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).

Issa

Issa is my running partner. He has known my colleagues and predecessors for several years and one day I express an interest in the sports youth centre and the street kids project he runs in Saba Saba. I go and visit one Sunday afternoon. Amidst rows of mud shacks selling second-hand clothes, I’m greeted by a dozen teenage boys standing around a worn out pool table. “No I'm not Muslim” I answer after being asked the familiar question which almost always follows my introduction. I like that most people are convinced ‘Sophia’ is a Tanzanian name. At least they can remember it that way. I play a game but am promptly defeated by a twelve year-old boy in less than 10 minutes. I immediately warm to the boys as they are kind and respectful and are in awe of Issa! They show me their gym: Issa’s resourceful creation made of rundown car parts and bits of rusty metal. It reminds me of the amazing Frankenstein industrial constructions listed in www.afrigadget.com, a website Uncle Tim recently told me about. Issa then takes me straight to a board with some ripped pieces of paper showing in faded ink how their squad made it to the semi-finals in 2006 and the quarter-finals in 2008 of a local soda football championship. Now Coca-cola has taken over even that and the boys can no longer afford the entrance fee and equipment requirements. They are not the street children Issa works with but are clearly from humble backgrounds and prefer to hang around here on a Sunday. They normally borrow a local school’s football pitch but depending on the teacher in charge they are often asked to leave even if no one else is using the ground. Issa does not seem put off by this and has plans to register as a charity and turn the main hut into a brick-built room. I ask if I can come to exchange skills once a week: I’ll support their academic work if they train me in sports. Fair exchange is no robbery, right?

I start a daily routine of jogging at the crack of dawn with Issa by my side. He arrives in his worn out fabric pumps at 5:45 am and only the moonlight illuminates our way for the first 20 minutes. There are no people around to shout names and annoying phrases and the air is cool and calm. We part ways after an hour and I arrive for a welcome cold shower and breakfast while the sky is still a creamy peach colour. It’s revitalizing in so many ways and Issa is the perfect running companion: silent most of the way and runs in zig-zags when I need to slow down! He is in amazing shape, runs with a passion, just like he runs his social projects, taking none of the credit and giving all his time to the youngsters who need him so. I wish I could help financially but my Tanzanian shilling salary doesn’t go a long way so I try to think of the next best thing I could do. One morning I ask him if he’d like to run a marathon. “Ndiyo!” he says with his characteristic serious smile. “Right then Issa, I’ll help you set up a fundraising page!”. I explain that back home people often look for sponsors when undertaking big challenges such as a marathon and that this way he’d be raising the money himself by doing something he enjoys. Fat currencies will easily cover the costs of building a proper room for the teenagers to gather, and best of all the entrance fees and equipment the kids need to participate in the local football championship they’ve been longing to play in but have been unable to afford the last couple of years.

Water works

The last good friend to leave is Frouke, a management consultant who’s been working here for the past year. She is strong and smart and her Dutch earnestness makes her someone easy to talk to. Since being here her uncle, a big fan of extreme sports, unexpectedly passed away. Running water is a great luxury in Dodoma and its surroundings. So her family entrusted Frouke with part of his wealth for a charitable water project. After a careful selection process, Changombe B primary school, located just outside Dodoma, was chosen to be the proud owner of a water pump and toilets. She invites Lars, Walter and me to the inauguration of the assets two days before she leaves. We spend the day setting up the event, listening to “big potatoes” (otherwise known as special guests and VIPs) executing their long-winded speeches, then watching a select group of children dance and playing sanitation themed games with the rest of the hundreds of children. My soap and spoon race is a disaster but we have lots of fun. As the teachers struggle to control the overwhelming number of children I’m saddened by how shamelessly they use branches to hit them, herding them like cattle and how easily the children succumb to their assaulting power.

Puppy Love

Nick and Wendy finally arrive from Maine, USA and STT's new team is now complete. Nick is my new colleague and his good humour, enthusiasm and team spirit is refreshing and very welcome by all the team. We share a similar attitude to development and agree to do our best to work ourselves out of a job. Wendy is bright and warm. She is also incredibly brave, having come to work as a clinical psychologist in a local mental asylum. Her stories are jaw-dropping. I wonder how she keeps sane amidst patients greeting her whilst urinating and staff who can’t see anything in her but a funny white person. At a welcome tea party Nick and Wendy meet pretty much all the people I know who still live in Dodoma. Augustine and Marion are not among them. Three weeks later I learn that that weekend Marion was taken ill. She was rushed to hospital, flown to France and tragically passed away on the 2nd of June. All in the space of a week.

Soon after the tea party, Courtney comes to stay with me. She is a bouncy black and white terrier collie mix: Nick and Wendy’s third family member. While they migrate south for a week to study Swahili in Iringa, Courtney is left in my care. Though still with racist hang-ups and a nocturnal barking disorder, she is astoundingly clever and wonderful company, always game to play ball and warming my feet wherever I sit down. She wins me over effortlessly and I enjoy taking her out for walks despite having to assume the village clown role as I do so. One morning I take her to the local duka to buy some bread and canine breakfast treats. When I turn around to head back home I find we’ve been suddenly ambushed by four rough looking doggos. Two of them bark jealously and scratch they scruffy fur posing no serious threat besides a parasite menace. This, however, is the last of my troubles for I am really frightened by the quiet muscular dog growling (but not barking) and staring intently at Courtney. I try to shew them away to no avail. I notice the scary dog also has a loose chain hanging from his neck and realize she must be an escaped convict or guard dog. Courtney we have a situation here. Courtney is mute. She has either lost her voice after so much moonlit barking or she too is afraid. I hear myself anxiously swearing out loud and throwing kicks in the air but they don’t move. Crikey... all I wanted was to enjoy a nice cup of tea with some bread, not fight off fierce dogs first thing in the morning! A timely rock lands near one of the barking dogs and two men who have spotted us come to the rescue. Next time I’ll try swearing in Kiswahili!

A view of Dodoma

One Sunday, just before my friends Claire and Erin leave Tanzania, they invite me to climb Simba Rock with them and a few others. Among them is a young French couple, Marion and Augustine, who married only seven months ago, straight after finishing university. They arrived in Dodoma at the same time as me and plan to volunteer as teachers in Dom Bosco for the next couple of years. In their early twenties, Marion a physicist and Augustine, I think, an engineer, they talk about their wish to help out those in need and their rejection of the superficial life they would probably be living back home. I’m amazed that they plan to stay out here for two years without going back home for a break. Augustine does most of the talking but I’m struck by how much Marion resembles my future sister-in-law Marie, petite, blonde and sweet. And also from Nantes! I invite them to the welcome tea party I am planning for Nick and Wendy’s arrival. I promise to bake quiche especially for them! We are led up the giant rock by Michele, a Congolese priest who is used to guiding groups of school children up this rough stack of rocks and knows the best way to climb to the top with minimum effort. The view of Dodoma gets better and better and the occasional white monkey and lizard crosses our way as we ascend. An arid, brick red, flat landscape with patches of green bush and small grey buildings surrounds us. From time to time, we stop to catch our breath and talk as we admire our surroundings.



A strange view. It could easily be passed off as a faintly populated spot on planet Mars. I wonder if this is anything like the Tanzania Che Guevara or Roald Dahl knew when they lived here. From the summit you cannot hear the crowds of politicians watching World Cup matches at the New Dodoma Hotel. You cannot see that parliament is now in session discussing the budget and thickening Dodoma’s car and sex traffic. You cannot hear the brain bleaching loudspeakers swarming the streets, campaigning for Chama Cha Mapinduzi (CCM) amidst posters of only one face, Mr Kikwete’s face, plastered around town. You cannot see the parrot green shirts, caps and kangas, CCM’s party colours, shading in the pre-election atmosphere in one tint only.

You cannot see the dead dogs, squashed hedgehogs, fleeting digi digis, small umpalas, and sometimes standing snakes on the roads. You cannot see the bodies of the run-over cyclists on the Dar road who die every day in their otherworldly effort to wheel bagfuls of charcoal into the city. You cannot see the traffic police on the outer highways preoccupied with stopping cars for bribes or that this is the only African capital not to have traffic lights! You cannot see the STT vehicle working as a village ambulance, driving to hospital a mother with her nine year-old daughter dying in her arms, or a teacher with a teenage boy after breaking his leg and waiting for hours in excruciating pain for a lift into town. You cannot see the children and the elderly peacefully playing bao.

You cannot smell the incinerated plastic and gruesome piles of garbage dumped in the back roads. You cannot smell the stench of toilets and pit holes. You cannot smell the freshly woven straw from the baskets hanging in the market or the citrus fruit on cartwheels or the sweet whiff of coconut hair oil in crowded churches.

Kwa heri marafiki

Several weeks of new adjustments ensue. The exodus of most friends I have made the last couple of months emphasizes Dodoma’s slumberous atmosphere. Sadly, Amy’s departure coincides with that of the Brigewaters. An elderly British couple who spent most of their youth in Tanzania, they have been trustees of our organization for over a decade. Planning to stay at home with me for six weeks their aim had been to ‘help out’ at work. Unfortunately they cut their visit short after a week when it becomes clear they’re too fragile to continue living here safely. It’s sad and awkward to see them leave so abruptly, but I also feel a tiny sense of relief that they will be better looked after in their home by their loved ones. Suddenly the house feels very empty.

I get excited about bringing the nice garden back to life and hire a gardener to trim the thick bougainvillea bush decorating the front yard. Two hours later I find that not a single trace of its fuscia and coral flowers remain! Besides inheriting left-over luxuries from departing chums, a nice aspect of temporary isolation is time to think and take up neglected hobbies. The walls are blank and I start decorating them by drawing amateur pictures. I move the furniture around, take out some scented candles and make the place my own. In the process I unearth a range of treasures hidden in dusty corners. Like a blue prince facing the fearful dragon before reaching his beloved princess, I face the task of slaughtering a massive cockroach who is happily residing in a beautiful Italian caffetier I’ve found at the back of the kitchen cupboard. But hey, this is one of the easiest things to be overcome before being able to enjoy a cup of fresh coffee here! After considering several death penalties including the flip flop death and the poisoned chalk penalty, I opt for the cauldron sentence. I am told that pouring boiling water to drown the insect prevents the eggs that inevitably squirt out when squashed, from sticking to the surface. Delightful stuff.

Goat giddiness

After theory class one Saturday I am invited by an American Jesuit priest to join him and a group of American visitors to Msalato, a place where goats are auctioned, slaughtered, cooked and eaten. The visitors are making a short documentary on missionary life in the 21st century and he thinks this will give them some authentic film shots. I am amazed how clean it is. The knives are basic and the stalls are made of wood but there are no flies or bad smells hanging around. They have stalls for guts, stalls for skin, stalls for whole carcasses. It’s an authentic meat market. Knife vendors roam about and families pick the piece they want barbecued. A man with rats in a cage shows us them proudly and a big woman welcomes us to a table. The Americans are friendly but still fresh off the plane and I feel like a native Swahili speaker next to them. It’s almost as amusing to watch their reactions to beggars and eating without cutlery as it is to look around the market. Then after the feast of goat with lemon and salt, we are given the much needed toothpick. I feel a bit guilty for laughing at their expense and offer them some hand gel to make them feel at home.

Driving Miss Crazy

I find out of a couple of driving schools in town. I visit VETA first and learn that they only teach you to drive automatic cars. I arrange for a trial class with a teacher, mostly to check we can communicate OK inside the car. His English is worse than my Swahili but nonetheless within ten minutes he has me reversing. It feels great but somehow I think we’re cutting corners, and I am told by my colleagues it’s not safe to drive with male strangers even (or especially) if they seem friendly at first. In any case I need to learn to drive the STT jeep and only at Don Bosco do they teach manual driving. So I call Mr Siassa, a teacher recommended by two people I know. He is kind and respectful but his English again is very limited. I turn up to my first lesson wearing a buttoned up blouse. “Hello Sister Sophia”. He thinks I am a nun, I smile and decide it’s not such a bad idea to keep it this way. Our lessons take place in a very rusty jeep, the doors often flapping open unexpectedly while we drive, the gear box too stiff to move with one hand (he helps me so I can keep my other hand on the steering wheel). Mr Siassa does his best to explain things to me, I understand most of what he says and seek for clarification when I can’t. For instance when he gets the words ‘first’ and ‘second’ and ‘third’ muddled up, I try to elucidate what he means. The problem is he doesn’t reciprocate. So when I ask questions like, “Should I accelerate when I turn?” or “can I take my foot off the clutch now?”, his default reply is “Yes”. This has caused a few scares but I tell myself that there’s nothing like learning as you go.

On Saturday mornings I practice my mountain biking skills as I cycle to the Don Bosco convent, a 30 minute ride from Dodoma. On my way there I am struck by the sight of a man pushing a carriage of waste the size of a car. He is tiptoeing bare foot on the gravel, using all his strength to move the load. Cars drive fast past him. I join four teenage boys in our driving theory class. This can take place under the jeep, where we are instructed to look at the car’s organs close up, or in the garage, where we learn how to adjust dissected car parts. After checking the tyre pressure and wheel balance I wonder if I’ll qualify as a car mechanic before I can drive!

Wild nights in bed

While the mosquitoes are at rest, the cats and dogs of Dodoma, are working hard at reproducing themselves. I am told that they come from all around town to find a mate at this time of the year. During the day you see them snoozing but at night the sounds are awakening. They yowl and bark and the cats screech and emit high pitched feline roars and hisses. If I’m perfectly honest, it can be a bit disturbing to hear this just outside your window. Luckily Tumaini, our Masai night guard, has a bow and arrow to protect the house. Around 5am the mosque assumes its duty to wake up everyone it possibly can. Partly sung, partly shouted orders for sleepers to rise are cried out from the local minaret for a good ten minutes. I become increasingly skilled in reaching out for the spare pillow to sandwich my head. I leave it like this to muffle the crows that come with sunrise. Our neighbours seem to have several roosters roaming about ready to let us all know when the sun comes out. I am now able tell how deep my sleep has been depending on what, if anything, has broken my sleep at night. Visitors are advised to bring earplugs!

Health tips

One day after work I text Hayley and Jane to ask if they’d like to come to the cinema night at the pizzeria, they’ll be showing Fellini’s “Amarcord”. No reply from Hayley, but Jane soon texts back, “Nope, Hayley has been taken ill and is in hospital. She has malaria, typhoid and salmonella”. Wow. I saw her only three days ago and she seemed fine. I tell Amy and we decide to go and visit straight away. When you get ill in Tanzania, you rely entirely on your friends and family to feed you because the hospitals don’t serve meals. We buy a box of imported cornflakes and make our way to DCMC, a new and privately run clinic, very clean and peaceful. We find she is the only patient there at the moment and she is so pleased to have company. She tells us she’s had the malaria symptoms on and off for the past couple of weeks and that it’s common to have a sequel after you’ve already had it once. I learn that the severity of malaria depends on the number of parasites in your bloodstream and that you can get typhoid even when you’ve taken the vaccine. A nurse enters in a pristine white uniform, to check on Hayley’s drip. I notice she has a red badge that says, ‘The blood of Christ covers me’. I try to avoid interpreting this graphically. We stay for a while and chat about all sorts of things. If any doctor has tried to hit on Hayley (as has happened to Amy before); how female genital mutilation is still a common practice among the Gogo tribe; how annoying it is to go to the immigration office to apply for the residence permit and have the cocky officers repeatedly ask if they can come and visit you at home... and so on for two hours.

That night I start measuring the time I have left in Tanzania by the number of capsules I am yet to ingest. I fetch the suitcase under my bed looking for the hidden treasures from my far away land. In a small clear plastic bag, only the ears from my chocolate bunny are left. I savour them with a cup of mint tea. Bliss. I notice the box containing my year’s supply of doxycycline. Will my liver be able to handle antibiotics for this long? There are two schools of thought with regards to antimalarials among foreigners here. One is that you should take every precaution you possibly can; it’s not worth getting ill if you can prevent it. The other is a more curative attitude, that you’re bound to get sick anyway so why deteriorate your liver as well? After all the devilish parasites can still fester in your blood regardless of what you take and in any case the cure is to take a double dose of antimalarial drugs. Given it is dry season at the moment and mosquitoes are hibernating, it may well be sensible to give the antibiotics a rest. When they come out to play later in the year, however, it’ll be a different case altogether.

Cruising churches

Then, over a spoonful of ‘Jasmine’s Jewels’ sundae, I ask Hayley if she plays the guitar. She says she does but when I ask her if she could teach me my fears are confirmed: there aren’t many spare guitars going around....I wish I’d brought mine after all! I learn that she is also a great singer and composes her own songs. She says she’ll be singing a solo at church tomorrow and asks me if I’d like to come along. “Sure” I say, and figure it’ll make a more interesting Sunday than last! So there I am at 9am on Sunday. Hayley is already by the altar behind the piano keyboard so I sit besides Jane, the Pilates teacher and a friend of Hayley’s. I notice a huge white screen above the pulpit. After an enthusiastic American preacher begins the ceremony I do not lie when I say that the first thing he asked was for the new comers to stand up and introduce themselves out loud. Oh MY God. He looks directly at me. I look at Jane next to me and try to convey a look that says something along the lines of ‘there’s no way’... Luckily I’m saved by a Canadian middle aged couple who bounce up to introduce themselves. “Wonderful” the preacher says, “Anyone else?”. Jane gives me a reassuring look and whispers that I don’t have to if I don’t want to. So I just sit there and stare blankly at the altar waiting for this awkward moment to pass. I don’t feel too intimidated as everyone seems friendly. Instead of using prayer or hymn books, the service is projected as a power point presentation. That’s 21st century church updates for you. Not an entirely bad idea were it not for a confused old lady in charge of changing the slides, methodically getting her arrows mixed up! Hayley’s voice is beautiful. She reaches ethereal notes with ease and plays really nice songs. Then the moment of truth comes: prayer time. This part of the service is to be conducted by another person, a tall Tanzanian woman probably in her late 70s. She walks up the red carpeted aisle using a walking stick, reminiscent of Willy Wonka emerging from his secret chocolate factory for the first time. When she reaches the altar she turns to face the audience. She looks at her walking stick as if it’s getting in her way and she throws it to one side. She can stand perfectly without it! Then she raises her hands and says, “Please don’t be shy. This is a time for reflection and I want you all to call out to God from the bottom of your heart. You can raise your hands you can sing. Don’t be shy. This young lady here [pointing at Hayley] is going to play some soft music for us now and I want you all to stand and praise the Lord”. Hayley slowly starts playing three notes in different order, it sounds like background music in a moving film. Then everyone starts whispering their prayers, some louder than others and the prayer master says a prayer out loud. The atmosphere is electric; I feel a wave of goose bumps spreading up my spine. For a moment it feels like the whole world is secretly connecting through prayer and I can’t say that’s a bad feeling.

A week later I find myself in a different church congregation altogether. I am sitting amongst 4000 people in an open air mass service. It is the annual Holy Communion ceremony and the five catholic parishes have joined forces to give the sacrament to over 300 children. The girls wear an ice white dress and although they are mostly under 13 years old, they are well made up, many of them wearing stilettos or a tiara. The boys wear a white shirt and dark trousers, again some of them wear a tie others a brightly coloured bow tie. There are nuns and brothers from at least a dozen orders, all wearing different shaded habits and uniforms. Then there are the magnificently dressed parents and relatives looking out for their child on the podium. A different Tanzania to what I see in the villages. By my sides are Erin and Claire, two bubbly friends I’ve made over the past few days. They are voluntary teachers in a Jesuit school and will be returning to the UK in a month’s time. We are lucky to have a seat let alone a good view of the choir. The words they sing all have matching moves making for a dynamic spectacle. It’s hard to keep still when you hear them and I soon join in with the clapping, partly to keep warm under the shade, partly to stay awake during this 4 hour service! Large incense pots are carried on peoples’ heads and at collection time some people give food or live chickens as their contribution. Perhaps this is not the best way to get over a mild hang over (after a goat barbecue party last night) but mum's image appears and somehow her approving smile makes me smile too. At the end of the service the children all receive multichromatic flower necklaces and as we make our way out many come up to ask if we will pose in their family photos. It’s strange to feel this popular...

The social scene

The Wazungu are a tribe in its own right. The odd mix of foreigners here is mostly made up of people on missionary assignments, from New Zealand, Australia, Switzerland and USA. Missionary work can range from teaching English at a Christian school to working as an engineer supporting the missionary air service connected to the local airport. There are a couple of dodgy looking South African businessmen who keep themselves apart but who will occasionally buy a suspicious round of limoncello for young fair women about to leave the Italian pizzeria... Then there is a small group of Dutch VSO volunteers and some Italian health workers with whom I tend to hang out.

On one occasion we are invited to tea at Angela’s house. She is a German missionary wife living in a missionary compound. As the invitation comes via Amy, I only find out on our way there that we were meant to bring something home-made to eat. Luckily our Dutch friends have baked some biscuits so we present these as an offering from us all. Unfortunately we don’t get away with it that easily. As we arrive we are greeted by a tall and large brunette with flowy clothes and lavender scent. Angela ushers us to the table where we are to place our gift and stand around in a circle. I own up and apologize for not having brought anything and do as I’m told. The table is filled with scrumptious delights, sticky caramel crunch, gooey chocolate cake, tangy spiced chicken wings and crowing it all in the centre is Angela’s majestic fondant cake. I look around and see some familiar faces, the two Indian ladies who own the “Two Sisters Shop”, the shy but adorable Swedish mother of 3 who I crossed over with at Riverside, the ‘white-hair’ hairdresser – an American lady visiting from Arusha, and a few motherly looking smiley women I’ve never seen before. Angela speaks softly, “Thank you for coming ladies. It is so wonderful that we can all come together and share moments like these to grow stronger as a group.” She smiles and looks around. “Now please, introduce yourselves and say what you have brought and why”. My heart starts to beat fast. Then one by one each person explains how she spent most of the week finding the ingredients and most of the morning making it. My stomach sinks a level lower with each woman who presents her offering. I blink and for a second have a flashback to the 1950s. The circle of Stepford Wives closes in on me and... oh crumbs, it’s my turn. “Hello, my name is Sophia and I’m afraid I haven’t brought anything today [attempt to smile] but I am so pleased to be here and to meet you all”. I swallow hard and am relieved once the introduction part is over. Now we can dig in! But not so fast. “Now dears” soft magnanimous voice continues, “this is a great opportunity to bond on a social level, it’s not religious, it’s not work, just fun and games.” Pause. “Now let’s join hands and give thanks for this wonderful event”. Ok. I join hands with my neighbours. Then Angela begins to say grace and I suddenly feel a bubble of repressed nervous laughter fizzing its way up to my lungs. I close my eyes, trying to contain it. Yikes! I’ve laughed out loud. I’ve literally laughed out loud! I quickly start coughing to disguise this rude eruption pretending an invisible crumb has gone down my windpipe. I don’t even attempt to make contact with anyone and return to my solemn position. Then when grace is over we start to munch and mingle.

I join the Muzungu Pilates class on Thursday evenings. There’s not much exercise one can freely do here besides walking and cycling. The New Dodoma Hotel swimming pool, like the network of long flat paths around town, call for a good swim or a run but so far I think it wiser to avoid calling the wrong sort of attention. It’s hard enough to walk from home to the office, dressed from head to toe, without half a dozen people calling out my name or trying to start a conversation. A girl called Hayley is stretching out on the mat besides me and we start chatting after class. She’s come to Dodoma for 6 months to teach music at the Christian school. We have a moan about the recent power cuts and I tell her how last Sunday beat my incommunicado record: not only was there no power and water but my mobile phone network was down and even at the internet cafe, where they have a generator which lasts a few hours, I found, like many others apparently, I could not access my email account because the yahoo website was being serviced! We giggle and arrange to meet for an ice cream at Aladdin’s Cave on Saturday.

Shrinking my ignorance

I always enjoy our rides back from village visits especially when Gideon brings lively regional music such as Bahati Bokuku, Marlo, Rose Muhando or Justin’s favourite: Alpha Blonde. They translate the lyrics and I listen to them chat about current affairs and local culture. I learn so much. For instance that the Chair of the National Environment Management Council, Mr Reginald Mengi, is ironically the same man who owns the Tanzanian rights for ITV, East Africa TV, Kilimanjaro Water, Nepashe Newspaper, the (Tanzanian) Guardian news rights oh and.... yes that factory leaking green liquid emissions near Dar Es Salaam...the Coca Cola Company.

I learn that the hundreds of yellow petrol bottles lying flat around a school are what the children use to bring their required daily supply of water to school. They tell me that the two huge cylinders with staircases I can see in the middle of a field have been there since colonial days. Once used to stored cereal, then prisoners, they now make resilient homes for several families.

I also learn about some of the tribes here. Much cherished post-colonial leader, Nyerere, did a great job in stimulating harmonious tribal interactions in Tanzania. Today a Gogo and a Maturu can sit in the same car and joke about the Masai who’s short-man complex allegedly led them to allow tall members of the Barabaig tribe to make their wives pregnant so that their kids would be taller than their parents! Justin also claims the Wagogo got their bushy eyebrows due to mixing their genes with the Barabaig.

The Rocket Stoves

The “rocket stoves” are our charity’s attempt to tackle deforestation and provide a new trade and a steady source of income to villagers all year round. They consume only a third of the wood fuel people would normally use in traditional open fires, and because they retain the heat, they cook faster. This means that people spend less time out fetching wood and cooking so have more time to dedicate themselves to income-generating activities. The stoves are made of clay and have a chimney system that channels smoke out of the home making life easier for the eyes and lungs of women and children too. The way STT’s Domestic Energy Programme works is that our charity trains builders to make these energy-efficient stoves and runs sensitization workshops in the villages to raise awareness about the benefits in store. After this it is up to the builders to find customers and the local materials. The deal is that our charity pays half the cost of labour and materials and the homeowner pays the other half. On our monthly village visits we then proceed to check the stoves have been built properly e.g. in the right wind direction, the right height, etc. Alternatively we run sensitization workshops or re-trainings where needed and introduce a range of incentives. The take up is varied but mostly good. The slowest uptake is by older homeowners who are understandably sceptical about cooking any other way to what they are used to.

A village visit

The days pass and I am no longer the new kid in town. Our treasurer arrives in late May for what he calls a routine field visit. We come and meet him at the New Dodoma Hotel for a meal at the infamous Chinese restaurant. He has paid his own way here, and is excited to be spending a week in dormant Dodoma, a long way away from number crunching in Edinburgh. His email nickname ‘Wee Kerr’ is an accurate depiction of the snowy haired petite silhouette but his mind and character are tremendously sharp. And I soon learn that so are his accounts. We acquaint ourselves over dinner and by the end of it we are all well informed about his past and forthcoming ‘SKI’ holidays. “That’s spending the kids’ inheritance, you know!” he chuckles over a swig of beer. As I leave the hotel I get a phone call from Jackie...”Jackie?”, “Yes turn around!”. She hangs up and I turn but see nobody. Suddenly a pat on my shoulder...it’s her! She’s just had a drink with a friend here and I have to go, but we arrange to meet once her exams are over so we can go kitanga shopping. Brill, I really need to do something about my room curtains (or lack of)...

After a day of thrilling finance and budget training with Kerr, we venture out into the field. A forty minute drive away from Dodoma leads us to a quiet village with huts dotted around a wide plain of brick red earth and thorny bushes. Little children start running alongside as our car starts to slow down. We greet some of the builders. “Greetings (in Gogo)”, “Greetings, welcome (in Gogo), “Thank you, how’s your day? (in Swahili)”, “Good, sorry about your long journey”, “Thank you, how’s your home?”, “Good, welcome”, “Thank you, how’s your work?”, “Good thanks, welcome”, “Thanks, how’s the village”, “Good, welcome”...and this goes on for 5 or 7 minutes. With each person. The tone is almost like a responsorial psalm, it goes to and fro as a matter of routine. Greetings in Tanzania are essential and it is common to keep shaking hands throughout this jitambulisha dialogue.

Then we wait. Like all the sleepy villages we visit, there is no rush and there is no way to fix a meeting time anyway so these waits can be long. But it’s a great time to have informal chats with people and I always have questions about rural life here. Sometimes we wait under the shade of a great Baobab tree, sometimes we hang around in a school where there are benches and tea or chips are served. On one occasion we wait in a school and are taken to sign the guestbook in the headmaster’s office. A strong stench of urine becomes inescapable as we walk along a corridor and the sound of nesting birds is loud. I look up to check the ceiling and notice what look like little mice jumping upside down. A teacher sees me squinting and says something I don’t understand. I ask my colleagues what he said. “He’s asking if you can do something about their bat problem”. I swallow and say we just do stoves.

Kerr takes out his camera and on this particular visit we are surrounded by little kiddos that for some reason, possibly relatively good nutrition, are livelier than in other places we’ve encountered. It is very common for children to get ignored around here, babies with their little heads tucked into a kanga bundle on their mothers’ backs and toddlers upwards just linger on the sides of crowds, wide eyed and quiet, as if waiting to be woken from a daydream. We start playing noughts and crosses on the ground and Kerr triumphs as the winner. The village leaders turn up and we are summoned into a solid looking shed, the village church. The children look through the rails and the elders speak. Sadly this village is starting to wane in terms of stove building and the builders seem to be losing enthusiasm in building new stoves. We ask why and they say it’s hard to get homeowners to pay their half of the stove price, so it’s too much work for too little money. Unfortunately if they don’t start improving their performance in the next 3 months we’ll have to pull out of this village. As we leave a builder comes up to us and starts saying something about Barabbas and the Bible. “You see”, he says pleadingly, “Jesus had to leave Barabbas to find the way for himself. You’ll see that in 3 months time, we’ll make you proud”. We laugh and nod but deep down I can’t help feeling a bit blue, for some reason I start mulling over the complexity of issues development projects attempt to tackle.

And now to work...

The return to Dodoma is as challenging as the week that follows. After waiting for an hour and a half under the sun, the late bus arrives already full. I get on and find my seat already taken. I try to claim it as it is a window seat and I want to get some shots of the animals this time. The man however doesn’t budge. When I see the man sitting next to him wearing handcuffs I quickly resign and go right to the back where there’s still a free middle seat. The bumpy and hot journey is made easier by Elvis, Billy Joel, Fado, Cold Play, Soda Estereo and the Doors. Good old alkaline batteries... No chance of spotting any animals this time though. Arriving in Dodoma I find Amy is still sick though on her way to recovery. She’s taking this week off and so is the most senior colleague, Justin, as his elderly father has died over the weekend. On Monday I go with my other two colleagues to withdraw money from the bank to pay for the coffin and buy him (plastic!) flowers. We go to his village to give him our condolences and greet all his family. I can now introduce myself and pick up a few words of the conversation here and there. As the eldest son, Justin is now head of his family, but also of the families of his father’s other two wives. And so I learn that polygamy is still widely practiced here.

Riverside Campsite & Iringa

Two hours later I arrive at Riverside. It is an idyllic place. There’s fresh green grass and Godwin, the care taker, leads me to my stone banda. I have a four-pole double bed, a bunk bed and a single bed to choose from! Besides having to scoop out the frogs before using the toilet, this place is so relaxing!! I spend the week learning Swahili with Ishmael. He is a great teacher, apparently with the “purest of Swahili accents” as he comes from Zanzibar. Fortunately a lovely Kiwi-Australian lady, Ruth, is also starting from scratch so we can study together. Ruth is an amazing woman. She’s left her life in Brisbane behind to come to Tanzania to work on a voluntary basis at SIL. During the week other interesting passers-by join us for meals. People driving, walking and cycling all the way across Africa, many from Europe to Cape Town. Four Americans raising awareness about the social benefits of sport in the build-up to the World Cup; a Scotsman and a South African, both recently retired, with marvellous stories from the rough roads and how incredibly unequipped young travellers are; and families from other parts of the world. Dad sends me cliff-hanger text message updates on the post-election scene back home. Ruth and I stay away from the TV room as what could have been a black mamba has recently been spotted there...! Instead we go on lovely walks by the riverside with gorgeous black Labrador, Polly, crossing coffee plantations, and fields of Echinacea and African tulip trees. We go to Iringa with other students for dinner a couple of times. It is a welcoming town, cooler and cleaner than Dodoma. I buy a beautiful lamp from Neema Crafts, a crafts centre run by deaf and disabled people. What a lovely place!

A Paradise Lost

The following day I head out to Iringa to take a one week intensive course in Swahili. A colourful Sumry High Class bus, this is the top notch bus company which besides taking you in neon-colourful surroundings gives you soda and sweeties at the start of the nine hour trip. In exchange for this you put up with a screen showing violent soap operas and MTV amplifying Celine Dion and rap all the way. This time I’m not as lucky with my side companion. Besides leaning on me to the point of crushing me onto the window, he unapologetically uses half my lap to spread out his papers and begin marking. I think he wants to make it obvious he is a teacher and speaks English, as he soon starts conversing non-stop. Unfortunately this time I sense he is keener to talk than I am, as I have been told that the bus will be crossing a national park and I’ll get the chance to see wild animals. Philip jabs away and despite hardly saying a word myself he stresses how happy he is to meet me and asks for my contact details so that “we can keep in touch for ever”. At this point, I give him my email address, close my eyes and plug in my MP3 player. After a while I wake up to the sight of ELEPHANTS! But it’s too late to take a photo... Then I see a herd of zebras, eating lazily a bit further away from the road. I keep looking with my camera on hold and only after the best part of an hour do I see a herd of gazelles. Wow. What a sight! Had we been there at a darker time of day or the weather been less hot, other marvels like giraffes and hyenas might have crossed our way. Maybe next time...

I’m woken up suddenly by Philip who assures me we’ve reached the point on the motorway where I should get off. I was instructed to get off before reaching Iringa where there was a big sign for Riverside Campsite, and I have asked the driver and Philip also to point it out. I see there’s a big sign, so I get off and get my luggage from the boot. The bus drives away and I feel in the middle of nowhere: a semi-deserted area with few bushes and one long road cutting through it. I take out my camera to take pictures of such isolation. I follow Amy’s instructions to walk about one kilometre into the bush, where the sign is pointing. I notice the sign does say “riverside” but in smaller font than I’d been told. I feel lucky to have been woken up in time, “good old Philip” I think to myself.

Now, I had been warned that this is low season and there would only be a handful of students at most. But as I reach the resort-looking open banda with sofas, a few tables and an open bar I soon realize there is nobody to be seen. I try calling Steve, the camp manager who I’m meant to introduce myself to, but there is no phone signal. I sit on a sofa and then see a boy mowing a tiny bit of lawn nearby. I greet him and ask for Steve. He smiles, nods and says he’ll call Martin. He returns after a while and asks me to wait. A yellow jeep then arrives and an English middle-aged man gets off. I hurry towards him. “Steve?” I ask. He nods with a blank look on his face and says “Hi”. I tell him I’m Sophia. After trying to explain who I am and getting no welcoming response, he says, “I don’t think I’m your Steve. I’m just passing by with my family; we’re on our way to Kigali”. I apologize and go back to the sofa where I doze off for a while.

I wake to the sound of English conversation. An Aussie trio are chatting to Steve and his wife, while two little blonde boys play around me and ask me if I want to see a trick. I nod and listen up to what the adults are saying. The Aussies then ask me what I’m doing here. When I tell them I ‘m here to study Swahili they look perplexed. “I thought that was something you can only do at Riverside...”. So I say, “Is this not Riverside?!!!”. Apparently not. Riverside is still 145 km away. Oh sugar. They all laugh and offer me a beer. Fortunately Steve and Helena are driving via Iringa and say they can give me a lift. I can’t believe my luck. There’s no seatbelt on the front passenger seat so Helena was going to sit at the back with Toby and Oli anyway. We chat about different development projects in the region, they even offer me my first “Tuskers” beer and I learn lots about their life in Arusha and Tanzania in general. Steve has lived here for thirteen years and was born in Kenya before being sent to boarding school in England, so he is bilingual and dexterous in handling the road, including talking his way out of corrupt police fines.

First Impressions

The office is based in the same compound as the Regional Administration and is only a ten minute bike ride away from home. The team is welcoming and I go on a couple village visits in the first week. I notice people in Tanzania are very polite, something we have in common! I learn a lot about the details of STT’s work and about the impact it has on village communities. Lots of new words to learn in Swahili and other local languages and exotic fruit to taste, but especially new social graces to acquire. For instance, in the villages not finishing your soda is close to being rude for it’s a waste and a clear sign of indulgence.

I end my first week in Dodoma in style. We are invited by some friends of Amy’s to Fiorenzo’s vineyard. He is a wealthy Italian entrepreneur who is developing the Tanzanian wine industry and currently has a factory with a capacity of 900,000 litres. A night of mingling with interesting and extroverted foreigners and tasting (I’d like to say great but maybe I’ll think differently in a few months...) wine. We stay over at his villa and have delicious espresso the next morning before work on Saturday.

Home Sweet Home?

I arrive in dusty Dodoma and Amy, whom I’ll soon be replacing, picks me up in STT’s Toyota Land Cruiser. She has mastered the old beast and knows the roads well. If I don’t learn to drive here, where I’ll most need to, I don’t know when I will! We arrive at the house. It is a sweet three bedroom bungalow with a basic (repeat basic) bathroom and a kitchen. As I’ll be living on my own here, I’m staying in the master bedroom which has a wardrobe and a bigger bathroom with hand sink and a squat – but flush – toilet. There are locks galore everywhere and at night I feel exposed as the curtains don’t actually cover the windows! However Tumaini is a trusted night guard and there’s no way the furless cat (who I suspect also has rabies) can get in.


Unfortunately my toilet is currently an aquarium of tadpoles and unknown swimming organisms. Three plumbers come the next day to fix the pipes. As days go by I feel more secure and realize that concerns of danger I might have had are easily tamed as you grow familiar with the area. Sadly, Amy is sick with Malaria and though she makes some effort to show me around and introduce me to a few people, her condition deteriorates and has to stay in bed. I am thus left to my own devices to find things out. After bartering at the market and buying fresh naan bread from the Indian shop, I cook her a bean meal. When I rinse the beans and leave them to soak I notice some of them move...yes beans and beetles come in the same bag! The avocados taste AMAZING!!! And this is no small statement coming from someone who grew up with “agaucates colombianos”.

Journey to Dodoma

The next morning I’m taken to the coach station by Bariki, a trusted taxi driver. It is now that I start regretting not having started to learn Swahili before coming. My ability to communicate is thus confined to the size of a pocket: my Lonely Planet phrasebook. But even to use that effectively, requires quick memory of page numbers and contents...so I sit back and decide to enjoy the last few minutes of luxury: air conditioning.

There is no way an unaided Muzungu can get on the right coach at that station. Luckily Bariki knows this too well and helps me find my bus. A battered bus but well organized, with seat numbers and not overcrowded. I smile at the discovery of my window seat. After a few hours I start conversation with a beautiful girl sitting next to me. An Economics student at the University of Dodoma, she is only a bit younger than me and her English is fluent. Jackie soon reveals her wise, friendly and intellectual personality. What luck! The road to Dodoma is not particularly scenic so we are both happy to chat most of the way there. She tells me about the vast influence China has on the development of Dodoma and the rapid growth of her university, a public institution, as the general elections approach later in the year.

Stop-over in Dar es Salaam

I land safely in Dar Es Salaam, and pick up my luggage. Dar is doing its best to be hospitable and squeeze the chaos to one side for the World Economic Forum pilgrims. They flow past me in the immigration queue and I later learn they will have no sense of the traffic marmalade that normally spreads through the city. While the general public is stuck in stagnant traffic on the lateral roads, the main roads are reserved for the exclusive use of officials. Public transport management will probably not be on their meeting agenda then...

I exit the airport and scan through the crowd for a fragile but respectable man, Mr Embema. The retired Deputy High Commissioner for Tanzania and patron of STT, the organization I’ll be working for, is nowhere to be seen. Where is he?? I find instead a young looking couple with a sign saying "Sofia Sunseed". "Im Mzilasi, Mr Embema's daughter, this Aaron my husband. Unfortunately Mr Embema has been taken ill and is in hospital". I offer my sympathy and change money and am led to a healthy looking vehicle. I wonder how serious Mr Embema’s illness in. They say they think it’s a bout of Malaria. They promptly drop me off at the hotel and continue onto the hospital.