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.