. The Irish girl who owns the hostel said it was her favourite place, better than the Serengeti or the other wild life reserves. Ok, she probably knows best. Plus it sounded a great adventure. Hire a car and driver, buy your own food and spend 4 days on the road. With 5 other girls from the hostel. So, ok, off we set on Sunday on a trip that’s no farther than actually 220 km but takes about 8 hrs. Of courses, only the first 100 km are tarred, the rest is dirt roads. Or dusty bits around huge holes. The landscape changed form lush, overwhelming green with Banana trees and absurdly colourful flowers on rich, red soil to savannah, lower shrubs, yellow-ish grass and Acacia trees. Then from that to thorny shrubs, washed-out yellow, dry grass and grey dust. A landscape so unlike anything I have ever seen, it has me squashed in amazement against the bus window all the time. At least like this I manage to spot quite a few equally fascinating creatures. Zebras, impalas, ostriches, wildebeests and even two giraffes were good enough to garnish our trip. When we stop for a toilet break, fairly deep into the grey and dusty zone, it hits me – this is hell. It is unbelievably hot, dry, inhospitable and totally remote. Masaivillage.com (check it out – this really exists!) is a few hours drive back along the bumpy road and in front of us is just a huge volcano, a volcanic landscape, hot as lava itself and lake Natron, which is as salty as the Dead Sea. But of course, has the biggest flamingo population worldwide. Ok, as walking back is not really an option, I get back into the bus and hope for the fast passage of the 3 days ahead of me. We pass a few more mud huts, hers of goats, cows and donkeys, make our way through dry river beds and through one ‘active’ river and finally reach the camping site. Which, wo-hoo, is run by Germans, very well maintained, with plenty of trees and, even more wo-hoo, has a sit-down flush toilet. This is now particularly important to me as since that morning I have joined the ‘shits brigade’. Apparently it’s pretty unavoidable out here, but I could have done with it being some other time, really. Hey-ho. So, we unpack, set up the tents and get the stuff ready for dinner. Erm, nice, but no fire wood. Off we trundle to find appropriately. And we come up with a good amount and Maggie starts the fire. No, she starts the smoke. 30 mins later, the fire follows. But as the fire place is under a low thatched roof, the smoke lingers and it’s near enough impossible to actually see anything. But considering by now it’s pitch black, that doesn’t really matter. We feel our way through the cooking activity and end up with quite an edible dinner. And then it’s bed time. Sleeping bag time. Someone told us it would be very cold out there – considering the heat during the day and what have you. So we all came with thermals and extra blankets. But of course, it is still fucking roasting and the air in the tents is sticky. Anyway, the trip was exhausting enough and we fall asleep to the unfamiliar sounds of an African night. Rather familiar tho is the morning chorus! Of sorts. The birds are those ones that build little ‘bulbs’ of straw and grass in the trees, dangling from the branches like Christmas decoration. And aren’t the little bleeders proud of their handy work … at 6 am they pronounce to their neighbours and to the rest of the world that they are up. And so should bloody be everybody else. Reaction to their enthusiasm were pretty similar all round but Ifa’s comment summs it up nicely –‘shoot the feckers!’.

Another insulting fact is that the pigeons here keep shouting ‘muzunguuuu, muzunguuuu’. Well, at least that’s what it sounds to my ears and I am rather sick of it. But I might be mistaken because sometimes it actually sounds like ‘baboon, baboon’.

Other earliles include bats which seem to get ready for bed by way of hanging from the branches, cleaning their wings and then taking off to wherever they ‘hang out’ during the day. I must admit, that was one fascinating morning. And it was still a bearable temperature. That soon changed, especially with the next attempt to get the fire going for breakfast. More smoke. But we got there. Then we took off to the village to hire a guide to take us on the Riff Valley Walk. Now, Riff Valley Walk – does that sound steep and massively strenuous to you? I was all up for a walk in a shady valley, heading for he waterfalls. But ziz was not to be… The guide took briskly off onto the hill. A steep hill. At 11 am. In a place already known to us as ‘hellishly hot’. After 1 ½ hrs up through a barren landscape, volcanic in origin and in appearance, my lungs felt like they had turned inside out. Plus, the feeling to have to empty your guts every 30 mins did not help to endear the situation to me. So decided to opt out and either wait 4 the others to return or to make my own way down. Which would have been my preferred option had it not been for the Maasai. They scared the living daylight out of me. Honestly. They look soooo alien! In their bright red, purple and blue blankets, held together by a leather belt from which dangles the machete, their tribal scaring and the ears pierced to lacey underwear, they are intimidating. Only very, very few speak English and heir main point of contact with the muzungus is for trade. Well. They trade bangles and other beady stuff for money. Aggressively. They shove their goods in front of you, picking at your arm ‘here, looki, looki, here!’ and will think nothing o stripping naked if you happened to like their gear. And nothing will deter them. Or, they have a go at you for using the same path as their donkeys. No, honestly, call me weak, but they intimidate me.

Thankfully Carmen stayed with me and so we settled for a little break before the descent. Which promptly attracted a Maasai warrior, driving his donkeys down to the village. After the exchange of greetings he just stood there. And stood and stood and stood. He actually did not offer anything to sell nor did he actually ask for anything. He was just standing there, looking at us. Carmen and I talked to each other, hoping maybe he’d get bored but no, he persisted. So, feeling increasingly uncomfortable, we dug out our few Swahili words and tried to have a conversation. Kadogo (coz we can ask for a person’s name, don’t you know) quite got into his role as our teacher and finally offered to have his picture taken. For free. And then Carmen showed him her family pictures and we were a happy little bunch. Then I really, really needed the bush again and we took our leave, gave him my pen as present (which he didn’t quite understand because he doesn’t seem to be able to read or write) and trundled off. And so did he. That was a really nice experience. And it killed nearly 2 hours. We finally made our way down and shortly after the others arrived and we had a cold drink in the village shop and after fighting off the salesmen and women we drove off. On to Lake Natron. A salty hell. A hot piercing wind swept us from the bus on a 30 mins walk to the edge of the water where, indeed, hundreds of Flamingoes gather. They stink. But of course, they look very nice, too.

Gallery: volcano 2

ella_out_there — Sat, 28 Jun 2008 18:19:00 GMT

Gallery: volcano 1

ella_out_there — Sat, 28 Jun 2008 18:12:00 GMT

up and down

ella_out_there — Sat, 21 Jun 2008 17:28:00 GMT

Right, apologies for the long silence.... I have been trying to find my feet, my project, my money, my favourite beer and also the sun. This might be a consolation to you - it's freezing here. No sun (seen it maybe three times), heavy clouds, quite a bit of rain.... ok, yes, it's winter here but still, this is taking the mickey. I bet you'll all be tanned and full of sunshine and I will have to come home to get some warmth. Apparently it's the coldest ever anyone has Tanzania known to be at this time of year. But, hey-ho, it's still great and actually, when the sun shines it gets so humid that I quietly prefer it to be a bit on the cooler side.

Tsk, enuff of the weather. I think it has now decided that I'd be placed with the project I was originally assigned to (which is nice) and also with the orphanage. So, 3 days a week I;ll be doing some vocational training in the newly renovated coffee shop (many happy hours spent in there painting, cleaning, scrubbing ect), i.e. hygiene, food preparation, customer skills ect, and 3 days a week I'll be entertaining the kids at the orphanage. Which sometimes is very amusing but at other times nerve recking. Some of them are rough, bullies, pushy and a few of the older boys will try to feel us up. Which in it self is a bit strage but even more so as they look like 9 yr olds but are actually 14. But, hey, a stern look and a sharp 'hapana' (no) usually does the trick. It's sports day today, that should be fun...

In terms of settling in - usually it's really exciting. The smells, the views, the things, the food (grilled goat - wow, never thought I like it but it's fantastic!) - it's amazing. I've met a few Tanzanians (through couchsurfing and a friend) and being with them is just very nice and relaxed and good fun. And they will look after their mzungu (white) friends. Which, sadly, is necessary. No-one walks even the shortest distance after sun down. Massai guys will use their machete on anyone who not willingly parts with their goods. Or just because. So, you grab a taxi. And you negotiate the price FIRST. Because, being a stupid mzungu, you might as well pay the mzungu tax - at least double the price. Yesterday on a dala-dala they tried to charge us just that. Everyone else paid 300 but he wanted 600 from us. Because the prices had gone up since last time. That's an hour ago. Fucking inflation, ey? We argued it and refused and got finally the correct change back but it's annoying. And being shouted at is annoying. 'Mzungu, mzungu!' Oh, really, I am white? I am so greatful having that pointed out to me 100 times a day.... Ah, I had a bad day yesterday. But, ok, I was hungover. Still, it's fucking annoying, yes, so it is. But, hey, this is not home and it's an eye-opener.

And - a circumcision is GBP 2.50, 250 pounds feed 42 children for a month in secondary school, 1.25 pays for a month's education ... that's an eye opener as well. It's hair raising and humbling. So, for the cost of 1 pint I could send two children to school here. Brrr. I might just try and keep that in mind and only drink every other day. And the lack of organisation and support is infuriating. There is money in the country, of course, but guess where that lingers.... a friend tried to change her visa and the 'fee' went up from 400 to 600 USD from one day to the next. A-ha.

Anyway, I'm off to enjoy my sports day with the kids now. Oh, and I'll try to change my ticket to come back 1 August. Yup, I'd lurve to stay on.

And tomorrow I'm off to Lake Natron, Flamingo watching and avoiding being rained on by lava.

So, watch this space and I'll be back for more stories (I hope)

Gallery: faces

ella_out_there — Sat, 21 Jun 2008 17:15:00 GMT

Gallery: the projects

ella_out_there — Sat, 21 Jun 2008 17:02:00 GMT

Gallery: the optics

ella_out_there — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 23:12:00 GMT

The first day

ella_out_there — Fri, 13 Jun 2008 17:04:00 GMT

Ok, here we are. After a great first night's sleep I had a fantastic day wandering around town, spending money on essentials (wrap around blankets/skirts/scarfs ect) and just drifting along. Very little hasle from people trying to sell things and if so they are easily persuaded that you really don't want a taxi or a painting at 6 times the going rate. In the afternoon I went on a dala-dala to go to the orphanage project where they are needing people at the moment. 70 kids aged 3-16 needing education and attention. Right, before I carry on, here comes the thoughtful bit. Do we really make a difference? Are we just self-indulgent idiots trying to do good for 6 weeks to cover up the fact that I have been a selfish twat for the remaining thousands of weeks of my life? It's really weird, driving through this deprived village, mud huts in different stages of decay, cowns and goats all over the place, people in torn clothes, wandering around, not much meaningful and purpuseful occupation to be carried out. The kids in the orphanage in even dirtier clothes, no shoes, with even less to do. There's education but not a lot and the official village school is not exactly an academic institution. So, 70 kids with a place to stay for now but no real future and no place to go once they hit 18. So, what are the white westerners, the mzungi, doing here, scattering a bit of English and Maths and organising a game of football.... I felt such a fraud walking through the village to the playing field, sanctimonious and patronizing. But a volunteer told me that although we might not make a huge difference for the future, for the MOMENT those kids get some attention. Something they'd have to do without if there weren't any volunteers. So, playing 'stand-off' with them or just entertaining them by getting the language wrong (one of the volunteers counted to 10, well, she tried, counted to 9 and then said kumA instead of kumI - had the kids in stitches, as kuma means vagina. No less...) is a worthwhile thing. Still, it feels a bit proposterous. But no-one else form the village does it, so, yes, they are glad about the volunteers.

Pics are in the camera, hope to be able to put them on over t'weekend. And, just to make you feel smug - it's overcast and actually quite cool here. twas warmer in M/cr the day I left ...

Kwa Heri for now (swaheli for bye, obviously, and I only can remember because it sounds like 'quite hairy')