Adventures on Public Transportation Volume IV. "The Cheater"

Every evening I take a bus and a dala dala to get home from work and this day was no different. After work I followed the winding dirt road to my bus stop and waited for the bus that I already knew would be full. When the bus pulls up I shove my way as far in as possible but still end up with half my body hanging out of the open doorway. I notice the conductor staring at me and see the glint of recognition is his eyes. Something about my appearance has tipped him off that I am a foreigner. The driver pulls off and I squint my eyes against the smoggy breeze and watch the city roll by. A few stops later enough people have gotten off for me find an empty seat. I plant my feet and wiggle my buttocks into the narrow space between the wide hips of two Mamas. The conductor informs us that it’s time to pay up, by way of his usual method of making kissy noises and jingling change at the passengers and we begin to dig in purses and shirt pockets looking for busfare. The conductor shakes his handful of change at each passenger one at a time. I watch as each person pays their 250 Tshs and get change if necessary. When he gets to me I hand him a 500 Tshs note because I haven’t got anything smaller. He hands me back a single coin worth 200 Tshs. I wait patiently for my other 50 Tshs.

The conductor continues to collect the fare from the other passengers and I watch his hand, counting at least five 50 Tshs pieces. Wondering why I haven’t received all the change due to me I get the conductor's attention and tell him, “Bado hamsini.” (You still owe me 50 shillings.) He turns and goes back to collecting change from the other passengers. When I repeat myself loudly he pretends not to hear.

I put two and two together and realize I am being cheated. The conductors thinks that he can take advantage of me because I am foreign. I don’t know if he thinks I don’t know the cost of a bus ride, or that I won’t recognize I’ve been shorted on my change but anger bubbles up my back and steams out of my collar. I’ve had a long day at work and it’s already been an exercise in patience to try to keep my mood even while cramming myself into an overcrowded bus that offers the scent of body odor instead of air conditioning. I am not in the mood for bull shit. My mind races as I try to decide what to do and I vow to myself to get the rest of my change. The coin is only worth about three American cents but I will not be taken advantage of. I know the other people won’t understand why I’m making a fuss over 50 shillings, so I decide to wait until we pull into the station at the end of the line and everyone clears out, then I’ll confront the guy. When we reach the station my legs wobble with anger when I stand up to crawl out of the bus. When the other passengers have cleared I decide on complete aggression, set my jaw and approach the conductor demanding,“Nipe hamsini yangu.” (Give my my 50 shillings)

“Sina” he lies. (I don’t have it.)

“Mwongo!” I accuse (liar!)

He reaches into his pocket and shows me a handful of coins in an attempt to “prove” his lie, but I spot a 50 shilling piece and plunge my hand into the pile of coins. I snatch the coin from him and shove it in his face.

“Asante” I say sarcastically. (Thank you). He is rude enough to laugh at my anger.

I am taller than him and I stand there for a second staring him dead in the eye. I let him feel the anger radiating off my form and hope that he has the decency to be ashamed. I look him over from head to toe and shake my head at the sight of him before I walk away. I am still angry as I blow past the men trying to sell me second hand clothing and look for my connecting bus, but I am proud of myself for speaking up. I sigh. It's going to be a long year.

Kipepeo

I am slightly ashamed that it has taken me so long to get to the beach. I've been in TZ for about a month now and I took my first trip to the beach yesterday. I went to Kipepeo Beach in Kigamboni for the first time and had an unbelievable day.

The sun was on duty, the breeze was pleasant and the Indian Ocean was as blue and beautiful as always. Seeing it again felt like visiting an old friend. The shore was full of an interesting mix of tourists and local people and it was definitely alive but not annoyingly overcrowded. Within minutes of arriving we witnessed two local men herding their cattle across the beach. I got quite a kick out of seeing cows on the beach so we took a few pictures. After the cows blew through we decided to move down the beach to get closer to the music coming from the bungalows and bars linked across the shore. Marnie and I stripped off our clothes, spread out our kangas and kitenges and settled down in the sand. It wasn't long before we made a friend.

She asked us to watch her things while she went for a swim. When she got back we discovered she lived in Mozambique doing humanitarian work but was originally from Brazil. She was about 30 years old and had a charming Portugese accent. The three of us had ice cream and chatted about Brazil, TZ, and life in general. I finally got tired of squinting and flagged down a man selling straw hats. I've always been weary of wide brim hats b/c I've always felt like they're for moms, but my face was beginning to hurt from being squenched up and the sunglasses seller was nowhere in sight. I shelled out 3,000 Tshs for a straw hat that Marnie described as "Amish style". To my surprise I felt cool with it on. The hat man was also selling kangas, so Angela and I began to search through them for good saying and patterns. I chose a blue and yellow zig zag striped one with a black polka dot border (busy! I know) that read "Nakuvika pete yangu, uwe mchumba wangu." (I'm giving you my ring to wear, be my fiancee." Angela settled on a green and black one that reminded her to never undertake difficult tasks alone.

Angela shared with me a bit of local wisdom she had picked up- the person may think he chooses the kanga, but really the kanga chooses the person. The message we get on our kanga is the one we need at the moment. We were evaluating our own kanga choices when a man approaches riding the infamous camel. I had heard the tales of 2,000 shilling camel rides at Kipepeo beach and I had long ago decided that if I saw the camel I would indeed ride it. I almost melted into the sand with excitement when the camel actually materialized. I stayed with our stuff and snapped pictures while Marnie rode first, then I climbed up into the damp saddle settled atop the camel's hump for my turn.

"Shika vizuri!" (Hold on tight!) the camel man told me and I saw why when the camel stood up pitching my body at a sharp 45 degree angle. After the initial effort of hoisting itself up, the camel strolled up and down the shore and looked out at the people littering the beach. Small children offered the camel ice cream cones and adults stared like I had lost my last shard of common sense. I just held onto the Amish hat with one hand and grinned until I thought my cheeks would crack into pieces and fall off.

We were supposed to be meeting a group of the Princeton kids there but one of them had stepped on a sea urchin and been rushed to the hospital before we arrived. Consequently, Marnie and I had decided against venturing into the water, but after chatting with Angela about the Brazilian goddess of the sea and the healing powers of the ocean, I decided a dip in the warm, salty water might be exactly what I needed. Keeping an eye out for sea urchins and jellyfish, I waded in up to my ankles hoping it would be enough to cleanse my soul. I stood there soaking in the rush of the ocean, the tide sucking my feet into the sand, the sun warming my skin and the laughter and music carrying on the breeze and I couldn't resist going out farther. Sea urchins or no sea urchins I went in up to my neck and in a few minutes I was surrounded by a friendly circle of local people wanting to know where I was from and what I was doing in Dar es Salaam. Before I knew it I had a local girl holding each of my hands (a sign of friendship) and asking for my phone number. I just smiled and chatted away in swahili, bobbing up and down in the ocean and watching the sun settle lower in the sky.

After drying off on the shore and exchanging numbers with all my new friends it was time to go. Angela, Marnie and I piled into the back of a Bajaj and headed back to the ferry. At home I stuffed myself with good food, chatted about the sea urchin mishap, washed the sand out of my crannies and tucked my drowsy little self under my mosquito net to dream about floating in the indian ocean with a camel.

HUUUUGE update! Part III

III. Dodoma

On Monday I showed up at my office ready to begin my first workweek. Within half an hour of my arrival I was told that I would be accompanying a program manager and a finance manager on a trip to the field. They were checking up on some projects and they thought it would be a good idea for me to tag along and witness the actual impact of all that bureaucracy and grant writing. I admit that I was worried when I realized we were headed to a rural area, but I figured that even if the trip was terrible it would be better than being alone with my thoughts (especially when those thoughts were becoming increasingly negative.)

On Tuesday I showed up to work at 8 a.m. with my big black duffel packed full of comfortable clothing and hand sanitizer and sat patiently at my desk waiting for our 9 a.m. take off time to roll around. Of course, since I’m in Africa, 9 o’clock came and went w/out so much as a mention of the trip. After my third cup of chai maziwa (tea w/milk) I decided to venture out of my “office” to find out what was going on. I ran into the program manager and he explained that the company car we were taking was having some trouble and had been taken to the garage by the driver. The program director directed me to the finance office where I was told to sign on the dotted line and handed 340,000 Tshs (Tanzanian Shillings) for accommodations and sundries. By 1 o’clock I was strapped into the front seat of the company’s Land Cruiser next to Jamaal, our driver. Because the steering wheel is on the right, I’m sitting on the left and I can’t get used to it.

Vignettes from the field

Day 1- Driving to Dodoma

As we get farther and farther away from the familiar parts of the city, my mind begins to race. I imagine every what-if scenario possible. I ask my co-workers to describe Dodoma. It’s between 6-8 hours away they tell me and since it’s a desert its very cold there. To my American mind this makes no since. Cold in a desert? “Just wait. You’ll see,” they say. I wonder if the clothing I packed will be warm enough. I close my eyes and sit back in the seat. I pray that we won’t stay in some unrefined bush hotel with no electricity or water. The program manager takes a break from chattering in Swahili to address me in English and it’s like he read my mind when he says, “You look worried. Don’t worry. We’re not going to sleep under a tree.”

When we get out of the congested heart of the city Jamaal takes us up to 140 km/h (87 mph) and the car falls into a comfortable silence. We begin to brake when we come up on a tractor trailer moving so slowly that it seems to be sleepwalking. Jamaal eases the car to the right, closer to the double yellow lines separating us from oncoming traffic. Then driving on the wrong side of the road we pass the truck. No one else in the car seems surprised and I realize that this is normal TZ driving. Passing on the wrong side of the road. Ok, cool. I get used to it and it’s a good thing too, b/c we do a lot of it in the days to come.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Have you eaten lunch?” the program manager asks me from the backseat.

“No”, I answer. I hadn’t eaten anything that day except for the three cups of tea I had in the office.

“Would you like us to stop for food?” he follows up.

“No”, I repeat.

“Are you sure? It’s not a problem.”

“I’m okay. I’m just not hungry,” I say.

I look at the driver for help, but he just stares straight ahead, driving on the wrong side of the road. The program manager gives up and sits back in his seat. The air conditioner in the car is not working, and between the moist heat building up and the men’s steady stream of Swahili I begin to nod off. I’m sleeping lightly with my novel dangling from my hand when the program manager frantically shakes me awake shoving a package of cookies into the front seat.

“You must be so hungry. We can’t have you fainting on us. Here eat this biscuit. I’m a medical doctor. You must eat.”

I start to explain that I was only sleeping but I think better of it and stuff a cookie into my mouth. When we stop at a roadside market thirty minutes later he buys me a Coke with Arabic writing on the can.

“Drink this. It’ll bring your blood sugar up.”

My blood sugar is just fine, but I comply.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When I look up again I find that the sights of the city have given way to the wonderous pinks and oranges of an African sunset. The roadside vendors have been replaced with women carrying babies tied to their backs with colorful kangas and kitenges. The women are weighted to the ground with buckets piled three high, bundles of firewood, and tubs full of fresh fruits and vegetables for sale. Dusty old men wheel bicycles topped with oranges, or mountains of foam padding, or muslim women riding side saddle with their hijabs blowing in the wind. Beyond the foot traffic at the edge of road, blurred fields of wild sunflowers, tobacco crops and baobab trees roll by. I remember that they told me Dodoma is cold and I glance at the thermometer on the dashboard. The outside temperature has dropped from 35degrees Celsius (95 degrees Fahrenheit) in the city to 25 (77 Fahrenheit) and I wonder how much further it will go. The program manager pipes up again.

“Have you ever been to Tanzania before,” he asks.

“Yeah. I spent two months is Dar last summer,” I reply.

“Do you speak Swahili?”

“ A little. I studied it for five semesters. I can get around the city by myself.” I tell him.

“Do you understand what we’re saying in the car?”

“Parts of it,” I say. “You guys are speaking really fast.”

“Have you traveled around Tanzania a lot?”

“I’ve only been to Dar, Morogoro, and Zanzibar,” I answer.

“That’s not a lot. You must have a really hard time not knowing anything about the country,” he tells me.

He pauses then adds, “I don’t envy you.”

His comment reeks of complacency. If you don’t envy me, brother, you’re cracked. This is the biggest adventure of my life. I’m living independently in a country I really love—a place with such a rich culture and a deep history. Every day is a mystery and the novelty never wears off. I might be feeling my way around in the dark but I’m hardly afraid, and the light that does seep in is beautiful.

Doesn't he ever get that restless feeling that sneaks up on me? Doesn't he ever feel like he's in a cage that's a little too small?

“Have you ever been to the U.S.,” I ask.

“No.”

“Aren’t you curious about the rest of the world?,” I try again.

“No.”

No, then. I suppose he doesn't.

TO BE CONTINUED..

HUUUUGE update! Part II

II. Adventures on public transportation:

Volume I. “The Crotch”

On Sunday I took the bus from my house in Msasani to visit the family I’ll be staying with over by the University of Dar. A male co-worker went with me. It started off innocently enough. Since I live at the end of the bus line the bus was empty when my friend and I got on, but after a few stops it became sardine-can full. My friend was sitting with the window on his right and me on his left side. I had my friend on my right side and the aisle on my left. As the bus became more crowded people began to stand in the aisle and hold on the bars overhead. The bus stops at Namanga and even more people get on. A man standing in the aisle shifts closer to me to make room for the other passengers, effectively positioning his waist/ crotch area about a foot away from my head. I tell myself that he can’t help it b/c the bus is crowded, but still I turn my head and look across my friend and out the window so that I won’t have to stare at this guys crotch for the whole ride. Then it happens. Even though no one else gets on the bus the guy shifts so that his hip is touching my shoulder, then—no lie—he takes a step to his left and pushes his pelvis forward so that his penis is in FULL CONTACT with my arm. No bullshit.

So I’m squirming and shifting in my seat trying to get away from this man, but since the bus is already like safety hazard full there’s not really anywhere for me to go. My friend asks what’s wrong but English is not his first language so whispering discreetly is out of the question and I’m not about to inform the whole bus that this man has his junk on my arm. After about 3 min of trying unsuccessfully to maneuver myself into a less offensive position, I start to realize that this is no unfortunate result of overcrowding. This man is purposely rubbing his penis on my arm. Great, just great. So I turn to face the guy’s crotch then look up and try to make eye contact.

“Samahani, Bwana,” I say quietly, “Unaweza kusogea kidogo?” (Excuse me, Sir. Can you move a little bit?)

He looks down at me, and then right back out the window without answering. I’m trying to think of the Swahili word for “penis” so that I can ask my male friend to intervene when the bus stops and “penis guy” shimmies out and walks off into the dust cloud surrounding the bus. I am left sitting there, next to my clueless friend, fuming at the audacity of this man.

Volume II. “The Baby”

On the same day, on the same bus, a few stops later, more people get on. (What’s new, right?) The door closes, and a guy in his mid twenties, with a toddler loosely slung over his right hip runs along side the bus, which by this time has begun to pull away from the stop. The conductor opens the door and several sets of African socialist hands grab onto the man’s clothing and hoist him and the baby into the bus. The man is able to wiggle himself into a space large enough for him to place at least one foot on the floor of the bus and with one hand holding on to the overhead bar and one arm supporting the shy toddler, the man looks around the bus. His gaze falls on me and he says, “Eti, dada. Chukua mtoto, eh?” (Say, sister. Would you mind holding my baby?) I take so long to reply that my friend thinks I’ve failed to understand this man’s Swahili.

“He say he need you to hold baby”, he translates for me. Looking at the man standing on the tippy toes of one foot and struggling not to spill the toddler, my sympathy mechanism kicks in and I shift my own things to my friends lap and reply, “Haina shida. Unimpe.” (No problem. Give him to me). He swings the toddler down by one arm and I catch him in the ample skirt of my dress. His curly hair tickles my nose and even though-- judging by his size-- he must be old enough to walk and talk by now, he stills smells of delicate baby. I can’t help but cradle the child to my chest. At first his abs tighten in resistance, but then he nestles into my embrace and lazily slips a pudgy little arm around my waist. He locks his big brown eyes on mine. My heart bubbles up and spills over like a shaken soda. I feel my feminist motherhood-is-a-patriarchal-ploy-to-keep-women-subordinate ideologies breaking down, and just as I’m thinking that maybe I will have babies of my own (somewhere is the very distant future), the kid burst out crying.

“Baba? Baba?” (Dad? Dad?)

He turns the brown eyes to his dad and stretches both of his fleshy little arms upwards. Although the dad is wobbling around the bus like gelatin, his eyes go all soft and sympathetic and he swoops the kid out of my lap onto his bony hip and just like that my wrinkly, slightly sweaty lap is empty. As if I don’t feel guilty enough for sneaking cuddles off someone else’s kid the toddler creases his brow and stuffs his thumb in his mouth, locking his eyes on me in an accusatory glare. As punishment for the non-consensual snuggle I must endure the kid’s stare all the way to the Mwenge bus station. I guess “no” really does mean “no”, —even if he acts like he wants it.

Volume III. “Walking”

Today I walked home from work. I walked until I felt pain the size of oranges glowing in my joints, and then I walked some more. Enough coins to pay bus fare five times tinkled in my pocket but I didn’t flag down any of the buses speeding by. It was a slow wandering gait. I took me nearly an hour to get home. The secret to walking along the bumpy, sandy, dirt roads of Africa is in the hips. After stumbling several times I look around me and begin to imitate the lazy but graceful walk of TZ ladies. You have to not need your knees so much. Pull the weight from your ankles up to your waist and let the gentle rocking of your hips swing your long legs out in front of you. Swish yourself right over the pitiful road.

“I’m sorry,” the road says if you listen closely. “I’m sorry for the sand and pebbles in your shoes and my broken places where you stumble. I’m sorry, Sister, to add to your load.”

I feel sorry for the road. It serves as a path, bed, table, waste receptacle, and seat to every passerby. No wonder it is worn and crumbling.

When the men start to call after me I know it is time to shake the clouds out of my hair and quicken my pace. I don’t exactly know the way but I just keep looking for the buses coming from Msasani and sure enough I reach the corner with the big sign for the Irish Pub.

I unlock the door to my room, sit on the bed and fold my feet under me on the white sheet. I look down at my feet swathed in thick dust and sigh. At least I’ll sleep well tonight.

HUUUUGE update!

So I’m back from my trip to Dodoma and of course I’m going to talk about that (at length) but first, some updates. A lot happened in the past few days, but since I didn’t have my computer with me I have a lot to catch you guys up on. If you were looking for ways to procrastinate, you’re in luck b/c today you guys get the 3-for-the-price-of-1 blog post special :~) If not, then pick and choose the parts you want to read from the bolded headings.

This update is sooo big it needs a table of contents:

Post I. Updates

Post II. A little segment I like to call "Adventures on Public Transportation"

Post III. All about Dodoma

I. UPDATES

Housing situation:

I’ve decided I just really didn’t like where I was living and I didn’t want to stay there all year so I got in contact with the family I stayed with last summer and now I’m going to live there. I’m moving on the 13^th and I can’t wait. Their house is super nice (esp. compared to where I’m staying now) and I’ll get to come home to nice homemade meals instead of eating out every meal (like I’ve been doing) or having to hustle groceries on the crowded bus and cook dinner after a long day at work. Plus—wait for it—they have a washing machine!!!!!! I can’t tell you how happy I am to be saved from a year’s worth of laundry done by hand! Also, there’s a maid, guard, etc. Basically all the same amenities as the place I’m staying in now but in a much nicer house, with nicer (read: less creepy) inhabitants, slightly cheaper rent, and in a part of the city I prefer. The only drawback is that it’s a little farther from my office so instead of the 5-10 min taxi to and from work, it’ll be a 20-30 min bus, but I have a co-worker who lives nearby and can accompany me on the commute. But really, either way it’s a sacrifice I’m more than willing to make. Now…I just have to work up the nerve to tell my landlord that I’m outta here after only two weeks….

That whole sadness/ loneliness thing:

Since I was on a five-day business trip I didn’t have much time to sit around and think about how lonely I was and how much I miss you guys. Five days of constant company and activity have gone a long way in terms of improving my mood. In addition to the trip, several heart2hearts with my best friends in TZ also helped tremendously.

On Sunday evening my best guy friends from TZ came over to hang out and he wanted to see pictures of my friends and family. At first I was a little wary b/c I thought looking at them might make me upset all over again. But I took a deep breath and scrolled through my iPhoto library with him. For the first time since I got here looking at pictures and videos of you guys doesn’t make my heart ache. Instead of having my chest tighten and my eyes fill with tears a huge grin spreads across my face. After my friend left, I decided that I’m finally in a place to read the bundle of cards and letters I couldn’t look at before w/ out getting choked up. So I spent an hour reading over the notes, poem, letters and memories you guys sent with me and I smiled the whole time. The panic and yearning induced by thoughts of home have been replaced with simple non-threatening nostalgia.

So after a low period I’m back to being super excited about living in Dar. I’m even starting to feel like a year might not be long enough to take it all in. I’m back to feeling like the luckiest person on earth. The gratitude I feel at being given this opportunity is almost too big to fit in my heart.

Work:

I started work last Monday but then I went on a five-day trip the very next day so I haven’t actually spent much time in the office yet. Today (Monday the 6th) was my second day in the office. I got my first assignment today. I’ve been asked to create a brochure/pamphlet outlining one of Africare’s programs. I completed all the text today. Formatting and images are left for another day. Tomorrow is a public holiday called “Saba saba” (“seven seven” as in July 7^th) so my office is closed. (Yay for a day off in the middle of the week!) Saba saba is a fair trade market day where vendors come from all over Africa to sell goods in a ridiculously huge open air market. Since I’ve been not feeling so great I doubt that I’ll venture into the crowds. I’ll probably just invite some friends over and hang out at the shore all day.

I’m excited about getting my first assignment. It’s a chance to prove myself. Although it’s just creating a brochure I’m hopeful that proving my competence by going above and beyond the call of duty on this project will earn me more involved projects in the future. I pitched my draft to the program manager today (an hour after he assigned me to it) so I’m just waiting for feedback. More work updates to come.

...grab a Snickers

So... after nineteen hours on a plane including stops in Rome and Addis Ababa I've finally reached Dar. The flight was uneventful and I somehow lucked out and got entire rows to myself so I could stretch out and sleep (almost comfortably). I'm glad to say there were minimal tears in the airport and just a few moments of choking up (but not acutally letting tears fall) on the plane.
I got in yesterday around 1p.m. dar time (7 hours ahead of EST) and after a little confusion managed to check in to the hostel where I'll be staying until I can find a more permanent residence. I'm staying right upstairs from some Princeton kids and some students from other schools who are in Dar for the summer. I spent last night getting to know them before heading to bed. Unfortunately, a combination of jet lag and anxiety didn't let me get to sleep before 1 a.m. I woke up somewhere around 4:30 a.m., even though I had taken a sleep aid earlier to prevent that exact thing from happening!
I will admit the first night was pretty rough in terms of anxiety and homesickness but today is much, much better. I sat in on a Swahili class in the morning before heading to the mall to buy a phone (e-mail if you want the number!) and an iron (packing/ handwashing do not mix well with the wrinkle-free clothing necessary for a professional appearance). Then I had lunch with the Princeton kids and now I'm at the mall (no joke) in an internet cafe. I'll probably round out the day by teaching English at Mwenge market tonight.
Walking aroung the city has reminded me of how much I love it here and why I wanted to do this in the first place. The weather is beautiful and the people are just as friendly as I remember. I've arranged a meeting with my boss tomorrow to discuss things like housing and stipend distribution. Since the meeting is pretty early in the morning I might head to the orphanage after that to visit the kids I worked with last year.
I'm thinking about you guys, and looking at your pictures, and just generally feeling like I left my heart in the states but I think once I start my job and get settled in things will be great. Although I'm in Dar it still has yet to sink in. I'm still trying to grasp the fact that I'll be here for A YEAR. I've already taken my first cold shower of many to come, ridden in a dala dala (google image it), and gotten reacclimated to the gekkos creeping across the walls in the night but somehow this still doesn't feel real. Since I'm not going anywhere for a while I guess I better grab a Snickers.