Out of Africa Always Something New

On our way back we spend a night in Stone Town and soak in a bit more of the atmosphere. A chilling visit to the museum with the last remaining slave prison puts this part of the world in historical perspective.

Nick and I make it back to Dodoma in the knick of time to greet our boss and trustees who are visiting our office this week. We spend the next few days giving presentations, attending meetings and discussing the sustainability of our programmes in more depth. It is an eye opening experience and I am glad to have crossed over with the trustees again before wrapping up my time in Dodoma. I can’t believe I’ll be back in the UK in just a few weeks time. These past 8 months have been a unique experience and I feel I have learnt so much. The hardest part is saying goodbye to the team but in a way it feels right and more appropriate than continuing to command my seniors. I can’t help feeling slightly relieved that my departure will make way for local talent to grow and hopefully assert itself. There has been no better time for management reform at Sunseed.

To my surprise and luck I get an article on the clean stoves initiative published the day before flying back home: http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2010/dec/07/letter-from-tanzania-stoves-ostler

Before leaving Tanzania I make a short visit to Mikumi National Park with friends. It has been an old dream of mine to go on safari in East Africa and here I am waving goodbye to the mango chewing baboons, the peeing giraffes, the fighting gazelles and the slumbering pack of lions. On my return to snowy Somerset, dad greets me with a warm embrace and an old Roman saying, EX AFRICA SEMPER ALIQVID NOVI.

One day I hope to return to Tanzania and continue marvelling at this land of joy and hamna shida. And if I ever find myself short of happiness, I will be sure to find it thriving here, still pumping away in the beautiful, serene hearts that beat in Tanzania.

I am flattered if you’re still reading…thanks :)

Zanzibar

Zanzibar. The Black Coast. Land of fresh vanilla pods and roasted coffee beans. Of dates and nuts and jellies. Of swanky Swahili, of both natural and man-made beauty.
As I walk off the ferry accompanied by Thomas, I feel the first lukewarm drops of rain land on my forehead. The rainy season has finally begun. After a day in Dar es Salaam where the heat is inescapable and there is little to do besides spending long hours waiting in shabby cabs to reach the hidden pockets of coolness and entertainment, I feel excited to be on holiday. I hope that it does not rain for Bram and Bjorn who have just arrived in Tanzania for a much needed break from the cold! I only crossed over with them for one night and one morning in Dar. The YWCA, where Thomas and I stayed, was overridden by the grandeur of the Kempinsky where we met up with them the day before. What exuberance! Is this really the same country where the average monthly household income is £28.60? (And that’s excluding rural agriculture which employs 80% of the workforce). Nonetheless we embrace the comfort and elegance and have a jolly time catching up with my friends. It feels surreal to see them out here. It feels just as surreal when two weeks later we find ourselves staying for two nights at the very same Kilimanjaro Hotel, courtesy of dear Bjorn!
We regain our balance on firm ground and perch on our heavy backpacks in Zanzibar we suddenly find ourselves swarmed by ‘official’ tour guides and agents ready to pack us into a minivan and transport us to the other side of the island. With a slight effort to keep our holiday moods untarnished we make it through the buzz and begin to make our own way through the maze of dilapidated stone architecture with Persian, Arabic and Indian elements. They are mostly terraced houses, strangely reminiscent of old European and Latin American colonial city centres.

Neglected yet highly populated alleys of picturesque buildings reveal fabric shops and fruit stalls. Hotels and private homes, and the odd coffee shop here and there. On the steps there are children and women selling grilled octopus tentacles and men cluster around the scattered bao boards or solar powered TVs concentrating on the games. My eye is caught by the ancient heavy wooden doors studded to perfection that glitter from corner to corner.

We reach the source of the strange mixed aroma of cardamom, fresh fish and spice that fills the streets. The market at Stone Town is unconsciously dirty and beautiful at the same time. There are old-fashioned dala-dalas stopping and starting all around it. We opt to cross the island the cheapest way possible and climb onto the right one. Soon we discover this is also going to be the most fun way to reach Uroa beach where we are going to meet up with the rest of our friends. Space does not get in the way of peoples’ hospitable nature. Our luggage is squeezed in and carried jointly by everyone’s laps. Once we get going the clever design of the taxi vans allows for plenty of air to flow through as we speed through lush jungle views. I can’t get enough of this adrenalin rush and as if I were 8, I turn my head to make sure all my hair gets messy and big. We are stopped by the traffic police on a couple of occasions during the hour’s drive and we learn that the guys who jump off just before these stops are cunningly doing so to keep the ticket master out of trouble for over packing the dala dala. They climb back on a few hundred metres after the top and business continues as normal.

Nick, Wendy and Spencer are waiting for us at a nice resort recently opened by a Swiss mother and daughter. Most of their masai employees are also (tipsy) guests and make for lively conversations while we sip our drinks that evening. We spend two days sun-freckling, digging our feet in the fluffy sand, feasting on fresh seafood platters and learning to play ‘celebrity’. The sand looks and feels like processed flour and the sunshine is unconditional. It is the first time I dip into this spectacular Indian Ocean. The water is calm and shallow for a few metres in, creating a band of turquoise glean. It is every bit as beautiful as in the glossy photos printed on honey mooners’ catalogues.

What I like about this place is that it is still a working beach. Fishermen and seaweed farmers abound, as do their sweet and cheeky kids who spend their free time teasing foreign passers by. I selfishly cross my fingers so tourists retain their novel aura for a long time to come.

Dodoma Yosso Sports Centre

In the summer, someone reading this blog, just like you are doing now, picked up on Issa’s story. Dominik was inspired by him and decided he’d like to help. He contacted me out of the blue and we met in London in September. At first he said he’d like to donate a sum of his own money to buy some footballs and sports equipment for the boys to enrol in this year’s local championship. I was pleasantly surprised especially as this came recently after Pepsi did not offer any sponsorship. So on my return to Dodoma I got together with Issa and drew up a serious budget which included not only the sports equipment he needs but his plan to build a canteen for the teenagers to gather safely and eat together. It was a good exercise for both of us to map out a more concrete summary of Issa’s goals for Dodoma Youth Sports Centre. I sent Dominik the document with more photos and information. Two days later we received BRILLIANT news. Dominik did not only honour his pledge to donate but he’d proceeded to fundraise among his work colleagues and friends even placing a collection box at his flat party! He raised over ten times the sum he had originally offered which means that the canteen and brick built centre can replace the open shed where they currently meet. There are enough funds to cover most of the equipment and the building materials. I will endeavour to continue fundraising for the extras next year when I run the Great North Run with my brother.

It was moving to see Dominik’s peers’ comments and words of encouragement in the emails he forwarded. Delighted and still not believing our luck, Issa and I immediately began the process of registering as an official charity. This type of paperwork is a serious hurdle in Tanzania. To this day we continue to work our way over it. Suddenly the date I am due home seems premature. But there is little I can do about that now. So I get Levina and Thomas on board, who together will support Issa in kick starting Dodoma Yosso and overseeing the construction of the premises, the purchase of the equipment and the registration of the team in the local football championship next year. It’s a challenge to feel held up by bureaucratic barriers so soon in the process but the key is to be patient and gracefully take one step at a time. In a way, Dominik made sure the hardest step became the easiest i.e. that of securing enough funds to get going.

The Stove Piper

As if playing the stove missionary in Chinangali 2 weren’t desperate enough, a couple of days later I transform into the Pipe Piper of Chinangali 1. Another frustrating start to a stove demonstration. This time we’re sure to have contacted the monitor, Noah, but he’s been too busy to tell people about today’s event. “I did arrange for a venue though!” he says proudly and leads us to an empty house. Again, CCM campaigning. Not even the owner is around but there are dozens of little pairs of eyes watching us from around the neighbourhood. School is over for the day. After a forty minute sluggish discussion in Chigogo between Justin and Noah about what to do, Noah sets out to gather some adults he thinks may be interested. I decide to escape the sun for a while and wait in the car for people to appear.

An hour passes and I’m glad to have brought some rice and veg in my Tupperware. As I munch and rehydrate in the shaded backseat I begin to notice giggles and “hawaryoos” shyly aimed in my direction. The little pairs of eyes have multiplied and are fixed on me. The windows are closed and I close my own eyes for a while in an attempt to wish I could become invisible and sleep for a while. The “hawaryoos” become louder and more frequent and naughty laughter begins to annoy me.

As I try to justify to myself why I feel irritable I realize there really is no good reason. I begin to think about what these children might be feeling instead. They’re not at school and are bored and yes, probably hungry too. But they’re laughing and hanging out together and full of life and curiosity. I begin think of Thomas’ stories from St Ignatius Primary School where he teaches maths. His biggest challenge is getting the pupils to be quiet and pay attention because he doesn’t use a cane like all his colleagues do and recommend. And here is a large group of kids with their eyes fixed on me, intently watching every move I make and ready to listen to anything I might say. “A perfect opportunity to be useful”, I tell myself as I roll down the car window.

“Bukweni!” I say. “Bukwa” they reply in choral unison. After introducing myself I start asking the name and age of my audience. There are at least forty children ranging in age from 6 to 13. I remember there’s a world map in the front page of our diary and give an impromptu geography lesson, explaining where I come from and asking if anyone can point out different continents on the map. They gaze at the map and for a few minutes struggle to locate even Africa amidst the other continents. I’m relieved when they are able to point at Tanzania, however, in a close-up map of Africa I find at the back of the diary. I’m reminded of my teaching experience in India last year and start getting into engaging with these thirsty growing minds. So I move onto English, and begin to learn Kiswahili human anatomy vocabulary, teaching them the English words in exchange.


I get out of the car and go the next step: the hokey POKEY!!! Yes. The hokey pokey indeed. The crowd has kept growing and I notice a group of mothers forming an outer shell to our circle. We sing and dance and laugh. Until the village drunkard breaks in. He’s persistent and forceful and is adamant to spoil the fun. But what really surprises me is people’s reaction to his behaviour. None of the mothers or grandmothers wants to step in and ask him to leave. It’s Anna, who is 13 year-old who takes him by the arm and with a smile on her face tries to pull him away. She’s pushed over and no one does anything about it. He continues to be a pain and it’s only after a good 10 minutes that Noah, who has finally returned with a few stove spectators, successfully tells the drunkard to get lost.



The children's curiosity is unquenchable and I wonder if being present at the stove demo is more important/ fun than continuing to play with them. Why not do both? I ask myself. And so I ask the kids if they’d like to see a really cool stove... Justin laughs and takes out his camera as he sees me approach the house with forty odd youngsters around me. After getting the kids into a line, I lead them one by one into the house where the ugali is cooking to greet Levina and take a look at the stove. There are now at least a dozen women outside the house asking Justin questions about the stove. “Is it true that snakes can come in through the chimney?”, “Why is it faster to cook with a traditional 3 stove fire?”, “How much firewood does it use?”, “Why can’t you use charcoal in it?”, “How can they be fixed during the rainy season?”... and so on.

Levina gets into the spirit too and uses her wonderful charisma to lead a lesson the way she does in our school trainings at Matumbulu Primary School. She talks to the children and answers questions. In the absence of a blackboard we use a branch to draw the usual illustrations on the sand and during a classic advert break hand out our fliers and ask the kids to give them to their parents. When the food is ready, the lady who is leading the cooking divides the ugali into three large and even portions: one to be shared by the dozen women attending the demo; one for the forty odd kids; and one for the only 3 men at the gathering.

The Chinangali missionary

We arrive at a village on morning with a bagful of veg and a sack of ugali flour. The landscape is as quiet as can be in the run up to elections. The village today is Chinangali 2. It’s closer to the main road than other villages and there are more cement houses propping up from the pale, dusty-dry landscape than tembes (traditional village homes). Villagers who work in the fields are not around. Those left behind are mainly children, aimlessly hanging about, and women who are busy drying their crops on the roof or grinding their mboga. The only men in sight are over the age of 50, and sadly, drunk. Or on their way there.



We are looking for the stove monitor. After a half hour wait we suspect she must have gone campaigning. CCM are giving out free yellow and green kangas and other merchandize to those who help campaign for them. Levina and I are leaning on the car’s door. We’re feeling a bit slow and tired after some last minute vehicle set-backs and a long drive in hot, dry climate.
- “Did she know we were coming?”I ask, starting to regret not checking myself if we’d made these arrangements before setting out.
- “I don’t know”
- “Oh no..., can you call her now to make sure? We can wait by the chairman’s office”
- “But I don’t have her number” says Levina lethargically.
- “Do you have another builder’s number?”
- “No...” Pause. “Wait...”
Levina goes off to a nearby banda, then comes back. “Yes she’s gone campaigning to Chamwino, and she doesn’t have a mobile phone”.

Right. We’ve hired a car for three times the price we’d normally pay for fuel plus have got all the ingredients for today’s stove demo! There’s no way our treasurer will understand if we cancel this one and we don’t have any upcoming free days to reschedule it. But luck is looking out for us. Joyci, the monitor, turns up out of nowhere. We catch sight of her and run towards her to ask her if she’s managed to gather the villagers wanting to learn about the stove benefits. We normally require at least 10 to be present at each stove demo to make it worth the effort. But Joyci has no one. “It’s election time soon”, she mumbles. The familiar excuse for any lack of progress, everywhere around Dodoma for the past 3 months. Villages come to a standstill as any form of gathering is prohibited for fear it becomes political. But the universities too are affected. They have been closed for 2 months longer than usual “to allow students to vote in their home towns”. Though it is widely believed it is a CCM tactic to dilute the student vote, largely in favour of CCMs opposition party, and to repress any form of manifestation. Incubating healthy opposition surely cannot be in CCM’s long term interest...

We convince Joyci to stick around for a few more hours and help us gather people for the stove demo, though this is a long shot considering there’s not many free people around. The chairman is welcoming and offers us his own home for carrying out the demo. I scratch my brain thinking of a way to gather a few viewers. Oh no. Door to door sales... It’s the only way gather people fast. Justin and Levina have already claimed the two stools outside the home and Levina is busy talking to the neighbour who will potentially stick around to watch the demo. I find myself searching for people who may be looking at us. We stand out as outsiders in our yellow T-shirts and despite my efforts to improve in Kiswahili, my physical appearance is still a give away ;) But there’s no one around. Where are the starers when you need them? I catch a glimpse of two women approaching far away with heavy water buckets on their heads. Perhaps they’re too tired and busy. I greet the men festering in the sogam-based local brew in an attempt to ignite the village elders’ interest and snowball the curiosity from there. Bad idea. They turn loud and get excited about there being external attention. But their tone is disrespectful and I quickly get out of their smelly circle.

And so my career in door to door marketing begins in a village near Dodoma. I wave and call out in broken grammar and limited vocabulary, skimming the horizon for any onlooker. “STT is carrying out a wonderful demonstration of how the rocket stove works”, “Those who come can enjoy the meal that you can see being cooked!”, I grin. “Have you heard of the rocket stove?”, “Don’t you know that the 3 stone fire will get you nowhere?”, in true Jehovah’s Witness style. “Rocket stoves are splendid for your health, for saving firewood....think of the wonders you could be doing instead of fetching wood or cooking for hours!”, a pushy development line. And then my last resort: “Free food!!!”.

Dodoma Life

One Saturday morning I open the curtains and notice the bougainvillea, severed by the gardener only a few months ago, is growing back beautifully. Coming back to dormant Dodoma after a short and intense visit home for 3 weddings and much love and bustle, has its challenges. I return to a house covered in a thick layer of black, moist dust. My gecko roommate comes out to greet me. It now has two extra little ones. “At least there were no break-ins!” I joke with myself.

Whilst being away the team has coped extremely well. The one-to-one trainings we introduced for the rest of the staff, together with a more efficient division of labour and a prolonged dosage of morale boost have began to flower and I find my colleagues, whom I am supposed to be supervising, are truly self-sufficient. With initiative and responsibility flourishing among the team members at this rate I begin to seriously consider whether Sunseed’s long-term future requires a two project development officer management structure at all.

To my surprise the social life in Dodoma starts to pick up. Dutch VSO friends, Renee, Lars and Walter, are still here as are the Italians, Malaika and Francesco, from the Italian Cooperation initiative. Then some lovely volunteers for the Jesuit mission, Jana and Thomas, arrive from Germany, and two nice girls my age, Kate from Canada and Maja from Switzerland (with whom I studied in the same department and year at LSE but had never met!).

I had brought a personal laptop this time round to fill in the many hours I anticipated I’d be spending alone at home but sadly it breaks a few days after I return. Ironically, time starts to fly anyway. I go on a bit more church hopping, with my colleagues Gideon whom I watch lead the vibrant choir at the Lutheran Church, and Levina to 6 am mass at the sparkling mosaic lined “Loman” (Catholic) Cathedral. Both two hour services, notices taking up at least 45 minutes of that time!

Besides the little kitten Malaika leaves in my care when she returns to Rome, there is now more company for all sorts of activities; climbing Simba Rock at sunset, taking my first dala dala into town, exploring new vegetable markets, visiting the Cheshire Home for disabled children, the kids at the HIV orphanage, and going for live music at Royal Village, driving to Hombolo lake for a picnic, and even attempting to line-dance Bongo Flavour at Club 84! Sunday afternoons by the pool become more frequent and a series of small dinner parties keeps my evenings occupied. But I start to wonder if this leisurely lifestyle is really a reason to remain working in a place that in truth does not need me.

Nane Nane

Banana wine tastes like fizzy vinegar. Rosella beer can be home brewed. Cashew nuts come from hand-sized heart-shaped orange-coloured fruit which can be used to make jam (see photo). They are so expensive because of the huge amount of manual labour involved in cracking their two shells. Monsanto is carrying out “suicide” crop trials in the Dodoma region. The rice crops may be genetically modified to cope with drought, but the seeds are patented and called “suicide” seeds because they do not reproduce themselves, forcing farmers to continuously purchase stocks. Besides this the farming techniques required for these crops will create dependence on imported farming machinery. The Bill Gates Foundation and Tanzanian’s government may well back the idea but will the local farmers a few years down the line?

These are some of the interesting facts I learn at this year’s Agricultural Fair, Nane Nane, on the 8th of August. Hundreds of stalls where government organizations and NGOs exhibit their agricultural initiatives across Tanzania, there is plenty of food, live music and dancing and a speech from the man himself: President Kikwete. Farmers roam about with their machetes, similar to the WFP donations to Rwanda in the 1990s. Regular citizens come to shop and watch the sleepy caged zoo animals. I meet a group of western American missionaries called the Cowboys for Christ who are introducing plastic containers for grain in the Kondoa region. Nick chuckles when he hears me complement a man on his ‘costume’, especially his cowboy hat and pointy heeled boots. “Oh, this is no costume sweetheart!” he replies adjusting his huge shiny belt and leather cuffs. (Gulp).