It's getting warm again. The Dar es Salaam heat is coming as summer looms and the short rains are slowly arriving, adding humidity to the mix. I write with the same feeling one might have before a snowstorm, wondering whether or not a snow day is in the mix for tomorrow. Only today, the decision won't be based on snow, but rather the moon. If the moon is positioned correctly Eid ul-Fitr will commence tomorrow, the Muslim feast celebrating the end of Ramadaan. Otherwise, we return to school tomorrow and we will have Thursday and Friday off.
As we are nearing the completion of the first year we recently held our year-end retreat - Re-O/Dis-O - up in Moshi. As Kate was dis-orienting, Caroline and I were re-orienting for the year, asking what the experience has been thus far and where it might go in the time ahead. As we were waiting to board the bus to return home, a line of women were sitting at the bus station selling vegetables and fruits. The collections of green peppers, bananas, pineapples, oranges, carrots, and coconuts provided what Kate and I considered to be a beautiful foreground to what we have come to appreciate as a Tanzanian scene. I asked the women if it would be all right if I took their picture and was asked for money in return. Unwilling to pay, the women began lambasting me for having asked and then refusing to pay. Looking back on the moment, I asked aloud what would have happened if I had simply taken the photo without asking? Would they have minded? Would it have been okay or an invasion of their privacy?
In thinking about these questions, I began to realize once again how difficult it is to capture an experience such as this. The picture would have only conveyed a small part of the reality of that street scene. It wouldn't have captured the smells or the ever-present noise. Then how to capture what I am learning and seeing and feeling everyday? As I continue through the experience, I am amazed more and more by the importance of storytelling, both for me and for them. The women at the bus station could not have had their stories told with my picture. No, I think the picture would have only been the first step, or perhaps the last. In order for the people with whom I share this experience to be carried home with me, listening is necessary. To share the experience with others, it cannot be through pictures alone or only recounting the events. It needs to be done through narrative, which might help bridge the gap in understanding between where I am and where I come from, thereby connecting the two experiences.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Shifting Locales
August has passed and it is hard to believe that third quarter is already coming to a close. This semester time seems to be passing quickly, so I suppose I am either having more fun or am more comfortable. I think it is probably the latter, which inevitably leads to more of the former.
At the beginning of the month, we relocated, something we had been anticipating for the previous eight months. Shifting, as the locals call it, is quite a process in a place where people enjoy taking careful note of everyone's next move. As this entails taking note of all the little trinkets one owns, moving twelve years worth of stuff left by past JVs only added to the excitement. What did we find when we began sifting through the treasures of days gone by?
Well, at least 13 unopened bottles of Banana Boat sunscreen and other varieties (JVs coming to Dar, check it off your list!); many litres of bug spray ranging from 5% DEET to 50% DEET (I’m pretty sure the latter is lethal); many old prescriptions, some of which expired a decade ago; three separate first aid kits, none of which contained any medicine that hadn’t expired (side note: I made the five pharmacists in my family happy when I safely disposed of all the expired medications and old prescriptions); 7 full bottles of Gold Bond Triple Action Relief medicated powder (also, none of these have been opened (future JVs again take note)); and what we estimate to be three years worth of feminine hygiene products for a community housing at least two women, most of which have arrived via mail over the last decade as a way of deterring postal workers from investigating the contents of a package. Of course, there were many other jewels, but if I continued listing the contents of our community chest, I wouldn’t have time to tell you about our dogs.
If only I’d have been brave enough by press time to take a picture of our two guard dogs, Simba and Chuky. These dogs have come with the house, but are only temporary, do their job well. Unfortunately, they scare off not only potential intruders, of which we have had none, but also they scare our Tanzanian friends. There are few dogs in Mabibo and so most of Mabiboans (?) only know the animal by their vicious bark. As a result, most of our guests either do not enter inside the gate or run directly for the inside of the house (all of this happening while the dogs are safely chained). The dogs bark or whimper through the night which impinges on the sleep of Kate and Caroline. Luckily, my mother thought it a good idea to vacuum beside my head whenever I slept as a child and so now I can sleep through almost anything (including dogs barking who may be warning, “Hey, there’s an intruder.” For this, we have housemates I am told!)
No complaining. The house is good. Dogs included.
One last note before I send off and you can return to enjoying the last days of summer. In July, I talked about Saba Saba. Caroline, my community mate, informed me that I had forgotten what she considered to be a newsworthy piece of information. And how could I forget a shout out to the scouting movement to which I belonged for so long?
We were strolling along at Saba Saba when all of a sudden two dozen scouts strolled by linked to a piece of yellow polypropylene rope, à la kindergarten. We paused to inspect the formation when Tanzania’s Prime Minister Pinda emerged onto to the scene between the two rows of scouts. Scouts, doubling as Secret Service; somewhere Robert Baden-Powell was smiling down.
Enough is enough. Enjoy your Labour Day weekend and for those of you still studying, best of luck as you return to classes!
At the beginning of the month, we relocated, something we had been anticipating for the previous eight months. Shifting, as the locals call it, is quite a process in a place where people enjoy taking careful note of everyone's next move. As this entails taking note of all the little trinkets one owns, moving twelve years worth of stuff left by past JVs only added to the excitement. What did we find when we began sifting through the treasures of days gone by?
Well, at least 13 unopened bottles of Banana Boat sunscreen and other varieties (JVs coming to Dar, check it off your list!); many litres of bug spray ranging from 5% DEET to 50% DEET (I’m pretty sure the latter is lethal); many old prescriptions, some of which expired a decade ago; three separate first aid kits, none of which contained any medicine that hadn’t expired (side note: I made the five pharmacists in my family happy when I safely disposed of all the expired medications and old prescriptions); 7 full bottles of Gold Bond Triple Action Relief medicated powder (also, none of these have been opened (future JVs again take note)); and what we estimate to be three years worth of feminine hygiene products for a community housing at least two women, most of which have arrived via mail over the last decade as a way of deterring postal workers from investigating the contents of a package. Of course, there were many other jewels, but if I continued listing the contents of our community chest, I wouldn’t have time to tell you about our dogs.
If only I’d have been brave enough by press time to take a picture of our two guard dogs, Simba and Chuky. These dogs have come with the house, but are only temporary, do their job well. Unfortunately, they scare off not only potential intruders, of which we have had none, but also they scare our Tanzanian friends. There are few dogs in Mabibo and so most of Mabiboans (?) only know the animal by their vicious bark. As a result, most of our guests either do not enter inside the gate or run directly for the inside of the house (all of this happening while the dogs are safely chained). The dogs bark or whimper through the night which impinges on the sleep of Kate and Caroline. Luckily, my mother thought it a good idea to vacuum beside my head whenever I slept as a child and so now I can sleep through almost anything (including dogs barking who may be warning, “Hey, there’s an intruder.” For this, we have housemates I am told!)
No complaining. The house is good. Dogs included.
One last note before I send off and you can return to enjoying the last days of summer. In July, I talked about Saba Saba. Caroline, my community mate, informed me that I had forgotten what she considered to be a newsworthy piece of information. And how could I forget a shout out to the scouting movement to which I belonged for so long?
We were strolling along at Saba Saba when all of a sudden two dozen scouts strolled by linked to a piece of yellow polypropylene rope, à la kindergarten. We paused to inspect the formation when Tanzania’s Prime Minister Pinda emerged onto to the scene between the two rows of scouts. Scouts, doubling as Secret Service; somewhere Robert Baden-Powell was smiling down.
Enough is enough. Enjoy your Labour Day weekend and for those of you still studying, best of luck as you return to classes!
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
The Five-Star Cycle, Please
This month we returned to the classroom. We opened on 8th July, following Saba Saba (Seven Seven), a national holiday here and a day reserved for an international trade fair - an event mixing something near the magnitude of the Calgary Stampede with the organization of your local county fair; a very dangerous mixture. We made it to the event after being turned away in the morning from one of the local prisons. We had gone to visit a friend who was visiting a little longer, but the guards turned us away saying we needed to check with our respective embassies prior to entering the facility. We have yet to get our passports cleared, but I remain skeptical that even then will we be granted entry. Perhaps another story for another day.
The second week of the semester Gonzaga played host to a group of students from St. Joseph's University in Philadelphia. They were midway through a three-week immersion trip in Tanzania and volunteered as teaching assistants for the week. It was nice to have another group of students with whom to reflect and to share the experience. Since they departed, school has begun to settle into its groove. I was reminded before the semester began to not be discouraged when my students returned to school empty-headed (it happens everywhere, I was reassured). However, my students in both Standards Three and Five are doing well and have retained more information than I think I taught last semester. Most importantly, it only took them a day to reacquaint their ears to my Canadian accent and so we are flying along now studying the past simple tense and the metric system!
I recently had what I believe to be my first five-star laundry experience. As I sit like Peter Pan rubbing soap on my shadow (or pants, in this case), I have much time to ponder life's bigger questions and so recently I came up with this five-star rating system.
The first star is based on the amount of laundry you wash. The litmus test: did I get it all done? The second star is earned if at the end of the experience you look at your knuckles and they are not bleeding or oozing. You win another star if while washing your clothes, you can say (honestly) to yourself, "Yeah, I am being effective today. These clothes feel clean." This is not always a given for as anyone who has handwashed a lot of laundry can attest, somedays the clothes just seem to stay dirty. Now we are down to our last two stars and these are in Mother Nature's hands, although you can plan for this next star. Did the laundry avoid the "extra rinse cycle" (i.e. rain) thereby avoiding picking up that odd rain-residue smell? If so, tack on yet another gold star. Now the final variable and by far the most unpredictable. As you remove your clothes from the line and inspect the day's work, to put it plainly, do you see any crow shit? No? Not today? Then you win the final star! As was the case this past Saturday, I managed to pick up all five stars and so for at least a little while, I can feel good about the shirt I wear on my back.
I hope all is going well back home and that summer is passing with fine weather, good barbeques, and a few ballgames here and there. I am thinking of you all and praying for you. I only ask that you think of me every now and again as you take a dip in the Shediac Bay!
The second week of the semester Gonzaga played host to a group of students from St. Joseph's University in Philadelphia. They were midway through a three-week immersion trip in Tanzania and volunteered as teaching assistants for the week. It was nice to have another group of students with whom to reflect and to share the experience. Since they departed, school has begun to settle into its groove. I was reminded before the semester began to not be discouraged when my students returned to school empty-headed (it happens everywhere, I was reassured). However, my students in both Standards Three and Five are doing well and have retained more information than I think I taught last semester. Most importantly, it only took them a day to reacquaint their ears to my Canadian accent and so we are flying along now studying the past simple tense and the metric system!
I recently had what I believe to be my first five-star laundry experience. As I sit like Peter Pan rubbing soap on my shadow (or pants, in this case), I have much time to ponder life's bigger questions and so recently I came up with this five-star rating system.
The first star is based on the amount of laundry you wash. The litmus test: did I get it all done? The second star is earned if at the end of the experience you look at your knuckles and they are not bleeding or oozing. You win another star if while washing your clothes, you can say (honestly) to yourself, "Yeah, I am being effective today. These clothes feel clean." This is not always a given for as anyone who has handwashed a lot of laundry can attest, somedays the clothes just seem to stay dirty. Now we are down to our last two stars and these are in Mother Nature's hands, although you can plan for this next star. Did the laundry avoid the "extra rinse cycle" (i.e. rain) thereby avoiding picking up that odd rain-residue smell? If so, tack on yet another gold star. Now the final variable and by far the most unpredictable. As you remove your clothes from the line and inspect the day's work, to put it plainly, do you see any crow shit? No? Not today? Then you win the final star! As was the case this past Saturday, I managed to pick up all five stars and so for at least a little while, I can feel good about the shirt I wear on my back.
I hope all is going well back home and that summer is passing with fine weather, good barbeques, and a few ballgames here and there. I am thinking of you all and praying for you. I only ask that you think of me every now and again as you take a dip in the Shediac Bay!
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Arusha
Recently, we traveled to the northeast of Tanzania to a town called Arusha. Arusha is home to the entrances of many national parks and is only an hour's drive from Moshi, which boasts the title of housing Africa's tallest mountain, Mt. Kilimanjaro. Closer to Arusha is Tanzania's second highest mountain, Mt. Meru (pictured above).We leave again from the Ubungo bus station. This time we are traveling on Fresh Coach, a division of Air Born City Ltd. We are two hours late leaving the terminal; buses in Tanzania will not travel until they are at least 96% full. Heading northbound, city limits are reached within twenty minutes and then the Tanzanian landscape takes over. Driving through Tanzania North-South, scenery changes are as regular as traveling Canada East-West.
Outside of Dar and for the next four hours the country unfolds as sweeping plains. Long-dry-soft-slow, lion-yellow grass is interrupted by maize fields, ranging in sizes from self-suffiency to plantations. Settled beside these corn fields are houses. Adobe mud huts and cinder block houses of varying degrees of completion. Some adorned with murals advertising Speedo™ ball point pens and oXo laundry detergent (gentle on hands, tough on stains); others stuccoed and converted into dukas (stores), this year reading, “Kuburudisho murua. Coca-Cola.”; and still others abandoned or perhaps simply ran-out-of-money-not-yet-finished, but Nature doesn’t wait and She has already reclaimed her land. These housed villages are interspersed evenly along the entire road north.
As we approach these mini-towns, the bus slows, and often stops, either to let someone off or to ensure that we are still traveling in one piece. We pull off the road into a makeshift driveway and salesmen beginning running up to the windows with their latest products. Several men are carrying twenty-five oranges tightly bundled in a mesh sac; another group is selling black bags of mangoes; a boy is selling charred corncobs poking out in every direction from the top of a broom handle; a few brave men are balancing bulletin boards atop their heads from which hangs a selection of a plastic doll, a gold water gun, different pairs of sunglasses, and several wristwatches of the fake Rolex variety. It should be noted here, however, that these men are not selling to people who are coming off the bus. They are selling to the passengers who are seated high above their heads. Their goods are thus balanced in the palms of their hands outstretched above their heads while they are running in pack formation to be the first to reach the wary passengers.
From outside the window I hear, “Hey White, watch?” or “Mazungu, buy oranges me, elfu tatu [three thousand].” For everyone else on the bus, the oranges are one thousand. We buy a bundle of oranges (for one thousand) at one stop to bring to our hosts in Arusha, Jesuits living at the Jesuit Novitiate. The bus rolls out of the stop, some men drop off, but others still run along with the bus, completing any last-minute transactions that are unfinished.
We continue upwards and the air grows cooler as we rise higher in altitude. The landscape becomes greener and the level
horizon is broken up with hills and fifth-grade lollipop ebony trees, which take the place of the southern plains, palms and cacti. The scenery is once again lush as we plunge into valleys, crossing narrow bridges over dry-season rivers of murky water. The hills become more regular and are no longer hills, but mountains. The heights increase until we reach Moshi, where the range reaches its zenith in Kilimanjaro. The sun has set by the time we leave Moshi and we drive the last hour to Arusha in darkness, in awe that the driver can see out of the bug-splattered windshield.Tuesday morning I arise stiff from yesterday’s travel, but taken with the serenity Arusha provides. It is eight a.m. and early-nineties pop classics are not blaring from the club across the street. Looking out behind the refectory, the Arushan plains extend outward for miles. On a clear day, we learn, one can see Mt. Kilimanjaro from the Novitiate. Over the next three days the sky clears so that we can "only" see Mt. Meru. On Wednesday, three novices agree to take us on a hike down through a nearby gorge. Daniel and Michael (novices who lived in Dar for ten weeks at the beginning of the year) and Oscar lead us out around the compound and down into the gorge. Throughout the hike we are overtaken with amazing, you-just-don't-see-this-in-Moncton scapes provided at different vantage points. At one point we encounter a river we need to ford.
Caroline and Kate dutifully take off their shoes and cross safely following the pass forged by Oscar. I, on the other hand, decide it would be a good idea to follow Daniel who has bounded across the river over the protruding rocks. I forget that Daniel has done this countless times before and I am left stranded in the middle of the river, not nimble enough to make the final leap. I too remove my shoes and trudge the rest of the way through the river.On the other side of the gorge is another set of views and a Masai village. A man leads us along and directs us to the next point where we are both able to cross the river and scale both sides of deep valley. We safely navigate our way past the sunflower field that served as our reference point and then we make it back to the home side.
We spend the next day and a half enjoying the calm Arusha offers. As we are on retreat, we enjoy this time while also reflecting on the benefits and challenges of communal living and the value of work and whether our work is leaving us healthy and whole and indeed serving the common good. We leave Arusha town Friday morning and as is usual, the ride home is never as entertaining as the ride there. However, we do manage to squeeze in a flat tire and another mini-breakdown along the way, leading me to think that when traveling in Tanzania a bus breakdown may be the norm as opposed to the exception!
I continue to think about you all back home and I am hoping the summer is serving up fine weather to reciprocate the snowy winter you had.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Thoughts on Food
It has been a month of slower moving here in Mabibo. May marked the end (for the most part) of the rainy season and it also marks the end of Gonzaga's inaugural semester. We held our first Gonzaga Day yesterday - a day of celebrating the feast day of our patron saint. The actual feast day is June 21st, but as we will be on June holidays, we chose to mark the end of classes with the celebration.
One piece of news that has affected us here in Dar has been the recent rise in food prices. While the increase does not seem to be closely linked to the factors listed as having an impact on the global food crisis (Dar's price increase has been largely attributed to road washouts, thereby preventing the transportation of food), the parallel timing as we have watched prices rise has provided some timely reflection.
Compared with Western societies where household budgets normally allocate 15% of their income for food, households in developing nations, I have recently learned, may set aside as much as 80% of the family budget for food. We have felt a bit of the strain of the recent increase in our JV community, but even so, we still only set aside 25% of our monthly budget for food and so we have plenty of wiggle room with which to work. Our neighbors can't speak of the same luxury.
Where we have three separate sources of consistent income, many of the households in Mabibo have a single earner in the house (normally working in the less-than-reliable informal sector) and that person is usually supporting a spouse, at least three children, and perhaps other relatives, such as parents or siblings, on an income that may be slightly higher than 150,000 shillings a month (approx. 130$). Therefore, four tomatoes that once cost 200 shillings (about 20 cents), but now cost 300 or perhaps even 400 shillings become a part of the diet that is quickly cut out and is substituted with more rice or ugali (maize flour mixed into boiling water), which is filling, but may be lacking in nutrition value.
Tanzania is not being hit as hard as other countries during this global crisis, but even so, the recent strain has put a noticeable stress on the families who rely on the consistency of the market. While I was aware of some of the realities that are linked with poverty, living in Mabibo during this time has, as I mentioned, provided some timely reflection and has awakened me in a new sense to the harsh truth that is hunger.
I ask that we may keep those who regularly go without food, both at home and away, in our prayers this month and that we continue to act mindfully as global consumers.
One piece of news that has affected us here in Dar has been the recent rise in food prices. While the increase does not seem to be closely linked to the factors listed as having an impact on the global food crisis (Dar's price increase has been largely attributed to road washouts, thereby preventing the transportation of food), the parallel timing as we have watched prices rise has provided some timely reflection.
Compared with Western societies where household budgets normally allocate 15% of their income for food, households in developing nations, I have recently learned, may set aside as much as 80% of the family budget for food. We have felt a bit of the strain of the recent increase in our JV community, but even so, we still only set aside 25% of our monthly budget for food and so we have plenty of wiggle room with which to work. Our neighbors can't speak of the same luxury.
Where we have three separate sources of consistent income, many of the households in Mabibo have a single earner in the house (normally working in the less-than-reliable informal sector) and that person is usually supporting a spouse, at least three children, and perhaps other relatives, such as parents or siblings, on an income that may be slightly higher than 150,000 shillings a month (approx. 130$). Therefore, four tomatoes that once cost 200 shillings (about 20 cents), but now cost 300 or perhaps even 400 shillings become a part of the diet that is quickly cut out and is substituted with more rice or ugali (maize flour mixed into boiling water), which is filling, but may be lacking in nutrition value.
Tanzania is not being hit as hard as other countries during this global crisis, but even so, the recent strain has put a noticeable stress on the families who rely on the consistency of the market. While I was aware of some of the realities that are linked with poverty, living in Mabibo during this time has, as I mentioned, provided some timely reflection and has awakened me in a new sense to the harsh truth that is hunger.
I ask that we may keep those who regularly go without food, both at home and away, in our prayers this month and that we continue to act mindfully as global consumers.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
April Showers Bring...April Showers
Back home, the saying goes, "April showers bring May flowers." In Tanzania, I think the saying goes like this, "April showers bring April showers." Of course, the rains also bring long grass to our yard, providing a perfect breeding ground for snakes and it provides us with precious drinking water, but I would be remiss in not mentioning the wonderful showers with which it provides us.
* * * * * * *
A Quick Background
Our home in Mabibo is capable of housing running water. The water comes one night a week from the city and when needed this one night of water fills our two tanks, enough water to last us a month. The water in our top tank is what comes into our house. Normally, when we see the bottom tank is empty, we start opening up our pipes through which the city's water flows, since the city is occasionally sporadic with its water distribution. In the middle of March, we happened upon the fact that the bottom tank was empty. We began our nightly vigil waiting for water to come. A week passed, city water didn't come, our bottom tank remained empty, the top tank grew lighter. Another week passed, city water supposedly came, our bottom tank was definitely still empty, the top tank, still lighter.
We started asking our neighbors if their water was coming. First week, apparently no one got water. Second week, neighbors were getting water. Thinking it may be something the matter with our pump, we had it checked by one of the Jesuits. "Nothing wrong with the pump, just wait for the water," he explained. In the meantime, as March turned into April, the rainy season had arrived. By this time the top tank was empty and so buckets showers became the "in" thing. Our water source was no longer the city; instead, water came in the form of rain, which we caught in a single four-gallon bucket. With the rain water we faithfully refilled our small water basins, which all together hold 72 liters. Seems like a lot, but it reminds us how much water three people can use over the course of a couple of days.
We learned this past week we would no longer be receiving city water. We discovered that during the month of March as we watched water spouts sprouting up along the walk to school, water was being diverted away from its previous route. We missed the "update", and so now we fetch water from a neighbor's house.
* * * * * * *
Bucket showers are not fun (I am sure that some of my friends who have no option but to bucket shower will stop reading here), and this being the case, I tried going as long as allowed without showering. Finally, one Saturday, while Kate and Caroline were at a friend's house, it began down pouring. I leapt into my bathing suit, soap in hand, and made way for the water rolling out of the gutter. This gave birth to my new idiom, April showers bring April showers. My sole regret is not having tried it earlier; although, it is not as simple as it sounds, since we are in school during the majority of the rain and I have yet to muster the courage to excuse myself from class to bathe.
* * * * * * *
Rains bring water, yes. Thankfully, rainy seasons bring a lot of water. The rains keep things cooler, food grows, water tanks are filled. But I have also come to recognise that a month of rain with no sun also has its downside.
Midway through April, in the middle of our water story, I saw a few spots of mildew growing inside my hat. I didn't think much of it. It was only my hat and it was probably because it was dirty, unlike my clothes stored inside my drawers. All else was safe, I thought. Not true. I quickly discovered my clothes were damp. Actually, make that wet. Hanging them up in my room did not help and I think it may have actually made things worse. Too much rain, not enough sun. I was stuck between praying for water to fill our bucket and praying for sun to dry my clothes which were quickly being overrun by the spread of mildew. Luckily, this past Sunday, we had a slight reprieve from the rain, allowing enough time to wash away the mildew and to dry the clothes, thereby dodging a mini-disaster. Losing one pair of pants to mildew when that means halving your clothing options below the waist may constitute a mini-disaster.
Otherwise, all else is well here. I am grateful for your continued thoughts and prayers and know that you are in mine. Stay well, my friends.
* * * * * * *
A Quick Background
Our home in Mabibo is capable of housing running water. The water comes one night a week from the city and when needed this one night of water fills our two tanks, enough water to last us a month. The water in our top tank is what comes into our house. Normally, when we see the bottom tank is empty, we start opening up our pipes through which the city's water flows, since the city is occasionally sporadic with its water distribution. In the middle of March, we happened upon the fact that the bottom tank was empty. We began our nightly vigil waiting for water to come. A week passed, city water didn't come, our bottom tank remained empty, the top tank grew lighter. Another week passed, city water supposedly came, our bottom tank was definitely still empty, the top tank, still lighter.
We started asking our neighbors if their water was coming. First week, apparently no one got water. Second week, neighbors were getting water. Thinking it may be something the matter with our pump, we had it checked by one of the Jesuits. "Nothing wrong with the pump, just wait for the water," he explained. In the meantime, as March turned into April, the rainy season had arrived. By this time the top tank was empty and so buckets showers became the "in" thing. Our water source was no longer the city; instead, water came in the form of rain, which we caught in a single four-gallon bucket. With the rain water we faithfully refilled our small water basins, which all together hold 72 liters. Seems like a lot, but it reminds us how much water three people can use over the course of a couple of days.
We learned this past week we would no longer be receiving city water. We discovered that during the month of March as we watched water spouts sprouting up along the walk to school, water was being diverted away from its previous route. We missed the "update", and so now we fetch water from a neighbor's house.
* * * * * * *
Bucket showers are not fun (I am sure that some of my friends who have no option but to bucket shower will stop reading here), and this being the case, I tried going as long as allowed without showering. Finally, one Saturday, while Kate and Caroline were at a friend's house, it began down pouring. I leapt into my bathing suit, soap in hand, and made way for the water rolling out of the gutter. This gave birth to my new idiom, April showers bring April showers. My sole regret is not having tried it earlier; although, it is not as simple as it sounds, since we are in school during the majority of the rain and I have yet to muster the courage to excuse myself from class to bathe.
* * * * * * *
Rains bring water, yes. Thankfully, rainy seasons bring a lot of water. The rains keep things cooler, food grows, water tanks are filled. But I have also come to recognise that a month of rain with no sun also has its downside.
Midway through April, in the middle of our water story, I saw a few spots of mildew growing inside my hat. I didn't think much of it. It was only my hat and it was probably because it was dirty, unlike my clothes stored inside my drawers. All else was safe, I thought. Not true. I quickly discovered my clothes were damp. Actually, make that wet. Hanging them up in my room did not help and I think it may have actually made things worse. Too much rain, not enough sun. I was stuck between praying for water to fill our bucket and praying for sun to dry my clothes which were quickly being overrun by the spread of mildew. Luckily, this past Sunday, we had a slight reprieve from the rain, allowing enough time to wash away the mildew and to dry the clothes, thereby dodging a mini-disaster. Losing one pair of pants to mildew when that means halving your clothing options below the waist may constitute a mini-disaster.
Otherwise, all else is well here. I am grateful for your continued thoughts and prayers and know that you are in mine. Stay well, my friends.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Easter Break in Ndanda
School re-opened last week and second quarter is running much smoother. First session ended on the 14th and after hanging around Mabibo that Saturday as Kate and Caroline finished up parent-teacher meetings, we, along with Father Don, left for Ndanda on Sunday, headed for a four-day retreat.
We awoke earlier than normal and groggily walked to the Jesuit residence where Fr. Don was waiting with Fr. Mchopa, who had graciously offered to drive us to the bus terminal, were waiting. Mchopa served as our connection to Ndanda, a native of the South and knowing the priests with whom we were going to stay. We arrived at the bus terminal at 6:40 a.m. A little later than we had hoped, but still with plenty of time to spare in order to catch our 7:00 a.m. bus, especially when you factored in the usual 15 minute Tanzanian delay. The bus terminal was bustling already as passengers-to-be hurried to find the appropriate bus slip (North, East, Northeast, West, etc., etc.). Each slip held five buses, all lettered with different fonts, most of which looked as though they belonged to a circus company and all either praising Jesus or Allah, depending on the driver's religion. Through crowds of people some of whom were balancing suitcases on their heads, Mchopa carefully guided our car through the morning's obstacle course and eventually found a parking spot off the side of the entrance way. We parked, carried our backpacks out, and followed our leader out back. How he knew where to find the bus to Ndanda amazed us all, since we seemingly walked into a back parking lot where it appeared as though no one else was walking. Well, it turned out no one was walking back there because, as Mchopa learned, at 6:50a.m., the 7:00a.m. bus had already left the station. Puzzled by the new Tanzania we had just encountered, we hurried back to the jeep and Mchopa sped us along the empty streets to the next station about 15 minutes away.
We arrived at the next station, the sun a little farther along on its morning ascent. We watched from the car as Mchopa tried to learn the whereabouts of the missing bus. We hadn't passed the bus on our way to the station and it wasn't there. Thinking that the bus had left already and that we were out of luck, we soon learned that in fact it had not yet left the station in Ubungo, our original point of origin. We would wait for it and finally board. We waited and when it arrived, we boarded, hesitantly as we examined the exterior of our coach. Painted in lemon yellow lettering was the company name, Akida. The lettering wove about on the jungle green backdrop in a style that looked more fitted to the Ringling Bros. than Greyhound. As we climbed aboard, we launched ourselves up to the first step, which found itself 3 feet off the ground, all the while gazing at a massive crack, running from the top of the bus to the bottom of the window - a crack that had once been welded back together, but now remained agape. Nevertheless, we boarded, but found people in our seats. No fault of their own, however, as the bus had double booked our row! Mchopa's morning courtesy ride was still not over. As our bus began pulling away, Mchopa was still on board trying to settle the seat issue. He managed to get off the bus, although this would not be the last we saw of him.
At the next station, Mchopa again emerged. This time we arranged to have our seats back and the previous patrons took seats a little farther forward. Alas, we were on our way. Somehow. Rounding each corner at speeds that seemed unsafe for such a large vehicle, the bus, on its weak suspension, swayed to and fro. I quickly plunged my nose into a book trying to avoid recognizing the fact that we were careening down a two-lane road in a tour bus at speeds upwards of 90km/h.
About three hours after we left Mchopa, who had by this time hurried quickly back to say the 9:00a.m. mass, we entered into a stretch of about 70 km of pot hole-filled dirt roads. Praying for it not to rain so that we may actually cross this stretch that would become impassable if the sky was to open up, I found a moment of relaxation in realizing that dirt roads meant slower speeds. Or so I thought. 70 km covered in an hour and a half, minus ten minutes for a bathroom stop along the side of the road. Essentially, the bus driver thought he was driving a new Land Rover and not an aging tour bus. We would pay, in time, for our quick passage of the bush road. Aside from having an upper window fall out onto my lap during the course of the bumpy road, we apparently did damage to our engine. Not a complete shock as we had passed along a nearly impossible stretch of road at nearly 50km/h. After initially being told we were stopping for a quick snack break of about ten minutes, it soon became apparent after re-boarding the bus that we would be stuck for a while.
Three and a half (nearing four) hours later, we took to the road again. We arrived in Ndanda at about 7:30p.m. Slightly later than anticipated, but there in one piece. We were greeted by Fr. Severin, who kindly offered us a warm meal after the day's travel.
The next morning we awoke to the beauty of the southern country. Severin welcomed us to breakfast and briefly shared a little bit about the retreat center. The Benedictines had founded the current mission in Ndanda in 1906. Severin had been in Ndanda since 1966, so long ago in fact that he had initially arrived by boat. The Benedictines ran a hospital and trained the locals in different trades, most of which we would see to some extent during the course of our visit.
A German, Severin ran like clock-work. At ten o'clock, he said he would meet us and, sure as the sun rises, he appeared at 10:00a.m. and 10 seconds, BBC time, as my father would have me note. He welcomed us to the Ndanda Mission Press. A print factory that provided all of the printing for the south of the country. An impressive factory and Br. Markus who gave us the tour ensured that it ran smoothly. The factory was one of the first indications of the tremendous source of employment the mission offered the local community. It also demonstrated the extent to which the mission complex had become self-sufficient. Almost everything, down to the passion fruit preserves served at breakfast, was made in the village. They trained craftsmen in woodworking, stone masonry, and cattle raising. They helped run a hospital, two schools, a bakery, and a butchery. Up until last year, they had run the largest leper colony in East Africa. They generated their own electricity with the help of a water turbine and provided the community with clean running water. So clean you could drink it straight from the shower tap. Each day we stayed, I grew more and more fond of the wonderful work being done in Ndanda and the awareness that eventually all would be operated by Tanzanians. Walking around town gave the feeling that I was walking in what I imagined might feel like an old medieval village.
On our final day Severin drove us up to the top of the mesa and we gazed out into a valley that was lush given the tremendous rain the region had received during our brief stay. As we drove down the mountain, our eyes keenly taking in the new environment, we encountered several inhabitants of the mesa, donning a mix of traditional garb and second-hand t-shirts and shorts. These people remained mostly unaffected by the large mission below them and sustained themselves growing maize and potatoes, while trading mangoes and other fruit with the townspeople below.
The next day we awoke before dawn and boarded our bus - this time we chose to ride with Tito. Although it took us two hours to pass along the stretch of dirt road, we did not break down and so we returned to Dar es Salaam in time for the Holy Thursday mass, kicking off the Easter Triduum. We spent the Easter weekend celebrating with neighbors and the Jesuit community and catching a last bit of rest before school began again on Tuesday morning.
We awoke earlier than normal and groggily walked to the Jesuit residence where Fr. Don was waiting with Fr. Mchopa, who had graciously offered to drive us to the bus terminal, were waiting. Mchopa served as our connection to Ndanda, a native of the South and knowing the priests with whom we were going to stay. We arrived at the bus terminal at 6:40 a.m. A little later than we had hoped, but still with plenty of time to spare in order to catch our 7:00 a.m. bus, especially when you factored in the usual 15 minute Tanzanian delay. The bus terminal was bustling already as passengers-to-be hurried to find the appropriate bus slip (North, East, Northeast, West, etc., etc.). Each slip held five buses, all lettered with different fonts, most of which looked as though they belonged to a circus company and all either praising Jesus or Allah, depending on the driver's religion. Through crowds of people some of whom were balancing suitcases on their heads, Mchopa carefully guided our car through the morning's obstacle course and eventually found a parking spot off the side of the entrance way. We parked, carried our backpacks out, and followed our leader out back. How he knew where to find the bus to Ndanda amazed us all, since we seemingly walked into a back parking lot where it appeared as though no one else was walking. Well, it turned out no one was walking back there because, as Mchopa learned, at 6:50a.m., the 7:00a.m. bus had already left the station. Puzzled by the new Tanzania we had just encountered, we hurried back to the jeep and Mchopa sped us along the empty streets to the next station about 15 minutes away.
We arrived at the next station, the sun a little farther along on its morning ascent. We watched from the car as Mchopa tried to learn the whereabouts of the missing bus. We hadn't passed the bus on our way to the station and it wasn't there. Thinking that the bus had left already and that we were out of luck, we soon learned that in fact it had not yet left the station in Ubungo, our original point of origin. We would wait for it and finally board. We waited and when it arrived, we boarded, hesitantly as we examined the exterior of our coach. Painted in lemon yellow lettering was the company name, Akida. The lettering wove about on the jungle green backdrop in a style that looked more fitted to the Ringling Bros. than Greyhound. As we climbed aboard, we launched ourselves up to the first step, which found itself 3 feet off the ground, all the while gazing at a massive crack, running from the top of the bus to the bottom of the window - a crack that had once been welded back together, but now remained agape. Nevertheless, we boarded, but found people in our seats. No fault of their own, however, as the bus had double booked our row! Mchopa's morning courtesy ride was still not over. As our bus began pulling away, Mchopa was still on board trying to settle the seat issue. He managed to get off the bus, although this would not be the last we saw of him.
At the next station, Mchopa again emerged. This time we arranged to have our seats back and the previous patrons took seats a little farther forward. Alas, we were on our way. Somehow. Rounding each corner at speeds that seemed unsafe for such a large vehicle, the bus, on its weak suspension, swayed to and fro. I quickly plunged my nose into a book trying to avoid recognizing the fact that we were careening down a two-lane road in a tour bus at speeds upwards of 90km/h.
About three hours after we left Mchopa, who had by this time hurried quickly back to say the 9:00a.m. mass, we entered into a stretch of about 70 km of pot hole-filled dirt roads. Praying for it not to rain so that we may actually cross this stretch that would become impassable if the sky was to open up, I found a moment of relaxation in realizing that dirt roads meant slower speeds. Or so I thought. 70 km covered in an hour and a half, minus ten minutes for a bathroom stop along the side of the road. Essentially, the bus driver thought he was driving a new Land Rover and not an aging tour bus. We would pay, in time, for our quick passage of the bush road. Aside from having an upper window fall out onto my lap during the course of the bumpy road, we apparently did damage to our engine. Not a complete shock as we had passed along a nearly impossible stretch of road at nearly 50km/h. After initially being told we were stopping for a quick snack break of about ten minutes, it soon became apparent after re-boarding the bus that we would be stuck for a while.
Three and a half (nearing four) hours later, we took to the road again. We arrived in Ndanda at about 7:30p.m. Slightly later than anticipated, but there in one piece. We were greeted by Fr. Severin, who kindly offered us a warm meal after the day's travel.
The next morning we awoke to the beauty of the southern country. Severin welcomed us to breakfast and briefly shared a little bit about the retreat center. The Benedictines had founded the current mission in Ndanda in 1906. Severin had been in Ndanda since 1966, so long ago in fact that he had initially arrived by boat. The Benedictines ran a hospital and trained the locals in different trades, most of which we would see to some extent during the course of our visit.
A German, Severin ran like clock-work. At ten o'clock, he said he would meet us and, sure as the sun rises, he appeared at 10:00a.m. and 10 seconds, BBC time, as my father would have me note. He welcomed us to the Ndanda Mission Press. A print factory that provided all of the printing for the south of the country. An impressive factory and Br. Markus who gave us the tour ensured that it ran smoothly. The factory was one of the first indications of the tremendous source of employment the mission offered the local community. It also demonstrated the extent to which the mission complex had become self-sufficient. Almost everything, down to the passion fruit preserves served at breakfast, was made in the village. They trained craftsmen in woodworking, stone masonry, and cattle raising. They helped run a hospital, two schools, a bakery, and a butchery. Up until last year, they had run the largest leper colony in East Africa. They generated their own electricity with the help of a water turbine and provided the community with clean running water. So clean you could drink it straight from the shower tap. Each day we stayed, I grew more and more fond of the wonderful work being done in Ndanda and the awareness that eventually all would be operated by Tanzanians. Walking around town gave the feeling that I was walking in what I imagined might feel like an old medieval village.
On our final day Severin drove us up to the top of the mesa and we gazed out into a valley that was lush given the tremendous rain the region had received during our brief stay. As we drove down the mountain, our eyes keenly taking in the new environment, we encountered several inhabitants of the mesa, donning a mix of traditional garb and second-hand t-shirts and shorts. These people remained mostly unaffected by the large mission below them and sustained themselves growing maize and potatoes, while trading mangoes and other fruit with the townspeople below.
The next day we awoke before dawn and boarded our bus - this time we chose to ride with Tito. Although it took us two hours to pass along the stretch of dirt road, we did not break down and so we returned to Dar es Salaam in time for the Holy Thursday mass, kicking off the Easter Triduum. We spent the Easter weekend celebrating with neighbors and the Jesuit community and catching a last bit of rest before school began again on Tuesday morning.
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