Journaling by bulleted list... (Now with pics!)

Being in a new culture is exhausting.  Living in a picture out of National Geographic?  Unbelievable.  The last few days of my life have been so full of amazing sights, people, sounds, and - unfortunately - smells, I am a bit overwhelmed in attempting to document it all.  In fact, I've had so little time to even sit down, I have literally resorted to keeping a bulleted list in my journal.  A sampling:

• Buckets - the ultimate multitasker
• "Why hapana, mzungu?"
• My new BFF, Kennedy (and his wife, and her friends, and her bucket)
• Robbing a bank
• "Mambo, mzungu!  Poa!"
• Chickens, chickens everywhere
• A brand new fire truck - but no driver

Allow me to elaborate on at least a few...  Before I do, please know that what I am experiencing is so far beyond what my suddenly grossly inadequate vocabulary could ever do.  Every waking (and some sleeping, thanks to my anti-malarial medication) moment is full of wonder and discovery and translation...

Saturday, July 10, 2010 - Dar es Salaam - Holiday Inn
Shortly after submitting my last post, I checked out of my hotel and waited in the lobby for my new friend Kennedy to pick me up as he had promised the night before.  Knowing that most Tanzanians view time and schedules as loose guidelines, I went down a few minutes before his promised arrival of 2:00pm, fully expecting him to arrive around 2:15.  Surprisingly, he rolled up in his Suzuki SUV right at two, got me loaded, and hurtled us into the busy Dar traffic.

"My wife is finishing her term at the finance college, so I must stop to pick up her things.  She boards there."

Now, I had heard that taxi drivers in Tanzania continue on with daily errands and responsibilities while driving fares.  He drove through the streets, all the while, talking on his phone (the silent button doesn't seem to exist on cell phones here...and they all have a Jason Derulo or Shakira song as their ringtones).  I watched crowded dala dalas and bujajis (essentially the same thing as a tuk tuk in Asia) jockey for position in traffic, along with cars, large wooden carts pulled by men full of everything from bottled water to mattresses, people carrying all manner of goods (often contained in ten gallon brightly-colored buckets) on their heads, and bicycles follow a traffic pattern that they seemed to understand, but made no sense to me.

After arriving at the college and waiting for about twenty minutes, Kennedy's wife and some friends appeared, carrying her things.  I met the friends as Kennedy loaded suitcases and the obligatory bright yellow bucket. Seriously, everyone has one of these things - they're used to carry water, fruit, trash, everything (and usually balanced on their head).  And when you're tired, just turn it over and sit on it.  Brilliant.  I'm thinking that Portland could use a bucket store.  After another ten minute conversation and many goodbyes, Kennedy, the wife, a friend and I were off to the airport.  Slowly.

 Traffic in Dar is atrocious at best.  There are few stop lights, no right-of-way laws, and the horn seems to be the one thing that everyone agrees upon:  use it early and often.  When one comes upon the queue and stops, touts - young men selling all sorts of goods - walk down the center of the cars, making a smooching and whistling noise.  They come to car windows selling almost anything that you can possibly imagine:  Armour All, cologne, socks, fruit, nuts, DVDs, knives, meat cleavers, tires, pillows, a rug with the Taj Mahal on it, badminton racquets, soccer balls, shoes, etc.  As one gentleman approached my open window and attempted to sell me a meat cleaver, air fresheners, or a Kenny Rogers (who says his career's over?) CD, I politely said, "Hapana, asante".  (No thank you)

"Why hapana, mzungu?"  (Why no, white person?)

After finally arriving at the airport, and bidding Kennedy's wife and her friend baadaye, I followed him as he weaved his way through the crowd and up the stairs, where I found one of the CCS drivers and two other volunteers.  Kennedy refused to accept any money for my ride to the airport, a rarity in any nation. Knowing that I'd repay his generosity by using him to arrange our safaris, as he does with most CCS groups, I asked for his card.

"Hakuna matata.  I'll be around."  And he disappeared.

After the other volunteers arrived from Dubai, exchanging $300 to 179,000 Tanzanian shillings (I felt like I'd robbed a bank, the stack was so big), we all piled in a bus and ventured out again into the Dar traffic.  So, there we were, fifteen exhausted travelers in a bus with the stereo pumped...to Justin Bieber as touts attempted to sell us a football or an inflatable mattress.  Priceless.

The 50 mile drive from Dar to Bagamoyo took close to three hours.  Markets, dala dala stops, speed bumps, and lots of honking meant that our max speed was about 30 mph.  The sun set.  Quiet.  We passed villages and saw groups of people cooking over a fire, or playing billiards on a table under a single flourescent bulb where electric was available.  After the chaos of Dar, I found Africa.

In the pitch black night, the bus pulled up to the Home Base in Baga.  We were welcomed with dinner and shown to our sleeping quarters.  Most of us are sleeping in the "summer" house a short walk away from the main house.  As we walked toward the summer house in the black night, children stepped away from their fires to yell, "Mambo, mzungu!" (Hey, white person!)  to which we replied, "Poa!" (cool).

Monday, July 12, 2010 - Bagamoyo, Tanzania

Perhaps I've seen too many movies, but my first night sleeping under a mosquito net was not nearly as romantic as I'd imagined.  It inhibits precious air flow, smells rather musty, and doubles as a surprise attacker when one gets up to use the restroom in the middle of the night.  After staying up a way too late, chatting with fellow volunteers and taking the first of many cold showers, my mind raced and sleep was a bit of a rarity.  Alas, I woke up with my roommate, Maddy from Seattle (she's already been here three weeks and is teaching in the same school where I'll be - I start tomorrow).  We took a short walk before breakfast so I could see a bit of the town.  As we left the gate of the summer house, we were greeted by three children, running out into the street toward us.  They grabbed our hands and shouted, "Mambo!"  The girl that grabbed my hand bounced in her red dress and bare feet, waving as we walked away before her mother, sitting in a doorway washing clothes in a (you guessed it) bucket, called her back.  I fell in love instantly.

Baga is not a tourist destination, even with its rich history.  CCS volunteers are pretty much the only wazungu (foreigners) here.  Locals call our houses, behind their gates and walls the "white people prison"!  We all got a good laugh today when Zik, one of our directors handed our contact cards for us that say, "If you take a pijaji (tuk tuk type taxi), ask them to take you to the 'mjengo nyumba ya wazungu' (house of white people)."

After breakfast, Bagamoyo boot camp began.  Program orientation was followed by a field trip around town.  We visited the Kaole ruins, the remains of the first settlement by Arab traders in the 13th century.  It is because of these traders that the coastal region of Tanzania is predominately Muslim today.  We walked down to the former port, now overgrown with mangroves that stretch one kilometer out into the Indian Ocean, and watched monkeys playing near the water.

Our next stop was a sad one.  Bagamoyo was the coastal stop for trade caravans for hundreds of years.  Ivory, copre, sugar, and slaves - approximately 800,000 of them - were carried or marched by traders inland to Bagamoyo, where they were put on dhows and taken to the Arab trading post island of Zanzibar, before being shipped to the Middle and Far East or colonized Africa.  The Caravan Serai was built by an Arab trader as a resting place for slave traders and slaves, the idea being to restore health to the slaves after their long march before being sent to Zanzibar's slave markets, not for the well-being of the slaves, but to fetch a higher price.  Today, it is a museum to educate people about this horrific time.

Arab traders stole women, men and children (or they were sold by kidnappers), bribed tribal leaders for passage of their caravans, and shot and killed any ill or lame captives before bringing them to Baga.  Men were castrated, which is why, even today, there are no descendants of slaves in the Middle or Far East. As slaves were loaded onto sailing ships called dhows and taken from the shores of mainland Africa forever, many cried, "Bwaga moyo!"  Throw down your heart.  There is not hope.  This is how Bagamoyo got its name.  In 1922, only 88 years ago, slavery was declared illegal in Tanzania.  A messenger was sent through the town, banging a drum to spread the news. 

We were emotionally and physically exhausted, but stopped at another museum near the first Christian church built in East Africa.  After one last stop at a market in Stone Town, the oldest area of Baga (and a place so deserted that the most activity we saw were two of the thousands of resident roosters, having it out over a lady chicken), we stumbled back to the main house for dinner.

Not having slept much the night before, I was exhausted at best.  However, how many chances does one get to watch the World Cup final while drinking a Kilimanjaro beer or a Safari Lager under a palm tree?  The stars were incredible.  The scent of fires and the quiet of a town unspoiled by highways, enjoying a few beers with new friends, while wondering about a home a world away, I was finally able to exhale and think to myself, "Words really are overrated."

Walking home, we passed a small alleyway.  I saw the unmistakable blue glow of a tiny television in a tiny hut.  It reflected off the faces of about thirty locals as they sat, cross-legged on the floor, transfixed.  Like something out of a movie.

I looked up at the stars.  A tiny voice from somewhere...

"Mambo, mzungu!"
"Poa."