Shagalabagala is a Kiswahili word that etymologically stems from Arabic. It translates to “disorderly,” but I’d like to think the meaning is closer to “shit show,” or “utter chaos.” I spent a large portion of the month bored out of my skull because our students are on Christmas break. I had to get the hell out of dodge. In my time here I have become, what I would like to refer to as, a total square. I wake up around 6:30-7:30 most days, I have breakfast, do some yoga (this is probably the most comical part), shower daily (though this hasn’t been true recently), drink only once a week or so and seldom become intoxicated (this also has not been true recently), most of my friends are monks, I usually dress well and am quite clean (it’s a very cultural thing, dressing like crap or being dirty is culturally insulting), go to bed early, I avoid all but platonic interaction with females, and I’m a teacher and a respectable member of my village (VILLAGE! I mean, I live in a sleepy hamlet for Christ’s sake). I also go to prayer like 3 times a week. Needless to say, this existence without the business of teaching, it would all make me go insane (especially the terrible food). It is a good thing Andrew and I planned a pretty chucky-jam-full holiday season. Things soon changed.
Steph, whom Andrew is dating, and Nick, who is Steph’s brother, both came to Tanzania for Christmas. This was awesome needless to say. We met them in Dar Es Salaam. I must say Bongo* is a completely different creature now that I have been living here for some time (see first Tz blog for reference). The bus ride was still long and relatively awful, but it was substantially nicer being able to order food and get the correct price etc. We didn’t see quite as many animals as last time (we drove through the national park at the hottest part of the day) but at one point we had a really nice conversation with an English teacher who was visiting his son for the holidays (things like that make all the difference). We spent the first couple days in Dar Kupumzika**. Some of the monks and other people who work at the hostel were kushangaa*** to see our advance in speaking Kiswahili. Also, quite lovely, the abbey operates a guest house in Dar, meaning we did not have to pay to stay there. Hanga, and the majority of the Ruvumva district, sits at a pretty high elevation and therefore is relatively cool. Dar at sea level was purely miserable. It was like living in Atlanta again, but without cooling systems built with modern means or architectural responses to the heat. Because of this, I slept in a pool of my own sweat. Did I also mention that I am not, in fact, an African?
Though resting in a different setting was quite wonderful, a few factors in our stay made it all substantially more enjoyable. For example, we have good friends who live in Dar (they student taught at Hanga). We met with Riehner, who, I have found out, spells his name with the Tz spelling of the German name, Rainery. For a refresher, he is a postulate at Hanga monastery and in the last year of finishing his degree at University of Dar Es Salaam. We met with him one of our first days, and we took the daladala to his on-campus housing. A daladala basically is a passenger van. In the country it refers to any van that transports goods or people, in the city it refers purely to a city bus. Most of these very public transit vehicles produce in Japan in the 70’s and 80’s. With Rainery, we got a couple beers and some kitimoto (pork) at a pub near campus. I soon discovered most of the desire to eat flavorless, crappy food mostly relegates itself to the southern part of Tz and not the entire country. It was roasted pork (nyama choma), but it came surrounded by a sauce that was a mixture of different peppers, tomatoes, onions, and garlic. Keep in mind the last time I ate kitimoto with Rainery was in Songea where there was only a pile of salt and some spicy peppers. It was laid back. We saw where our friend lived and went to a really great local watering hole. My stay in Dar especially has confirmed my idea that I never want to travel a place where I don’t either A. speak the language moderately well, or B. Have a friend who lives there. We went to only places locals went, did not get ripped of by taxis like the innumerable tourists, and did not have to walk around with a secret service-like honor guard of tour guides.
By the time we took the daladala back it was well past dusk. This was my first experience with public transport in a developing nation during rush hour. The hostel lay some distance away from the UDar (I just made that up) dorms so we had to hop a couple connecting Dalas****. This was insane. Each bus contained bodies contorted and pressed in unnatural ways. The buses read something to the effect of “maximum capacity” 35. Each held at least 50 people. When transferring busses we needed to push and budge, almost fight our way off. Being a giant American has some advantage in this. Getting back on is more intense. Many people vie for a spot, and when you want on your transfer bus, you commonly need to, quite literally, jump onto a moving bus that has every nook and cranny filled with human bio-mass. I’m not sure if I’m doing it justice. I’ve done my share of getting on crazy, crowded public trans, but none of it prepared me for this. And I did not know how swiftly I would have to adapt to more.
The next day, Andrew and I met with some of our other Tanzanian friends Upendo and Stimus (both past student teachers at Hanga). We started by just getting some soda and beer. It made Andrew and I both really happy to see both how much our Kiswahili had improved, and how much our friends noticed it. We took the dala to kaliakoo, or one of the central markets in Dar. When you live in a small town of village in Tanzania you must conform to a much different set of criteria than Dar. Dar is much like a big cosmopolitan city anywhere. You don’t have to greet someone every 15 seconds, and nobody cares how you dress (at least the won’t really care if you look like crap, but they will notice if you look savvy). For example, Upendo, who had given me crap for not rolling my sleeves down in Hanga, said something to the effect of “this is not a village, do whatever you want.” She, too, had transformed from looking like another country teacher (she dressed for the situation) to a fashionable city girl, obviously at home, the opposite of someone hot-shit in a rural Nodak high school that moves to the big city and struggles to be as cool. The market itself was dumbfounding. Small stores sold also sorts of clothing, and people pushed themselves into every available space. We saw as much hip-hop video wear as we saw congas and other traditional dress. At this point, I decided I wanted to find a replacement for my paddy cap, which I lost last winter. I didn’t find a suitable one (most were too hot or something tacky like a leather scally cap). I’ve decided before I go back to the States I’m going to get some clothes in Dar for job interviews and stuff. Though very expensive by shamba***** Tz standards, you can get dress shirt that costs $80 or something in the States for like 35,000 shillings (like 30 bucks).
Though I absolutely loved hang out with our Tz friends, doing whatever in particularly struck our fancy. You see we live under constant supervision with a bunch of folks who often times think we needed to be treated with kid gloves. At times the monks treat us like children lost in the forest. Never mind that I’ve been or lived many places more dangerous than anywhere in Tanzanian******. Also, living in the village, we are the talk of the town, and people notice our every move. It was really nice to be anonymous again. I didn’t have to meet hundreds of expectations. I could wear shorts without a nun telling me I’m not dressed up enough. I could go places without twenty people asking about my intentions. Andrew and I could be apart without getting asked where the other is by every person we encounter. I could swear and curse. I could do what I wanted. I also discovered that my village Kiswahili is much better than my city Kiswahili. Vocabulary like farming implements and jokes about bats hold little value in Bongo. Room for growth, I guess. And, we could decide for ourselves what food we ate.
So needless to say, the food has been getting to us. Andrew has lost almost 20 lbs (a large part of this has to do with our constricted meal times, his small stomach, and incredibly fast metabolism). I have lost weight too, but partially because I inhale beans every meal and, when we eat meat, I’m able to eat cartilage, connective tissue, pick bone bits out of my teeth, etc. I get more protein and I have lost less good weight than he. Being that I am a total foodie, the effect on me is more morale based than anything else. You see, we can’t really cook for ourselves very often, and when we do it’s sort of a production. So, one of the nights we struck out to go to a really good restaurant. Many of our Peace Corp friends recommended this Ethiopian place to us (also, by Tz standards, absurdly expensive). We invited our fellow volunteer, Catherine (a retired professor who takes a very motherly stance toward us) and her son and his wife who were visiting to join us. One of the brothers sent us a really strange text asking us directions to the place. It was really weird because it was almost as though he (the monk) was trying to take over the plans that we had originally thought of. Long story short, they weren’t going to meet us. Sort of the whole point was to get to meet some of Catherine’s family and spend a night relaxing, so we decided to save it for another day (note: when Andrew went back to Dar, around new years, they went to the restaurant, and evidently it was amazing). So, because of the new developments Andrew and I just took the Dalla downtown to find some place to eat. We thought we would just end up getting chipsi kuku or something********. Walking down the street, as women, who were clearly prostitutes, walked past us, wwe smelled/spyed a sign in Chinese. There is a large Chinese ex-pat/guest community in Dar because of the economic interaction between China and East Africa. We thought, okey, we gotta check this out. And so we did. It was a Chinese restaurant. When the waiter came to us, we asked him in Kiswahili if they had ugali. Ugali is the staple food in Tanzania. It is complete ubiquitous. I dunno if I have described it before, but it’s like corn meal porridge, but more fine, less liquidy, made with white corn, and tastes completely like a piece of cardboard that sits in a congealed lump in your mouth********. So, the waiter though it was hilarious. The also had whiskey. At this point, I had not consumed whiskey for almost 4 months. There was a bare, gaping, porous, pathetically sputtering part in my heart where no bourbon, Tennessee whiskey, Irish whiskey, Scotch whisky, or, hell, even Japanese whisky had not touched. Nothing comparable to even McMasters or Black Velvet. Nothing. I repeat again for emphasis, Nothing. Nothing. Andrew ordered a single neat. I ordered a double. They had Jameson, but they were out of it. I ordered Teachers because it was cheapest. When the food came, I learned something. So, there is authentic food and then there is the food adapted to the market of another culture. I uphold that, though certainly not authentic, Americanized Chinese food is the “ized” food in the world. Europeanized Chinese food simply is not as good. Tz Chinese food bore more resemblance to the European version. I did not care. It was food without too much salt and bad cooking oil as the only flavorings. It was wonderful. We spent about 1/5 of our month stipend on that meal (like a king’s ransom), but we didn’t care. For a long time I felt a great deal of guilt about blowing money on things like booze or really good food when people are malnourished, etc. Now I totally don’t feel bad about the occasional extravagance (note, not a lifestyle of it). Hell, if one stupidly expensive meal allows me to hang on and actually work my ass off for things I believe in, so be it. Guilt doesn’t do anyone any good. No one is Superman. And on a side-note, we notice while we were there, all the tourists and ex-pats ate wonderful, flavor-filled Chinese food. All the Africans ate chips kuku.
We walked out, completely full from the absurd amount of food we had consumed. We were not entirely sure where and when the dalla left to where we were going, or if they still ran at night. So, we walked in the general direction. It was dark, and rather sketchy, but we felt comfortable, in our element, and euphorically satisfied (and it wasn’t in the super sketchy part of town). In some pathetic attempt to trump the liability of our skin color, if a person of dubious-looking repute walked by, we started to speak in Kiswahili, as if we had not learned that people here did not often distinguish between rich-ass tourists and busted-ass volunteers. So, after the, quite possibly, sketchiest stretch I have ever walked, we made it to the bus stop. The moment we notice a dalla going our direction we hopped on it. Because we went a pretty dang direct route it was neither overly complicated not overly crowded (like 40 passengers instead of 55).
And thus, Andrew and I entered onto the dalladalla. The konda or konducta told us we needed to pay 1000 shillings. The price was 250, clearly printed on the side of the van. Keep in mind this entire conversation took place in Kiswahili, but I will translate (though I think the story is better in my broken Kiswahili). So, at first we realized that he was lying to us in an effort to steal from us. We asked him if it was true, and he said “absolutely.” We replied that he was, in fact, a liar. He then told us that it was a special night price. We refused to pay, and then observed him take the normal fare from other passengers. So, at this point I must admit our mistake. We only had 5000 shillings after going to the restaurant, and if we had made sure to have exact change, it wouldn’t have been as much of an ordeal. He came back to us and I said, “brother, the total is 500 shillings, okay?” At that point he started trying to argue with me in English rattling off random numbers. Getting increasingly more frustrated, I yelled “no, speak in Kiswahili.” At this point the rest of the passengers took notice. Before, they maybe thought that he was just ripping off some tourists going slumming, but, instead, they realized that we spoke a decent amount of their language. They were completely shocked and awed. I’m sure the thought process went as such: yes, they are wazungu, but they speak Kiswahili, and this guy is a thief. He soon replied with something to the effect of “I know I am ripping you off, but it doesn’t matter because you are white people.” A few people laughed. Angrier than I just about have ever been, I, a giant in his eyes because of proper childhood nutrition and pre-natal care, put my face almost next to his and said, “Kaka, Fuck You, je umenielewa?” This translates to, “brother, fuck you, do you understand me?” I don’t think he dared to blink. So, Kiswahili doesn’t have a whole lot in the way of swear words, so what I said meant exactly the same thing it does in English, except it was harsher. In other words, he thought I was about to kick his ass. Frankly, I almost was. I moved away, fuming, but content with the level of thorough humiliation I brought upon this slimy motherfucker, the other passengers began to treat us in an extremely friendly fashion, offering us seats, helping us find our stops, etc. So, let me admit, I don’t speak Kiswahili that well, but I knew a few words from making jokes that related really well to the situation. I talked to the guy next to me (and I am employing the direct translation using Kiswahili phraseology and everything). “That one, he is like a pirate, he is like a bandit.” Everyone else was not only rolling in laughter at this guy’s expense (and not mine, for a blissful change), but they also thought we spoke substantially more Kiswahili than we actually do.
I got off, barely able to contain my excitement. That guy was not going to fuck with another white person just because they were white any time soon. I said to Andrew “let’s get a beer.” I was karibu na cloudi ninei (I just made that up, it’s not something people say). We drank a beer and I got a sausage (most Tanzanian sausage is like a hot dog, funny because here it is a status food, where in the States or Europe, sausage originated as a poor person’s food). The konda did rip me off by about 500 shillings, (about 40 cents), but I didn’t care, it was a small price to pay for the most dignity I held based solely on my actions and nothing else for a damn long time. Did I mention I’ve become much more assertive here? I mean, I’m not sure I could have done that in the States. I got myself in a potentially dangerous situation because some jerk tried to rip us off less than a dollar each. I didn’t care. I’ve decided, sometimes you simply need to demand respect. I think one of the most valuable things I have learned here is how to become a person you don’t want to fuck with. I have subsequently told this story to many Tanzanians, most of them have found it hilarious, and shocking that I didn’t pay the full mzungu price. I mean, kondas will rip Tanzanians off too. I also tell the story with one of my favorite phrases in Kiswahili, which translates to “I have not become such a fool.” As I said, for the rest of the night, nothing could touch me. The next day did not quite go the same way, but I cannot say I have any real complaints.
Steph and Nick arrived the next morning. After we had gotten situated, Andrew and Steph went to the tailor with our friend Upendo, Nick and I got a couple beers and played some pool. Operating on Tz time, we all ran late. We had planed to go to Zanzibar that day, though we missed the ferry by about 15 minutes. This was probably for the best because Stephanie and Nick got a chance to recover from some of their travel weariness. Our day in Zanzi would have to wait. But when it came, it came with a vengeance. So instead we rested, got another beer or two etc.
We showed up to the ferry well early the next day. Waiting in line was rather uneventful. One guy who worked there walked up and down yelling in Kiswahili. All he really did was ask people to form a path between two lines. If he had that job, he definitely could speak English, and he was obviously just trying to scare the shit out of tourists. When we got to the boat itself, we notice that almost all the tourists paid the extra price (like 20 bucks) to get seats in the more comfortable upstairs. I simply snuck up. Most of the ferry ride, Nick and I spent on the aft-deck getting covered by salt. At one point some people took a picture with us. They didn’t even really speak to us, not knowing that I could speak Kiswahili (and, to be fair, I don’t know if they did either). I could just see the thought process: do we get a picture of the beautiful seascape? Oh look, let’s get a picture with the white folk. Whatever, I thought it was funny. We had arranged to meet with a guy Rainery knew who would show us around. We were filling out our immigration tickets when we called the guy and he found us. He came up and said some to the effect of “man, you’re residents you don’t need to fill that shit out, let’s bounce.” Wait, wha? He not only knew American slang, but that bit of American slang. I thought to myself, “this is going to be ridiculous.” Little did I know. We walked to a car where a friend of his waited for us. Later Andrew said he felt like he was in Jamaica (an he’s been to Jamaica). These guys looked, for lack of a better description, fucking cool. Like the dudes people at festivals in the States are trying to emulate. One had Tz flag bracelets and bent spoons up his arm. The other had sort of baby dreads and I think a sweat band. One almost looked like a member of the Nigerian band that everybody loves here called “P Square.” Neither wore shoes.
We walked straight past where tourist gathered and ate and went to a local spot. “we’re gonna show you a real Zanzibar breakfast.” And it was delicious. The folks in the hole in the wall restaurant liked us immediately when we started speaking in Kiswahili. I’m sure they found it refreshing to hear foreigners speaking their native tongue in one of the tourist capitals of Africa. We all made fun of the lack of spice in mainland food. We ordered, chabatie, spinach, and beans. This was much more delicious than you might think. Chabatie is a sort of flat bread, when I’ve eaten it in Hanga, it’s way too sweet, and they make with too many eggs, so it almost has a scrambled eggish texture. The stuff in Zanzi was slightly salty, but not overly so, and had a texture somewhere between nan bread and a tortilla. The spinach was creamed with coconut and onion, and the beans slightly spiced. So in Kiswahili, chai means tea, but all they have is black tea. When the tea came it was the wonderful spice chai that we think of when we hear the word. I topped it all of with a really good, spicy chili sauce. Keep in mind that the chili sauce in the rest of the country lists the first two ingredients as tomato puree and salt, and does not have actual chilies in it, but chili powder. I’m going to digress. I have been numerous times been called a drunkard in Kiswahili, but eating spicy peppers or chili sauce. Not just these guys, but nuns, villagers, etc. I have a theory that this is because people only use chili sauce when they eat kitimoto. The only time people eat kitimoto is when they are getting stupid drunk on pombe. This time, I didn’t deny it has vigorously as I usually do when I am with monks or students. It was kind of nice to be in a situation where an ability to throw down is not a bad thing.
We left the place and our two new friends (okey, so I totally forgot their names), and they lit what must have been their 3rd or 4th cigarette of the day. Keep in mind that is was like 9 in the morning. I sat outside with them when Andrew paid for breakfast, (probably less than a quarter of what any tourist paid that day). They asked us what we wanted to do. We said, “yeah, all we want is to chill on a beach and eat some good food.” We hopped in our ride and they started to drive us toward their village. The whole time we just laughed our asses of, these guys were a riot. We rolled up to the petrol station to get some gas. While waiting, one of the two hollaed at some guy asking if he had some weed, it was slang laden, so I didn’t really understand it, but I got the jist based on the context. We paid for the gas, and filled up the tank. It was expensive, like 30 or 40 dollars American (we paid for gas on the way back too), but heck that’s what I would have done for a friend showing me around in the States, and they had taken most of the day off to show us around. They began to tell us more about Zanzi. The island has had a bad taste in its mouth since it joined with the mainland country of Tanzanika to form Tanzania. They talked about how the mainland just leached the wealth of Zanzi without solving their problems, for example, they had been without electricity for about two weeks. “This ain’t no government, man, it’s just a bunch of ganj smokers.” I told them the dalladalla story in Kiswahili and they thought it was hilarious. They started call me this slang word for big and strong. I really wish I remembered more the slang they taught me, nguvu means strong normally, but the new word was cooler. “No, man, we have to give you a Zanzibar nickname.” We drove along at a super fast speed. I commented about how crazy motorcycle drivers, or pikipiki are. One guy said something like “man, they just like to pretend to drive crazy, shit, when I drive piki, I like to pretend also.” These guys were fucking crazy. The kept saying ridiculous shit like “man you just wait till you see what we do with these soulja-boys, you gonna laugh so hard.” I would soon find out exactly what that meant.
We drove up to the first checkpoint along the road. The cop flagged us down. My friend in the driver’s seat turned to me and said in Kiswahili “I don’t want him to see my eyes,” as he pulled his sun glasses onto the bridge of his nose. He actually pulled us over voluntarily, just so we could fuck with the cops. He saw the white people in the car, but then we greeted him in Kiswahili. He then asked us for 5000 shillings. I said, “no, why, I’m a resident.” I proceeded to pull out my passport, and our friend driving told me to put it away, turned to the cop and yelled, “hey, fuck you, man,” slammed the transmission into gear and burned out speeding off. I was half torn between thinking, “I am in a car full of mad men, I am going to die,” and fits of laughter. We soon stopped at a fruit stand to get some of the best mangos I’ve ever had. We stopped at two more checkpoints, and they kept saying stuff like, “hey man, you handle the next one, fucking soulja-boys, this ain’t no government, it’s just a bunch of ganja smokers.” I soon found out that we were, in fact, doing something illegal, (besides the aqualung full of weed these guys had probably consumed). Andrew and I were fine, because we are residents, but technically those guys needed a special permit to drive people with a tourist permit. They explained that if the cops weren’t rude assholes, then sometimes they would bribe them, but usually they just drove off. The cops weren’t exactly going to arrest them or anything, they were breaking the law themselves.
We arrived at the beach still trying to figure out how Rainery met these crazy bastards**********. While at the beach white guy with a gut and dreads walked by and they yelled “hey, Rasta.” The guy just sort of looked at us, mumbled something unintelligible and walked a way, probably frightened. We laughed so hard. So, I know that it’s lame to turn around and laugh at someone when I am (for once) not the one getting made fun of. But, screw it, it’s chumps like that who create the attitude towards white folks that gives me hell everyday. Besides, I didn’t ever go as far as to make a Jack Johnson joke or something. Have I ever mentioned that I hate “trustafarians” and jam music with a burning passion?
We found a spot on the beach to put our stuff and Nick and I started walking out first. A bunch of kids were running around and they yelled in Kiswahili something to the effect of “look at the Europeans, they can’t speak Kiswahili, only European language.” I whipped around and yell in Kiswahili “I am able to speak Kiswahili, and I’m not European, I’m American.” They asked my name, some younger kids near by began to play with me. Did I mention that I love not being a fanny pack toting, Bermuda shorts wearing jackass with a large bank account? Well, maybe not being broke as shit all the time would be nice…
We soon realized that we had walked really far out and we were starting to feel sunburnt. Really sunburnt. That is because we were. Really sunburnt. We got back, and gave Andrew and Steph their chance to walk on the beach. Nick lay down to rest and I went to go get soda or beer. Our friends had told us that everything is more expensive on the island and even locals get the island price. I walked around hobbling in pain looking for an affordable beer or soda. I walked by several tourist traps, including on at which our Rasta friend was sitting eating at a joint that charged two or three times the local price. Vindication is sweet. I continued on, to another place where two women advertise a “Swedish Massage.” They asked me if I wanted to them, and I told them that I was very sunburnt. What I said translates directly to, “I am not able, my body is burnt/roasted because the sun is fierce.” Luckily I just happened to say it correctly, even though I didn’t really know how. They laughed, and I doubt they were completely familiar with the concept. I went into the nearby hotel to enquire about the price of beer and soda. The people who worked there told me the price and I commented on how expensive it was. We then proceeded to make fun of the tourists for getting horribly over charged. Whatever, they couldn’t understand a word of it. Further, anyone who could have understood, say, a volunteer or broke student, wouldn’t be eating such over-priced food. We all laughed pretty hard, and the tourists looked rather shocked to see me speaking the local tongue. On the way back, I greeted locals and not tourists. If I did greet tourists they sort of scowled at me with a look that clearly said “why the hell are you bothering me on my holiday, you stupid American.” Plus, with the locals, it’s the culture to greet everyone. I think it made them happy that I was able to do it properly to boot.
When I returned, I bought some soda at the place our friend dropped us off had, which turned out to be the only place with local price in the area. When Andrew and Steph returned, our buddy had arranged for one of his friends cook us a big lunch. We were going to have this black snapper fish that sounded delicious, but because the refrigerators were out of commission, and they hadn’t gone to the fish market that day, we had chicken instead. Each got a bowl of wonderful chicken in coconut milk curry and a pile of steaming flatbread. It was probably the best food I’ve had in country. We finished and we had to race back to catch our return ferry. We didn’t have time to mess around with the cops our second time around, so we hunkered down and hid behind tinted windows. We got back with plenty of time to spare, and, in one piece. We said goodbye to our new mental ward escapee friends and got in line. The line pretty much sucked because of the sunburn. On the way back, I expected a shitty, low budget, Tanzanian in-boat movie. I was mistaken. Instead they played “Hard Target,” a John Woo movie starring Jean Claude Van Dam. Shear absurdity and gratuitous violence. Any movie is an enjoyable movie here. I was happy.
Back at the hostel, a whole bunch of German tourists had arrived. It was really frustrating because they took over the place, without consideration for us. A couple of them were really nice and I had some conversations with them, but the rest stood aloof and snobbish. For example, we had to go somewhere else to hang out with Rainery because there wasn’t any tourist-free space for us to go. After dinner one night, I cleaned up with the monks and nuns, and the tourists didn’t so much as thank me, or the other people for that matter. I do so love it when important people display exactly how important they are. I would rather be around a bunch of wasted drunk and loud Tanzanians who ask me for shit. So we went back to the Kilwa Road pub instead of staying.
We soon departed back to Hanga. This was the most miserable bus ride I have experienced in my life. 14 hours on a bumpy bus with one of the worst sunburns I’ve ever had and dehydration, with shitty Tz movies playing loudly is not exactly my ideal way to spend a day. I suppose I did get to see every single P-square music video in existence. My taste in music is really going down the shitter. We did not arrive in Songea until, like 8 at night and we woke up to get to the bus station at 4 A.M. We spent the night at this hotel, the Angoni Arms, operated by a guy we know named John. He hooked a bunch of us volunteers up for a party we attended in October, and I’ve seen him a few times since. He always gives us a 5000-shilling discount, which is really cool. We ate there, got a beer, and I got to watch American T.V. I never thought I would be that excited to see American T.V., but to be fair, it was stuff like The Simpsons and The X-Files.
The next day after breakfast, I had a short conversation with John. I had originally thought that he gave us volunteers a deal because he’s a cool guy and it made economic sense for him to do so. It turns out, he grew up in a really shamba village where they didn’t have enough teachers at his school. He learned English because of a Peace Corps volunteer that came to his village. It’s stories like that keep me hanging on through the shittiest of moments here. I said goodbye to the rest of the gang. They were all going back to Hanga for Christmas, where the same sucky-ass German tourists we dealt with in Dar where also going. I instead met some other volunteers in a friend’s village. In some ways, I feel bad because I didn’t kick it in Hanga for Christmas, but really, I had a much more enjoyable time.
Continued in part 2.
*Bongo is Tz slang for Dar Es Salaam.
** It means resting. It’s one of my favorite verbs in Kiswahili. It captures the concept much better than resting or relaxing.
*** Kushangaa means essentially “shock and awe” or “surprise,” the word definitely comes from Arabic (like 35% of Kiswahili). It makes me think whichever government PR type that came up with “shock and awe” in the Gulf War must be both a linguistic genius and the worst sort of person.
**** So, this is a really fun habit I have picked up from some of my Peace Corps friends. I often Anglicize Kiswahili words.
***** Shamba means “field” or “farm” in Kiswahili, though it also refers to someone or something that is country (country as in bumpkin).
******* I don’t remember the exact statistic, but Tanzania is like 50 countries ahead of the United States on the safest countries list. Though, to be fair, there are some extremely sketch areas of Dar at night even for locals.
******** Chips Kuku means chicken and chips (the U.K. kind).
********* You know when you eat “Cream of Wheat,” and sometimes there are those nasty lumps? Well, it’s like that, but the whole thing is like that.
********** I mean, Rainey is a straight-laced, legit guy. He’s a teacher is going to become a monk. I later found out he and Paul, a past volunteer with BVC who stayed in Tanzania for three years, randomly met the guy when they were leading a group around.
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