"We are prone to judge success by the index of our salaries or the size of our automobiles, rather than by the quality of our service relationship to humanity." - Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Monday, July 26, 2010

Zanzibar, Speed bumps, and Home for now

I’m not really sure if it was incredibly fortuitous that I met Kennedy the way that I did upon my arrival, or if I’ll end up having to sacrifice a goat to repay him for the benefit of his connections. Either way, the guy pulls some serious strings. On Friday afternoon, we all piled into a van and headed toward the Dar ferry. Along the way, Kennedy and his rather imposing breath, gave me instructions and details about this trip and our safari, which we will do this weekend.

The highway (again, use the term loosely) to Dar is a paved, two lane road. In theory, Tanzanians drive on the left side of the road, though many apparently get bored with that arrangement and simply drive down the wrong side of the road until a large truck forces the driver into the correct lane. There is a speed limit, though I think that most regard it as a minimum speed requirement. The government’s response? Speed bumps. In the middle of a highway. Usually there are sets of smallish speed bumps, a bit of a warning speed bump, followed by a “speed mountain” – a speed bump about three feet high and ten feet wide. We all joke about the number of people who’ve launched themselves into the future over such bumps. Sense a little foreshadowing here? Read on.

As we enter the outskirts of Dar, it is suggested to stop at ShopRite, a supermarket where some of the western foods that we all crave can be found. We enter the store and are welcomed by a blast of air conditioning and fluorescent lighting. I look around at what, for the most part, looks like any supermarket back home (aside from the armed guard stationed at the door). I really, truly wanted to hug something. So, we wander and grab a few things while whistling along to the piped-in overhead music: Kenny Rogers’ “The Gambler”.

After fighting typical Dar traffic, we arrive at an incredibly frenetic ferry terminal. Kennedy collects all of our passports and payment and disappears. In hindsight, not the best choice, but we went with it. He returns to the car, hands us each our passports and a ferry ticket and me two stapled envelopes: one for the driver that would meet us in Zanzibar and the other for the hotel. He directs us out of the car. As he had on that first day through the airport, Kennedy leads us in a way that seems anything but the conventional method. We pass the huge line of people waiting to board. Another direct to “stay here”. Another disappearance and reappearance. We are escorted to an empty platform, passing all of those already in line, and receiving more than a few glares for it. When the gate is opened and the massive crowd begins to push its way onto the dock, Kennedy says something to each of the dock workers as we pass and move quickly to the front of the crowd. We walk as fast as we can to follow him as he talks us past each checkpoint. Finally, he stops, waves, and we are on the boat to Zanzibar, wondering how much he pays off each of those workers to allow us to get by so quickly.

Upon arrival in Stone Town, we are greeted by our driver, Juma (and his ear-piercing ringtone – a screeching cat) and escorted to another van. We drive, much in the same manner as on the mainland (drive fast, honk often, and utilize the “special imaginary center lane” when needed) for about an hour north to the tip of the island, Pemba.

We check into our hotel, hand over the envelopes, and split into our rooms before meeting for dinner. As seems to always be the case in Tanzania, our hotel looks much better in the dark, but is relatively clean and has hot – well, lukewarm – showers. The group is kind enough to buy me dinner for being the “cruise director” and we enjoy a meal of pizza (yes, with CHEESE) while watching the dance floor heat up. It was strange, to see other wazungu (plural for mzungu). The music, an interesting mix of Celine Dion, Journey, Madonna, and Shakira, along with the collection of Europeans and Americans, make us all suddenly feel as though we could be on any generic island, anywhere in the world. We all sort of miss Africa. As the dance party heats up, we grab a drink, leave the bar and walk down to the water where it’s quiet, talk a bit, and – one by one – trickle off to our rooms to sleep.

A little R & R
Saturday consists of breakfast and lounging on the beach. After dinner, some of us walk over to Kendwa Rocks (a nearby hotel) to experience their famous Full Moon party. It is quite possibly the largest collection of people from all over the world, packed in a small area, dancing and celebrating that I’ve ever seen. Men, dressed as Masai in their red garments and facial piercings, dance along side us and quite resemble the creepy guys that slink up next to women in any club in the states. We wonder though, if they’re authentic Masai, or just local guys who like the attention that they get from tourists and only put on the outfit to get the ladies. So…we rename them “Fasai”.

Stone Town street
Sunday, we ride back down to Stone Town. Along the way, we pass through small villages and can see and smell long strips of cloth laid out, with piles of cloves, cardamom, and cinnamon spread on them to dry. When I come back to Zanzibar, I’d love to do a spice tour. It was the original Spice Island, with spices being a major export, along with the slaves brought from the mainland port of Bagamoyo.
We split up and wander through the labyrinthine streets, most wide enough only for three people to walk side by side and certainly not wide enough for a car. We photograph the intricately carved doors and balconies before finding a rooftop terrace restaurant to relax for a bit and see the city from above. The call to prayer is heard, from one mosque and then a few more, like an echo from all sides. It’s haunting and beautiful.

After a quick lunch and a bit of a race to the ferry terminal, (this is where those expensive “temporary resident permits” come in handy, as it allows us to simply tell the guy that we have them and skip immigration) we make it back on the ferry and take our Dramamine just in time. I fall asleep, listening to my iPod and take no notice of the many around me turning green due to the rough waters. After arrival and the crush of people pushing off of the boat, we are greeted again by Kennedy, who hands us off to our driver before telling me he’ll be back in Baga tomorrow to collect money for our safari. With a “Let’s a-wock and woll!” from our driver, we fight Dar traffic before speeding up on the open road.

The van is quiet until Brooke, sitting in the front seat, asks the driver, “Does it sound like there’s something under the car?”

“Yes. I shall stop and look.”

After lifting up the front seat to expose the engine and pulling out a shredded belt of some sort, he proclaims, “I think it might be of importance,” shrugs, gets back in the car, and we continue down the road….until he slams on the brakes just in time to hit a “speed mountain” at roughly 45 mph. Imagine a Toyota passenger van in the Dukes of Hazzard with a driver who giggles at all of our screams and says, “I sorry I shake you.” I’m still convinced that the front bumper of the van is imbedded in the asphalt where we touched down.

Alas, we arrive “home” safely, recap our weekend over tea while applying aloe vera to our sunburns and stumble to bed, ready for another week.

Famous carved doors of Zanzibar
This morning Sheila, another volunteer, summed it up for me – she said, “I think that you have to leave here and return before it feels like home.” It’s true. Women that I know, at CCS, Mwasama, and the internet cafe greet me with dada (sister). Walking to and from placement today and seeing familiar faces made me feel as if Baga is a bit of a home – for now.

I was able to see the library today. Up a questionable staircase into an attic with squeaking floorboards, past some defunct old computer parts, and a few tables, I found one bookshelf with a few books on it. There are literally less than twenty books for a school of almost four hundred. Zik is in Arusha until tomorrow. I’m hoping to meet with him and the owner of Mwasama by early next week to discuss a literacy program or simply a way to incorporate literature into some of the free time of kids at Mwasama. I’m not sure how it will look, but think that it’s feasible.

Me and a few kids from Mwasama
Students at Mwasama had a lot of free time today, as teachers are busy scoring the exams from last week. So, I wander from group to group, playing and talking with them. One group of boys turn practicing math facts into a game, all squatting in a circle and writing out math problems in the sand, looking to me for approval after each problem. The younger kids race to give me a high five – “Nipe Tano!!” After a while, we walk with the kids over to the “stadium” – really a large, open field that includes three makeshift soccer fields. At one point, I sit under a large coconut tree until another teacher points up to the coconut, hits the top of his head with his hand to imitate a coconut falling on me, and suggests that I move.

Tips to survival in Tanzania – most learned the hard way:
* Never assume that a vehicle will stop for you.
* If it doesn’t look familiar, don’t eat it.
* When possible, avoid using your left hand, especially to greet someone of honor.
* Don’t sit under a coconut tree.
* When walking down the street, don’t be surprised if you step on a tooth – a human tooth.
* When asked “How are you? (Habari),” don’t reply with “Have a nice sleep! (Lala salama).” It doesn’t go over well.
* Laugh. At yourself. A lot.

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