Rain, rain fly away

Last weekend, Dar es Salaam was subjected to long, drizzly rains interspersed with cloudbursts which even drove an Oregonian like me to covered patios. Traffic moved at a snail's pace, each vehicle taking turns to cross the intermittent pools straddling the road. A cemetery was marked by a solitary cross rising above the waterline. A driveway snaking its way to a presumably well-off house looked like a river, eddies and all.

That night, after drying off, I sat on a friend's couch reading a book about adventures and misadventures of anthropologists and ecologists in Tanzania. I heard a faint flutter of sound behind me and turned to see 30-40 termites around the light I was reading by, a modest affair to be sure. Then I noticed termites flying around a safety light outside, looking remarkably like snow - climbing and falling - as they fluttered around the beam; rather apposite given the Holiday carols I was playing at the time.

As I returned to my book, something struck me. I had been hearing the sound of rain for thirty minutes or more, but as I looked at the termites outside, there was no sign of rain.

I turned the music down. What was that sound?

I did what many in Tanzania have done before me. I put my book down, ventured into the foyer and braced myself for the inevitable.

Hundreds, perhaps a thousand inch-long termites swarmed the back porch light, and many had made their way through the ill-fitted glass doors to the inside; termites swarmed in column inside and out.

I skittered around the storm to get up the staircase and switch-off my bedroom light, wanting to avoid a similar swarm there.

As I returned to my book, the drone of the termites subsided, and again I became aware of a new sound: this time of the pounding surf of the Indian Ocean.

Or so I hoped...

Finders keepers

I became aware of this issue last night: click here for the conservation finance article, or here for the source article in the Washington Post, which notes (as a friend told me last night) that following a similar deal elsewhere, Hadzabe men were arrested for hunting the land on which their ancestors have hunted for perhaps tens of thousands of years.

If the UAE royal family is reading this: have a heart for the Hadzabe.

Striking not only twice, but twenty times

It has been raining leopards and hyenas here lately (our version of cats and dogs). At one point last week, the lightning was so near that the thunder shook the ground beneath me, and cloud-to-cloud lightening coursed through the clouds above our office. Overall, it is an awesome and humbling experience, and not totally benign. I heard of two tragic cases last week in which lives were lost: one was a pair of young boys, apparently in town, the other two adults in a neighboring village.

What a pity that taking shelter under a tree can seem such a logical thing to do in a rainstorm.

It made me wonder, how many of the thunderbolts flying above end-up touching down? I found this at Wikipedia:

According to this analysis of NASA data, Kigoma is struck by about 20-30 bolts per square kilometer per year. Some of them from storms which move at breakneck pace toward the lake, while others hover and block the view of even the closest peninsula close across the bay. There are two forms: dry lightning (which hints of rain but never does) and wet lightening, the storms of which can pour.

Wet lightening or dry, I am usually inside when the storms hit, but I caught this dwindling storm last year and wanted to share the images with you:

The real power of a storm is naturally in its motion, which is difficult to render with still images, but unless you come visit me, this is probably the best I can do.

The latest generation

When I invited friends to come to my house to listen to election coverage on my satellite radio, I had a mental picture of still-lifes seen in Truman-era daguerreotypes: sepia photos of children laying on the floor with chins on their fists, kicking their patent-leather shoes and listening to a radio twice their size.

But it is true what they say; during this election, something happened which could not have been imagined a generation ago: my cellphone rang.

You see, Tanzania has jumped generations in technology. While parts of the world went through twangy transitions between telegraph and telephone and between hand-held radios and mobile phones, Tanzania - like many parts of the world - skipped the landlines and went straight to cell towers.

While we listened to NPR's coverage, my Mom and my friend Rob were able to text me updated electoral counts and which states went to which candidate, and they called me when the election was made official.

So much for sepia photographs - we were communicating via satellite.

So as the US contemplates this election and the changes which have taken place over the generations, Tanzanians are talking about it via the latest generation of technology. And that's good news for everyone.

I believe!

I tend to be skeptical about things that I don't experience firsthand. As it turns-out, this election day has shaken the very ground I stand on.

Literally.

At 12:53ish this morning, I slipped from sleepiness to consciousness when my mosquito net's frame tapped lightly against the wall. After that, there were two taps on the bed, followed by a soft bump which caused my headboard to hit the wall.

The tremor (or "temblor") has not been recorded by the USGS, but I believe in it all the same.

As for the earth-shaking events happening halfway around the world, I believe in those, too.

Sunset sunset burning bright

Last night's sunset was a show stopper. It burned bright and fast, then bled into a more typical pastel palate.

I missed the chance to photograph the first phase - peach and pink - but I was able to snap these shots, which were taken within a surprisingly short period of time (perhaps 10-15 minutes).

Lovely lizards

A friend came to get me today, to show me a monitor lizard hovering around the canteen where we eat lunch. The lizard was separated from us by a set of bars, which may be responsible for his sense of security; he let us get the best close-up look of a monitor I have had to date.

I do not have my camera with me today, but it made me think that I should share a couple photos taken earlier this year, of a few monitor lizards I saw in Katavi National Park.

This lizard climbed out of the water and onto a log as we were driving by. He posed perfectly for this profile shot and scaly close-ups.

This monitor was peeking out of a tree as we drove by. Can you spot it?

I affectionately call this photo "Dinosaurs in love." In truth, these late-Jurassic gems seemed more akin to the early animation of Godzilla than the agile creatures of Spielberg's Jurassic films. It was humorous watching them dance, with herky-jerky claymation movements: lean-on-left-foot, lean-on-right-foot, open-jaws, breathe-fire (well, almost).

With nothing on the immediate horizon to give away the scale, this scene seemed - at least through my camera lens - like watching giant dinosaurs dance in the distance.

Everything works out in the end

This is an old entry, which I had meant to post at the end of August. It is equally relevant today.

I remember well what it was like back home to send an important document from one end of the country to the next. You put the document in a yellow envelope and seal it, and a guy in a yellow shirt comes to pick it up, put it in his yellow van and give it to another yellow-dressed person, who will ensure it gets to your destination by the specified time.

If at any point along the way you wonder where said document is, you can log onto a yellow website and see that your package was scanned into Collierville, TN at 10:43am, and that it weighs 1.0 lbs.

It all seems so easy!

So in August, I had a plane ticket which I needed for an upcoming flight (the original one shipped to me from the US never arrived, so another was issued and shipped to Dar es Salaam - approx. 800 miles from where I live).

A colleague of mine agreed to help send that ticket to me. The method: go to the airport, meet a stranger who was taking that day's flight to Kigoma, and ask that person to carry it for me.

They assured me that it was more reliable than a courier. And after all, couriers in the US are strangers, too.

I received a phone call on the appointed day. "She goes by the name of 'Mama,'" I was told, a moniker assigned to nearly every woman my age or older. "She has your number."

I sent a friend to the airport with a sign (I was all day in a workshop), hoping to get the ticket before Mama disappeared into the countryside. Somehow my friend did not cross paths with Mama, and I envisioned my plane ticket bumping its way down the road to Kasulu.

Then a mysterious tip: a woman in a white Land Rover (a common vehicle here) was in front of the bank, asking about my boss - whose name was on the envelope.

I ran. And once I arrived, I approached every white Land Rover I could find: "Excuse me, is there a Mama here?"

And finally I saw her. Exiting the market. Somehow I just knew. Maybe it's because she was wearing yellow.

"Mama?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied.

And soon we were hugging and I was holding the envelope in my sweaty hands.

My friends and I have a saying: in Tanzania, everything works out in the end. There may not be a website to track status, or a yellow van to chase, but the systems here generally work - and are often cheaper by comparison.

Just when you think there's no hope, you get a phone call, and a stranger helps make the impossible happen. It seems like a pretty good system to me.

Just in time

I was in Oregon last month for a wonderful combination of work and play. When I left my family's home in the early morning hours, one of the last things I noticed was Orion hovering above and tipped on his side, as though frozen mid-stride - running somewhere, perhaps late for a plane as I was.

And when I returned last week, I looked to the sky to see if he was still running, but he was nowhere to be found. Instead Hercules was there, reclining on his back, sinking into the west - his season expiring - seemingly exhausted from several days of travel, sleeping upright and airline meals. I soon sank into a similar pose, this time in the east. It felt good to be back.

Now, one week later, a blanket of clouds has been pulled over the constellations holding court above - the gods and demigods hidden from view, but still there, somewhere.

The rainy season has begun. And with it, the sky is disappearing, bugs are reappearing, orange blossoms are in bloom and fragrances abound.

This is a magical time of year in Kigoma, complete with fanfare (cicadas by day and fruit bats by night). Nature seems to be rejoicing the return of the rains; I am excited for their return, too.

When an elephant meets a hippo

We spotted an elephant on the bank of a river - a river which coursed through a plain I had seen at the beginning of the rainy season the year before (above).

Then the elephant began to cross the river. "He's in for a surprise," I said, thinking of the crevice he would reach in the middle.

He was up to his knees.

He was up to his shoulders.

And soon, the river rippled over him.

But before he could reach the crevice, the elephant met a very different kind of surprise: somewhere below the surface, a hippo lay sleeping – gathering his energy to graze and fight and make a mess at night.

The hippo opened his mouth wide - less of a yawn than a threat display - and vocalized how he felt about being wakened.

But the elephant knows he has no natural predators - except humans, and only then with ammunition - and he wasn't spooked by the display. He trumpeted with his trunk, flapped his ears wide and made figure-eights with his tusks.

The hippo groaned and retreated, slipping under the currents before the confrontation escalated.

The elephant was nonplussed. He didn't look back - no scanning from side to side - he just continued across. That is, until his disappeared altogether.

"Can an elephant really swim?" I wondered. Or rather, is it really possible for an elephant to sink?

Then a trunk broke the surface, gathering air, and the elephant's head soon followed.

He stepped-up on the other end of the crevice and, with all his vegetarian might, pulled his body out of the water. His trunk soared and he announced his arrival to those on the other side.

And soon, he arrived: clean, cool and in control. Ready to take-on whomever he met on the other side.

Breaking news about Frank Sinatra

My housemate and I recently found a motherless, diarrhea-laden kitten who stole our hearts. We took him home, washed him and named him Frank Sinatra (because of his blue, blue eyes).

The name provided seemingly endless inevitable but nonetheless enjoyable clichés: he found us on the patio of a friends' house - a real "Stranger in the Night" who seemed to "Only Have Eyes for Us." He gave us a look which said: "I've Got You Under My Skin," and sure enough, we adopted him without much further debate. As they say, Fools Rush In.

Did I mention he enjoys Dancing Cheek to Cheek?

But after subsequent bathing and a couple weeks of growing around-the-clock, Frank Sinatra appears to be less of a Guy than a Doll. Not only that, but one of his eyes is turning green and (Sinatra fans may wish to stop reading here) he shows no interest in self-grooming at all.

So now we are trying to find a new name which fits. We flirted with Ginger Rodgers, because she loves dancing (or at least sliding across the floor). We also considered Nancy Sinatra, but she doesn't really seem the boots-were-made-for-walking type.

Name suggestions are encouraged. At the end of the day, she's high-maintenance but oh-so-lovable (some would say, "So Embraceable"), and no matter what we call her, They Can't Take that Away from Her.

Hot topic

Energy plans often leave me stumped

I was recently walking home from work when I looked-up to see that my walk had become a little sunnier. The trees lining the road leading to the post office had been chopped down in the name of road expansion; women were hacking the stumps to bits with axes and machetes, stumps elsewhere smoldered to make charcoal, and women walked into the distance with bundles of wood on their heads.

With those trees gone, where will people go to get wood next? This morning – when I woke to the sound of a woman pulling branches out of a tree in my backyard – I may have been given an answer.

Before catching a flight to the US recently, a friend of mine stopped by my house to ask a few questions about his destination. He had fascinating and insightful questions, including whether there are roads in the US like the wavy dirt road to Lugufu (a local refugee camp). I assured him that there are roads like that in the US, but to give him a better sense, I showed him photos I had taken back home. One was of a long, empty highway headed in the direction of Crater Lake. “There is no dust on the road,” he said, “no garbage. Is that primary forest?” “Yes,” I said. “Here, people would use a road like that to get firewood,” he told me, “they would cut down all the trees.”

One challenge is that while people need trees to stabilize watersheds and protect soils (not to mention for carbon sequestration), they also need wood to cook dinner at night. And the short-term need to put dinner on the table naturally trumps long-term concerns. Forests in the Northeastern US once shared a similar fate.

I have often pondered what will happen when the world's oil runs out, even while sitting behind the steering wheel of an idling vehicle. In a similar way, people here must see fewer trees and furl their brows at the thought that they will have to walk farther to get their wood – and know that one day those resources may be ashes, too.

Tanzania County Fair

It was just like any other July 4th, really, except that it was on July 5th.

This year a few friends and I celebrated the 4th of July at the US Embassy. Stepping through the metal detectors and out into the hot air of Dar es Salaam, it felt oddly like we had been transported to our own personal county fair. Concrete planters were painted with American flags, tall pillars were decorated with blue stars, and in the distance a woman announced that she needed more participants over the age of thirteen for the pie-eating contest.

I felt like I had been blown halfway around the world in a matter of seconds.

We rounded the bend. A dunk-tank sat unused. There was a line for overpriced hamburgers which passed a table selling cheap beer. Little flags were handed to visitors as they arrived - my Swiss friend got the last one.

And then: the fireworks. To the tune of "I'm Proud to be an American."

Boom. Pop. Sizzle.

It was good to be in America on the 4th again, even if it wasn't really America, and it wasn't really the 4th.

Star-spangled spider

This not-so-little critter slept on the balcony outside the room I occupied while in Dar over the July 4th weekend.

Friends told me she was harmless, but I bolted and locked the door just in case.

Ants in my pants

Siafu stand guard while their colony is in transit

I made the mistake of admiring these ants recently; the mistake was that I did so before joining a prayer circle.

I joined hands and bowed my head. But before I could begin praying, I found that I was being preyed upon.

Three siafu ants (apparently a sacrilegious bunch) chomped into different parts of my left leg at the same time; perhaps a coincidence, but I have heard they communicate via chemical signals and attack their prey in a simultaneous shock-and-awch manner.

But I had bigger problems on my hands, or rather, my leg. One siafu was headed up my leg toward what I considered dangerous territory.

You see, I have taken meditation classes, which I felt applied to this moment and more generally to prayer. They say the deepest meditation is done through discomfort, joint pain, loud sirens, etc. They teach you to meditate through the pain. But those people haven't met siafu ants.

I politely rubbed my legs together. My hand instinctively veered toward my inner thigh, creating distress for the elderly gentleman with whom I was holding hands. I flinched, but I didn't break hands. Instead I chemically communicated with the Pastor, who wrapped-up the prayer - allowing me to spin in circles while slapping my thigh.

My only hope is that someone said a prayer for the ants. They won't be praying or preying again for a while.

In a faroff land

Mount Urugulu

Today is the last day of my Kiswahili language program. I spent the afternoon session telling a story and trying to incorporate a variety of the vocab and tenses I have learned.

This story is inspired by three things: the mountain near the campus, the large baobab trees clustered around our sleeping quarters and, apparently, prolonged solitude.

"Upo katika kipindi kingine, kulikuwa mlima mrefu ajabu. Kilele cha mlima hakikuonekana kwa sababu mawingu mengi. Niliamua kupanda mlima ili nione juu ya huo.

In another time, there was a marvelously tall mountain. The peak did not appear because there were clouds. I decided to climb the mountain in order to see the top of it.

Kupanda kulikuwa kugumu, kwa sababu kulikuwa na matope mengi ingawa jua lilikuwa kali. Usiku ule, nilipika chakula juu ya moto, lakini pepo ulivuma kwa kasi na moto ulikufa mara nyingi. Nikaenda kulala na njaa na chini ya mti. Nikalala vibaya, kwa maana kulinyesha nusu usiku, na suati za pori ilikuwa kubwa sana.

The climbing was difficult, because there was much mud even though the sun was fierce. That night, I cooked food over a fire, but the wind blew with high speed and the fire died many times. I went to bed hungry and under a tree. I slept poorly, because it rained half the night and the sounds of the forest were very loud.

Asubuhi ijayo, nilipanda tena na kwa bidii. Jua lilikuwa kali, lakini niliendelea. Halafu, nikafika mawinguni. Niliweka fungu la wingu mfukoni la kumpa rafiki yangu.

The next morning, I climbed again and with effort. The sun was fierce, but I continued. Then I reached the clouds. I put a piece of cloud in my pocket to give to my friend.

Halafu niliendelea tena. Ilikuwa giza, kwa sababu mawingu yalikuwa mapana sana. Kwenda mbele ilikuwa vigumu sana. Nilienda kushoto kidogo, halafu kulia kidogo na labda kuzunguka maduara, lakini nikaendelea kupanda.

Then I continued again. It was dark because the clouds were very thick. Going forward was very difficult. I went a little left, then a little right and maybe around in circles, but I continued climbing.

Wakati ulipita. Majani yalianguka kutoka mitini. Halafu, nikaliona jua tena, baada ya kupanda juu ya mawingu. Niliwaona ndege na nilianza kuimba na hao.

The time passed. Leaves fell from the trees. Then, I saw the sun again, after I climbed above the clouds. I saw birds and I sang with them.

Ndege waliruka kaskazi na niliwafuata. Waliniongoza mpaka jiti refu ajabu na kama upana wa tembo. Jiti lilikuwa na matunda mengi. Nilipata majani ya jiti na nikaweka hayo mfukoni pamoja na wingu. Udongo ulikuwa kama mchanga. Nilitumia kijiti na kuandikia jina la rafiki yangu katika udongo. Niliketi pale na nikala matunda matatu. Nikajiambia nitataka kumtumia rafiki hadithi hii.

The birds flew north and I followed. They led me to a giant and wonderfully tall tree [which was] wide like an elephant. The tree had many fruits. I took leaves of the tree and put them in my pocket together with the cloud. The dirt was like sand. I used a stick and wrote my friend’s name in the dirt. I sat there and ate three fruits. I told myself I needed to tell my friend this story.

Kijiti kilachwa na mimi, na udongo pia. Lakini jina lilikaa moyoni.

The stick was left by me, and the dirt, too. But the name resides in my heart.

Hata leo, mimi hurudi pale."

Even today, I return there.

Baobab tree

The mountain shows its face

Not exactly Charlotte

No really, you can have the tree

I thought the above spider was remarkable and strange as it dangled from a tree. I had a strong zoom on my camera. We were the perfect distance, really.

Last week, I was studying outside and heard a loud, short bird call, unlike any I had heard before. I set down my books and headed to the tree where it was perched. The bird was near the top of the tree, it's underside camouflaged with the tree's leaves, even with the light shinning through them. I needed a better angle.

I backed-up, but other trees blocked my view. I tried to spot it from below again, but there were too many branches in the way. I decided to circle the tree one last time, head toward the sky, with nothing but birds on my mind.

Then it hit me. Or rather I hit it. A spider's web right in the face, stuck to my hair, trailing down my sweater.

As I picked and pulled at strands, I began to wonder whether I had collected the web alone, and not perhaps a spider along with it. Then I noticed him: a foreboding spider like the one above. Perched on my shoulder, tapping a leg and wondering why I had wrecked his web.

Suffice it to say, the conversation didn't last long. Pretty soon he was airborne and I was nearly airborne myself.

I have circled a couple trees since then looking for birds, but now I look to see what is in front of me, too. I am guessing the spiders are keeping an eye out for me as well.

Forever and ever (amen)

Swahili hymnal

“What does one wear to a Maasai wedding?” I asked the other morning, trying to picture the day ahead.

The idea of a Maasai wedding was full of intrigue for me. A friend told me that cattle and chicken would be blessed at the end of the marriage, thereby bringing a higher price for them at auction; another led me to believe that cows’ blood and milk would be served. I was writhing in anticipation.

But the one I attended was different. No cows’ blood, only Christ’s blood.

A white short-bed truck arrived with Maasai singing in the back. Behind the truck was a four-wheel drive vehicle containing the bride and groom, both of whom were carried into the church and seated adjacent to the altar.

“Is she wearing a wig?” a man asked as we peered through the cinder-block windows. Apparently the minister – who is American – threatened not to marry her if she wore a wig. “He likes to keep things traditional,” the man explained to me.

But I became confused as to which tradition they were trying to preserve. Attending a service led by an American, reading from my Swahili hymnal, taking communion, commenting on how white the bride’s dress was: it just didn’t feel Maasai enough for me. Where was the ceremonial necklace?

“Does the church have a stance on the dowry system?” I asked another minister, knowing the bride had been purchased for twelve cows, which seemed more offensive than whether the bride wore a wig or not. “I think the church tries to stay out of local customs,” he told me.

But I wasn’t placated. I was torn between two things: wanting to know that Maasai traditions are able to coexist with German ones, and yet wanting to believe that Maasai traditions which counter basic human rights (i.e. the dowry system, female circumcision) are no longer practiced. And while my logic seems straightforward, it is the same logic invoked by many other well-meaning people. The fallacy that my strongly-held beliefs should be imposed elsewhere.

I needed to talk with someone about this, so I sat down privately with the minister tonight. I explained my conflicted feelings and asked about how the church incorporates Maasai culture into its services. His face lit up. “I was as disappointed as you were,” he said referring to the wedding. He expressed concern that people may think that because they are getting married in a church they need to have a “modern wedding,” with make-up and wigs and mosquito netting around the bride's face. He wants to ensure that Maasai culture continues to thrive in local churches - a tall order, but I am hopeful he can accomplish this.

He also told a story: a few days ago he was walking in a village and was called over to attend a ceremony. It was a coming of age ceremony for young girls. “As many cattle are slaughtered now as ever, so the grandma’s are happy,” he explained, “but they don’t circumcise the girls anymore. That’s a decision they made as a congregation. We just advised them.”

And whether it’s right or not, I feel better knowing this, too.

So what does one wear to a [Lutheran] Maasai wedding?

• If you’re me: a button-up shirt and the cleanest pair of trousers you can find.
• If you’re the choir: beautiful purple and blue fabrics with long beaded earrings and heavy jewelry with jangly bits.
• And if you’re the bride: a white dress and veil – and yes, a wig. Because it’s not up to us to decide how she should spend her wedding day.

Manchuria must be missing a candidate

This is an excerpt from an article which recently appeared on the front page of a large news outlet in TZ (SundayNews). As for the incident it depicts, I have a very good alibi.

"Tanzania's beliefs of the occult have finally forced Parliament to form a special probe committee to establish the truth about one of its members suspected of having performed 'withcraft ' rituals within the premises of the...House in Dodoma, the Speaker of the National Assembly, Mr. Samuel Sitta has announced.

"Mr. Sitta...told a seminar...that the committee...was set up over the weekend to look into allegations that an MP conducted 'superstitious practices' within the Parliament building.

"Mr. Sitta explained that the six cameras within Parliament were switched off at the time the 'witchcraft' practices were said to have taken place, but added 'there was one camera on in the studio.' He fell short of saying it actually happened when he alluded to 'hazy pictures' the police 'were working on to create a better picture.'

"...the Speaker admitted that...the MP for Kyela, Dr. Harrison Mwakyembe, last Thursday 'felt weak' and 'lost strength' in the course of the day's Parliamentary session.... some powders were found where he was sitting.

"Mr. Mwakyembe is famous for leading a Parliamentary probe committee on the multi-billion emergency power supply scam which implicated the Richmond Development Company - which subsequently led to the resignation of former Prime Minister Edward Lowassa, [the] former Minister for Energy and Minerals... and [the] former Minister for East Africa Cooperation...

"The committee [led by Mr. Mwakyembe] had also urged the government to take action against the culprits within three months."

New analysis: Millions were stolen. Top officials were involved. The scam was discovered. The Prime Minister resigned. Witchcraft was performed. The man leading the investigation became weak. Powders were found.

You should see what was on page two.

Take a hike

I went on a short hike today with friends. We found several interesting things and I wanted to share a few of them with you.

Bundles of carrots (if only Dale Chihuly were here to see them)

A pool of green goo. Primordial ooze, anyone?

Sticks of clay.
We watched a woman make these and she explained that they are used to make mugs and plates, and also that pregnant women will eat them - perhaps to avoid anemia during childbirth.

A man showed-off his ancient coins (some dated 1907).
He also treated us to some of the biggest passion fruits I have ever seen.

If you think building a fish pond up the side of a mountain sounds strange, Germany built a Swahili school for its soldiers near the top of it.

This is presumably not the bridge used to transport the materials for the German Swahili school.

The landscape

A baby pineapple

I also wanted to share a few photos from a similar hike we took a couple weeks ago:

This rock looked remarkably like marble swirl cake, perhaps because it's closely related to either marble or cake (I was hoping for the latter).

The German school near the top of the mountain. I struggled to understand why they decided to build it here, until I saw the view.

The view.

For shizo

I am attending a Swahili training program this month, hoping to build a grammatical foundation for current and future vocabulary. I have been surprised to find, however, that my instructor speaks a different language entirely.

"Let's get this started for shizo," he said as we initiated my studies, "Welcome to the club. Let's bounce."

After a few secret handshakes (I always forget the snap), I lost track of who was teaching grammar to whom.

Sure I've had to correct him on certain noun classes, and sure he is a little fuzzy about some of the possessive pronouns, but in a different time and place he'd be married to Britney by now and adored the world over.

This afternoon I met a new instructor, with whom I will be working next week; he attended my midday exercises. When asked by my current instructor what he thought of my work, he said emphatically: blublastic. Meaning, apparently, fantastic.

It looks like I will be learning more vocabulary next week that is not in my textbook. My hope is that I not only figure out the snaps in the handshake, but that I also learn to augment nouns and pluralize the second person plural.

For shizo.

Clay castle

There were red-tailed monkeys dancing in the trees above a friend's office recently. I admired their agility and was grateful to live in a place where such wonders exist.

Then a very different wonder formed before my eyes. A mysterious column emerged from the underbrush and wafted into the canopy like smoke from a chimney, starting narrow and billowing as it rose. But this wasn't smoke. It was termites.

My friend and I slipped into the forest and one of nature’s marvels unfolded before our eyes. A termite mound was alive with activity - winged termites emerged from dozens of holes, their wings compressing as they crawled into the light, each termite directly followed by another and lifting off without a moment for sentimentality. Their systematic, orderly movements were a little surprising – reminding me more of assembly line footage than spectacles I have witnessed in nature.

Then I became aware of something else: a rhythmic, pulsating patter which seemed to emanate from the mound. Was it the sound of their wings beating rhythmically inside?, I asked.

My friend corrected me: That is the soldier termites who are protecting the flying termites from the invading army ants, he explained. As I would learn, army ants are notorious for (among other things) raiding termite mounds, and soldier ants pound their head on the outside of the mound to inform troops inside that reinforcements are needed.

Sure enough, I saw a circle of soldier ants encompassing the base of the mound and seemingly protecting it from attack. Army ants crossed the path at my feet.

Holes into the mound will be sealed soon, my friend explained; termites would efficiently lock-down their castle for the night. Indeed, few winged termites surfaced. A clever defense was underway.

Complex social roles of ants were happening at my feet, inches from my nose and at the tip of my finger as I pointed at new discoveries. Twilight encroached quickly and we began to struggle to make sense of the scene before us; soon we stepped out of the forest, curious to know how the drama would conclude. Curious to know how it began.

Only a few termites fluttered in the air as we walked back past the office. Those who escaped successfully will have the chance to mate and begin a new colony. Others were no doubt consumed by swooping birds and maybe, just maybe, the monkeys dancing above.

Ladies are not allowed

I took this photo earlier today at the entrance of a crushed red-velvet lined Indian restaurant in Dar es Salaam. Interpret this sign as you wish, but I am guessing it is not meant to protect women from spicy paneer.

A friend recently returned from a trip to the US - it was his first trip outside Tanzania. He was struck by how "empowered the women are" in the US. "They were running around with cell phones and making decisions," he said. He has vowed to help women overcome hurdles "in his village and his home." I am so glad he gets it. But signs like this remind me just how much work is left to be done.

When life gives you lemon trees

You make lemonade. Lots of it.

My newest new roommate – who selected the pseudonym "Gecko" for the purposes of this site – and I had dinner at a neighbor’s house recently. “My, what nice fruit you have,” I told our hosts, referring to their feast of local fruit. “I wish I could grow fruit like this.”

“You already have three lemon trees!” their youngest informed us; clearly he knew more about my yard than I did.

As it turns out, he was right.

Since then, I have been jumping into lemon trees in my backyard, the source of great amusement for anyone present; apparently jumping is more effective than climbing when it comes to harvesting lemons - my climbing efforts were literally fruitless.

Now I regularly go out back and harvest pockets full of lemons – for me and Gecko, for neighbors, friends, taxi drivers.

The tree is, unfortunately, thorny and claws and bites as I pull down branches, catapult myself up or jump at clumps: scraping me in places that later burn when squeezing the lemons for juice. For a while I sported a scar across my forehead, but I considered it a small price to pay for lemons on demand.

Last night Gecko and I decided to make lemonade. I jumped and grabbed, my technique quickly perfecting, filling my pockets with sweet-smelling fruit. Using a lemonade recipe, I made syrup out of sugar and water, then added juice from 5 lemons, diluted it with bottled water and served it with ice.

The verdict? It's good enough to keep me jumping.

Green (but ripe) lemons and homemade lemonade

My bullfrog's back

And you're gonna be in trouble.

Hey la, day la, my bullfrog's back.

Actually, it's just the old toad in my shoe again. I arrived at work today to find him nestled in the toe of my left shoe. I figure it's hot out, and if I were a toad, that would be a pretty logical place to wait for evening to fall. Plus, it'll give him something to croak about to his friends.

As long as he wipes his feet before he returns, I don't mind him living in my shoes at all.

What's in a name?

A friend recently told me a story about someone who asked her if it was dangerous in America because of all the "Roberts." It took her a while to figure out that he was referring to "robots," and that his reference was to Terminator II, which he apparently believed to be a live action film.

She assured him that many of the Roberts in America are in fact harmless. Some are even vegetarians.

This story was particularly amusing to me because I have been confused with robots as well - and not just because I am strangely punctual. The letter e is pronounced in Tanzania in its soft "eh" form, while o is pronounced in its round "oh" (think "go") form. So Robert sounds a lot more like "Roh-beht," and sometimes gets further disfigured to Robat, which sounds like "rohbaht" or very nearly "robot."

Other common nicknames include:

• Robart or Robarti (common)
• Robi (pronounced "rohbee")
  
• Robu (pronounced "rohboo," my favorite)
• Much less common is Rabit, which is how my name has twice been spelled on forms, even after I have spelled it for the person writing it

All of which are preferable to "Mazungu" (white person), which I have written about previously.

While my vowels get changed, my consonants have luckily stayed the same. This is particularly impressive in a place where r's and l's are often swapped, such as at my tailoring duka which advertises their work in big letters as "Tairoling." Once an email I sent bounced back, so I swapped the r with the l in the email address, and it magically went through.

But enough about my name. The real story here is everyone else's names.

First there are informative names: for example, someone named Jumanne (Tuesday) was likely born on a Tuesday, and someone named Pili (second) is probably the second born; it can also be assumed that someone named Shida (problem) was probably a pain on the day of delivery. One of my favorite names is Mwanahamisi, who is the daughter (or "mwana") of a man named Hamisi. I know of two people with that name.

Then there are names with positive, optimistic or hopeful connotations: such as Smart, Rich, Innocent, Kupenda (to love), Safiri (to travel) or Bora (best).

Equally common are names with negative connotations: Siwema (wema = goodness; si = not), unlucky, clumsy or the one I most recently learned: Hitler.

My roommate explained the latter names this way: if a family has one child and name her Grace and she dies, and they have another and name him Luck and he dies, they may think they have jinxed themselves and name the third child Unloved. If that child lives, they may think they have found the fix to their curse and continue to name their children in this vein.

Apparently the names Kurua and Doto (and also Buruku and Toy?) are often given to twins in order of their birth, seemingly regardless of gender.

Some others are of religious origin: Marys, Deuses, Johns, Husseins and Emmanuels. My favorite in this genre is "Godliver," which was meant to be "Godlover," but I like the first name best; some people tease, but I say it's not chopped liver.

And of course I am glossing over the myriad Western names (Franks, Georges, Willys, but unfortunately no Martinas), which are occasionally fronts for a much more interesting (at least to me) Tanzanian name.

No matter what many women are called, their name will be changed in adulthood. Women are often named after their firstborn, and they are therefore wise to choose that name carefully. A woman called "Mama Anna" had a firstborn named Anna; someone called "Mama Hawa" had a firstborn named Hawa (Eve). Wouldn't it be interesting to be called the "Mother of ___" your firstborn?

This is true with the exception of Mama Lisha (≈ "Mother Graze" or "Mother Nutrition") which refers to women who sell snacks on the street.

With all of these names, I am one of the few Roberts, or for that matter Robarts, Robartis or Robus. I guess as long as I am not confused with a robot sent from the future, I don't really mind what I'm called.

The old toad who lived in a shoe

Some mornings are more like nursery rhymes than others.

When I was in forth grade, my class watched a film about scorpions in which the climax included two shots pieced together: one of a scorpion climbing into a slipper, the second of a woman putting a foot into said slipper and screaming. I haven’t worn slippers since.

In fact, directly after that film I developed a habit of checking my shoes for danger – spiders, etc – before sticking my feet in. That habit continues to this day, and now my seventeen years of shoe-checking are justified.

I leave my dress shoes in my office and walk to and from work in my comfy shoes. A few colleagues were outside my office when I arrived this morning, and we exchanged pleasantries while I surreptitiously changed shoes behind my desk. I checked my right shoe, all clear, made the switch; I then stuck my hand in my left shoe and… wait a second, there’s something in there.

Something BIG.

Something with eyes.

I screamed; a small crowd gathered.

To explain my predicament I stepped outside (with one shoe on) and shook my left shoe. Nothing happened; the crowd stared. “Just wait,” I explained and gave it another shake. Still nothing; people watched cautiously and curiously. I then carefully pulled the insole out of the shoe, the creature staring at me with a racing heart, and gave the shoe another gentle shake. Back legs dangled, the crowd went wild.

I felt bad giving Mr. Toad a wild ride, but then again, as I recall it’s in their nature.

It took some coaxing before I finally got the toad out of my shoe. “You’ve confused your children’s stories,” I told him, “it’s an old woman who lives in a shoe. You hastily drive stolen motorcars and get in accidents. What would Mole and Badger think if they saw you here?”

The toad was convinced and went on his merry way, while I kept the office dog at bay.

For those of you who are wondering, I did not kiss the toad and it did not turn into a conservation practitioner (apparently only frogs do that). Nor did I dress him in a Harris Tweed suit and give him a cigar, as tempted as I was.

My colleagues believe this is a good omen for conservation in the region. “He knew you are doing conservation work,” a colleague said, “you must welcome biodiversity even in your shoes.”

Then I was given a moniker I did not expect: “Rob Mfuga Vyura” (Rob the keeper of frogs). Let the record show I let the toad go.

Please pass the yams, I mean avocado

Easter is a time when family and friends come together to eat delicious food, drink good wine and after a few hours, pull the Tupperware out of the fridge and do it all over again. It's like Thanksgiving minus the football.

When these things are not possible, I suggest making the below simple dishes and eating them while watching a DVD with a holiday or birthday theme (for example, "Steele Magnolias" begins and ends with an egg hunt).

Easter Pie

• Take box of Jiffy Pie Crust, add water, roll into two crusts (vegetarians should cross out “lard” on the ingredients list).
• For the filling:
  o Take one package (20 oz) of dehydrated cherries shipped to you from Lee
  o Hydrate them in honey, flaked almonds, juice from 1.5 limes, about ¾ cup water and a little sugar.
• Place bigger pie crust in bottom of 9” pie pan (or metric equivalent), add filling and then the top pie crust. Cut a lion’s face through the crust for ventilation and effect.
• Pop into oven until smoke rises.
  
  
  Easter Guacamole
  
  
• Take two avocados, one tomato, one small green pepper, two small onions and a wee bit of jalapeño-style pepper
• Cut and mush together
• Add salt
• Stick in fridge
  
  

  Now, for the entrée:
  

  Easter Quesadilla
  
  
• Defrost two tortillas brought to you by a friend from a major city
• Thinly slice Archer White Cheddar cheese (after aging it nicely in your fridge)
• Layer the cheese between the tortillas and heat until cheese-oil forms a shallow puddle
• Tip quesadilla sideways and drain oil
• Cut quesadilla into six wedges (for this, you will need a knife that is sharper than your quesadilla)
• Top with chilled pineapple
  

Eat the above dishes in the sequence of your choice and with the DVD of your choice, but don’t forget to call your mother.

I forgot to mention the ants in the closet

I had a phone call last night with my future hopeful roommate. The conversation was later described by a friend as "the weirdest flatmate interview ever." Here are a few bullet points from that conversation:

• The water heater is broken again, and the guy who knows how to fix it has a kidney stone and is in South Africa getting treatment. I can get it fixed when he returns.
  
• Only two burners work on the stove, but I can get that fixed, too. I've been reluctant to call the man who I know is able to fix it; he ran off with some of my money last year.
• The oven has seen better days, but it's hygienic.
  
• The house technically has two bathrooms, but functionally it's really 1.5. You'll understand what I mean when you see your bathroom.
  
• Bugs have largely been eradicated, and not without risk to my personal health and sanity. There are no rats, but we do have lots of geckos, which are harmless unless they get too close to your toothbrush (salmonella).
  
• There is no TV, but we have a bookshelf made out of an old fishing boat (on loan from a friend). We are also next to the road, which is its own source of drama.
  
• We don't have pets, but there is a monitor lizard in our attic (his name is Monte). We also have giant ants which clean their whiskers and are otherwise reminiscent of cats.
• None of the clocks in the house work, but punctuality isn't exactly an issue here.

At the time, I thought I was making the house sound quite favorable compared to many homes in town. But as my friend later pointed out, my potential roommate is still in the states, and issues of this nature are not often discussed during these calls. Let's just hope I didn't scare her away...

It all started with a casserole

My friend Olga recently hosted a dinner at her home, which was partly a goodbye dinner before several Spanish friends move on. She emailed the following message to her friends, and I thought it was a beautiful summary of a wonderful evening. She agreed to let me share it with you:

... and everything started with a casserole of beans with chorizo and morcilla. A half kilo was left, after the fiasco during first episode. Muzungu show, Gernika's beans.

Last Sunday we had a tribute to the little time left for us in Tanzania. I put on the stove, slowly. Hours hours and hours. Beans, dark ones. Alubias from Gernika. Chorizo. Morcilla. Jabugo…

While waiting, a beer. And we do flan. Thanx Royal.

Delicious food with the best of Kigoma. Yummy. Everything. Food. Company. Wine. All alcohols. ALL.

Afternoon passed. Slow and smoothly. Without noise. Wine after wine. Jokes and Laughs. Like any Sunday. Wherever.

… and there we finished. Mixing Madonna and Radiohead, rum wine and beer… in front of Tanganyika Lake… I am going to miss it… I am going to miss them.

Against the current

Paddling to the lagoon

During the “best honeymoon ever,” which is what Joanna and I jokingly called our trip together in January, we stayed at a tree-branch level open-air bungalow on the east coast of Zanzibar. While there, we somehow became good friends with the guests in the bungalow next to us, the sum of whose ages was still younger than us (they were 6, 7 and 7). Joanna and I tend to have unconventional “honeymoons,” but on this particular portion of the trip we whiled away the hours playing board games, admiring oddities found on the beach, and I spent a lot of time pretending to be asleep in a hammock. Maybe that's not such an unusual honeymoon after all.

I guess it should have come as no surprise that when Joanna and I announced we were going on an adventure, our three new friends announced that they were coming with us.

So the owner of the bungalows rented bicycles to us (luckily “us” included our new friends’ parents) and pointed us in the direction of the beach where we would meet fishermen who could take us to a place called “the lagoon;” an area where I was excited to try out my new snorkel and mask.

There were many things I wanted to see and share with Joanna, many of which I had sketched into the margins of my journal: giant fluted clams, Moorish Idol fish, needle spine urchins, and the unmistakable anemone whose Latin name is appropriately “magnifica.” So once we reached the lagoon, Joanna and I swam off to explore the coral, leaving our friends to splash around with their parents.

Or so we thought.

We were admiring several fish when everything seemed to scurry away. “Matt,” we heard a child yell, “MATT!” One of our friends had followed us, and apparently he had forgotten my name.

So two became three, and we snorkeled together, admiring the coral when there were no fish to see. Joanna realized she forgot to apply sunscreen and she returned to the boat, thereby leaving me to honeymoon with my seven year-old friend, who tended to yell "Matt!" whenever there was something interesting to see, thereby scarring whatever it was away.

We were floating in an alcove of coral, admiring its varying shapes, when the coral suddenly began to drift away beneath us, and quite rapidly. In no time we were in a channel of muddy water, which appeared to be flushing us out to sea.

“Grab onto my arm,” I told my young friend, but he wanted to swim himself, like adults do. “I’ve got flippers,” I explained, “so I can swim faster than you, and we need to go as fast as we can.” The more we talked, the further out we ended-up. Finally, he grabbed on and I began swimming.

I thought I was doing pretty well. I got us out of the strongest part of the channel, and we were in shallow enough water to see that we were making progress, although it was slow going – and of course there was no telling if the current would get stronger or suddenly change direction. “Rob,” he yelled, “there’s a boat coming for us!”

I lifted my head out of water, and he was right, there was definitely a boat headed in our direction.

As I understand it, this is the approximate exchange which had happened back on the boats:

Joanna: “Does it look like they are getting further away?”
Parents: “Nah, I’m sure they are fine.”
Joanna: “No, that is too far; Rob wouldn’t swim that far away, we need to get them now.”

The boat raced toward us on the current we piled in, grateful to be challenging the current in a wooden boat, even if doing so was extraordinarily more difficult than swimming.

It took us a long time to paddle back to shore: we paddled against the current on its edge furthest from Zanzibar, then crossed and got kicked back nearly to our starting point, but at least now on the Zanzibar side. We were dehydrated and hungry by the time we reached the shore where we disembarked, but we were grateful to all be together, and on solid ground again.

The pier near where we returned to dry land
(photo copyright Joanna T)

From kitchen counter to counter politics

In Tanzania, it is said that the value of a woman depends on how well she can make chapati. Perhaps that is why there are so few female political leaders in Tanzania. I mean, I have heard of “kitchen table” talks with candidates, but I don’t think the candidates usually do any cooking at them.

The US Presidential election is a popular topic here. After all, one of the candidates traced his lineage to Kenya (and I’m not talking about John McCain, although I’m sure his lobbyist friends would tell him he did for a favor).

So what do people think about the fact that the US is entertaining the idea of a female President?

• It is ok for a woman to be President because Presidents generally rely on their advisers, and those advisers can be men.
• It is generally not ok for a woman to be President, but Hillary happens to be married to Bill, so in this case it doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.
• If women can’t make simple decisions around the house without consulting their husbands, how can they lead a country?
• Women should be President, but they will never get elected (said by a woman).
• Women shouldn’t tell us what to do, they should be told what to do. That’s why they can’t be priests, either.

Sure, I collected these thoughts in Tanzania. But don’t you think we could get similar responses in the US? Perhaps in pick-your-battleground-state?

I have been dispirited to see Hillary’s campaign slipping under the mercurial currents of popular opinion. I value her politics, but I also can't help but wonder what sort of ripple effect an effective female president in the US might have, perhaps in places as far-off as Kigoma. Sure females have led countries before: Israel, India, the UK, Norway, Pakistan, Argentina and the Central Africa Republic to name a few. But people still seem dubious that a woman could lead the US. I guess a part of me wants to prove them wrong (my arguments about Margaret Thatcher are admittedly half-hearted), and my blind optimism about Hillary is that she could do the job.

The barrier separating men and women in Kigoma often seems like more of a brick wall (the kind found in kitchens) rather than a glass ceiling. The question is: if the US were to elect a female President, and that female President were to do a good job, would some of those brick walls start to sway, or are there too many chapatis holding them up on the other side?

How romantic

My roommate and I were contemplating over a chapati breakfast yesterday what the provenance is of Valentine's Day. We were at a loss.

Then last night we were driving down the road and there were giant snails scattered along the road's margin: meeting, greeting and awkwardly multiplying, as snails will do. My roommate suggested that perhaps Valentine's Day began as a molluskan holiday - marking the time of year when snails crawl out of the mud to seek brief romantic trysts. After all, isn't that essentially what we do?

I noticed when I woke-up this morning that a lizard in my room was making some kind of call I only remember hearing once before - a vocalization which sounded something like the tapping of fingernails on wood. I wondered what he was saying and whose attention he was trying to get, and I couldn't help but think that he, too, woke-up alone on Valentine's Day. It's not the worst fate, but it's worth tapping your fingers about.