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.