A Mzungu in Africa

My life in St Judes School,Tanzania from January 2006

Sunday, May 21, 2006


Puppets Save the Day

Somehow, without knowing quite how, I found myself agreeing to put on a puppet show for a colleague's community day at her Mosque. Of course, this was weeks ago, so I didn't need to worry abut it. Until last Tuesday when she reminded me it was this weekend. Oops, I hadn't done anything.

I knew we had a few puppets lying around, so I pulled them out and dragged Felicity, Suzanne and one of our visitors Tracey to work out a storyline. We had to entertain these children for around 20 minutes and right now we had nothing but a few puppets; a crocodile, a funny looking little man, a monkey and two identical ones in smart looking clothes. We looked at the puppets in despair.

But somehow, over a couple of hours we worked out a story; the identical puppets were (naturally) twin brothers. They lived on opposite sides of the river and met every year in the park beside the river to celebrate their birthday, and invited their friend monkey. On this particular occasion, monkey arrives early and as he's about to cross the river, Mr Crocodile pops up and won't let him cross. Finally, Croc agrees to take monkey across in exchange for some chocolate cake (yes, any rememblance to reality disppeared quickly). So silly monkey hops on Crocs back, and of course Croc then tries toeat him half way across the river. Fortunately and fairly fortuitously for monkey, there's a tree in the middle of the river which he scampers up. Then the two brothers arrive on either side of hte river but they trick croc into thinking there is just one of them who can magically get from one side of the river to another, without getting wet! Finally they scare croc into submission (through the alleged magic), and he promises not to terrorise poor monkey or other animals again. Yes, it even had a moral because as it turned out crocodile wasn't mean and nasty, contrary to first appearances. He was just lonely and scared because his parents had died and his friends abaondoned him as he wasn't scary enough. And now he had learned his lesson, he had found friends and lived happily ever after...

So, between Tuesday and today, Tracey outlined the script, I wrote the dialogue and Suzanne and Rachel painted the backdrop. And today, to around 50 children and even more adults we put on our puppetshow - The Twins Save the Day! It was all quite amateur but it was a lot of fun and it showed that with a proverbial gun to the head, you can do (not quite) amazing things! Tracey deserted us for a safari but we're going to do an encore this week for some of the classes so she can star in the show she helped produce.

It'll be a while before I volunteer to do something like that again though. Far too much hard work : )

Thursday, May 11, 2006

Wednesday 10th May 2006 - Maurin has gone to Peponi (Paradise)

Today was definitely the saddest I have had so far in Africa.

A number of teachers and students went to the funeral of Maurin. In total, there were around 45 – 50 of us to represent the school.

We took the bus with Maurin’s class and pulled up outside a field, where a type of tent had been erected using long sticks and several canopies. Inside were seats of all descriptions (some wooden, some covered in fabric, others were plastic); many looked as though they had come from people’s homes.

When we got there, around 150 people were gathered. But over the next hour at least another hundred arrived. Most were women but there were men standing at the back. The women had large pieces of fabric (like sarongs) wrapped around their lower and upper body, and most had a piece of fabric covering their hair.

When we arrived, the group were singing hymns. They were the most beautiful songs in Swahili. From what I could understand, they were similar to the type of songs we would sing at a funeral – asking God to look after the deceased, saying rest in peace etc.

Then, for a long time there was a silence that was unbroken by any sound. It was a very peaceful and respectful mood.

Then the priest started talking. He talked about the kingdom of God and children. With my limited Swahili, I couldn’t understand a lot of it and yet, I didn’t need to. I had a fairly good idea of what it meant and the overall tone.

After the priest had spoken for a little while and some more songs, everyone started to file up toward the front of the church toward the coffin. After the adults had paid their respects, we escorted the children up. I hadn’t realized the coffin would be open and I don’t think the children had either because most of them became hysterical and wailed in the most heart-wrenching way to see their friend lying lifeless in a coffin. And as they cried, the rest of the church erupted in the most mournful wail. I don’t think I’ve ever heard such a sad sound in my life.

For my part, it was incredibly sad. I have never seen a corpse before and this one was particularly heart-breaking. She looked even smaller than I remembered her. She had been embalmed in a waxy, oily paste. Some people felt she looked peaceful. I couldn’t say that because I was so shocked by seeing this fragile little body in a coffin - the body of a child who had been playing only a few days before and now was gone.

Afterward, Maurin was buried in a banana field, just beside where the funeral was held. Students and family/ friends threw flowers once the coffin had been nailed shut and covered with dirt. After some short speeches, we took a very quiet bunch of students back to school.

I think it was good for the students to say goodbye to their friend. And in Africa, death is so much more common. But nothing could lessen the pain of Maurin’s death today.

When we were discussing this tragedy later, one of our askari (guards) commented something to the effect of "Ana Peponi sasa" meaning she is in Paradise now. I think he's right.

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

Some of my favourite images from Africa thus far


































WELCOME TO THE SCHOOL OF ST JUDE

Dala Dala Pole Pole (Dala Dala, Slowly Slowly)


One of my favourite ways to travel in Tanzania is on a Dala Dala. Yes, you say it the way it looks. A dala dala is the Tanzanian form of public transport. Basically they’re mini-vans with around four rows of seats in the back. Safely they can hold around twelve people but I’ve NEVER been on a Dala dala with just 11 others. It averages at around 20, not including the people sitting in the front beside the driver but more often has 30.

Below is a photo of my friend Paul Weinland on a dala dala with a total stranger on his lap! The joys of public transport in Tanzania!

Privately owned, Dala dalas leave the town or terminus and go to a variety of destinations. So to catch one, you go to the local terminus and say where you’re going. Usually around the terminus, there are around 20 men trying to get business, as sometimes there will be several going to the same destination. Getting past them can be a bit of a trauma as they fight over your business. If you’re lucky, there will be a nearly full one ready to go but with an available seat. If you’re unlucky, the dala dala will either be packed and you’ll have to squeeze in OR it will be empty and you just have to wait until it fills up because only then does it leave! So, no, there are no timetables or anything resembling a schedule – dala dalas leave when they’re full. Just as the driver gets ready to pull off, it seems that a million people arrive out of the woodwork and pile in.

When all the seats are full, standing passengers then get packed in. The most comfortable technique is to lean over your neighbour in a friendly fashion. Often a seated passenger will hold your groceries or even your child. Mostly, dala dalas drive with the side door open so that the conductor can hang out. If it’s particularly packed, some passengers also are hanging out the door. Thankfully they don’t go very fast so, if you go over rough terrain and fall out, it’s pretty safe… Bus stops don’t really exist. When you want to get out, you shout “Shusa” whereupon it will stop and let you off. Similarly, it stops along the road whenever someone wants to get on. There doesn’t appear to be a limit to the number of people who can get on. I’ve yet to see a Dala Dala refuse people, simply because it’s full… there’s always room to be made for others.

The thing I like about this type of transport is that you are very much involved with the locals. I’ve had some of my most interesting conversations on dala dalas. I’ve even been invited to dinner by a girl on the dala dala! And it cost the equivalent of US 0.20c to go from town to home (around 8km).

But damn it hurts when you go over a bump in the road!



The bumpy road - and of course, all the women are carrying their buckets (after using them as seats on the dala dala)

Maurin Abibu
RIP: 1997 - 8 May 2006

Last week, all the students in our school sat their exams. Maurin Abibu was no exception. Today they all came back to school for the first day of term two. Except Maurin.

Yesterday, trying to cross a river after recent heavy rain, Maurin and two other children were swept away by the strong current. The other two were able to cling to a tree. Maurin wasn't as lucky. She was swept away and drowned.

Maurin was in Standard 2B. She came to the school when it first opened - she was around the twentieth student to be enrolled. When she died, Maurin was nine (9) years old, and the eldest of three children (she had two brothers). Her parents are separated and they family are poor as most of the children in the school. A good and quiet student, Maurin worked hard. In January, I gave her a new uniform. Only a few months ago Maurin's cousin died tragically. Now the family is mourning their second loss in as many months.

This type of death (drowning by being swept away) happens much more frequently that you would ever imagine, particularly n the rainy season. Only today a student answered a question in Science homework which read "describe an accident that you have seen". He wrote somethign to the effect of "One day I see a man fall down in the street and the water take him away"

This is the fifth such death that I've heard of in the last couple of months. They all made me sad but when it's a child that you have contact with, it seems much worse though it shouldn't really. But it does.

This it's tragic and it's awful - and yet it probably won't make the news beyond the local paper. But tonight there's a family within les than a kilometre of here, grieving for their only daughter or sister or niece.

Rest in Peace Maurin
If you are so inclined, please keep Maurin and her family in your thoughts/ prayers.

Sunday, May 07, 2006

SOME OF OUR TEACHERS AT ST JUDES



Judith (in pink at the front)
Christine (in white at front)
Joseph (in blue shirt)
Meyassah (in white shirt) &
Husna (in pink and white at back).

Andrew (blue shirt)
Joseph (cream shirt)
Shose (red shirt)

All the teachers at St Judes
Feb 2006


A BIG NIGHT OUT

Tanzanian Mary

Irish Mary



Aussie Alison


Mez and the Blue Brothers get ready to hit Colobus


DRESSING THE AFRICAN WAY


Charlotte and I in our African dresses

A Cloud on the Horizon

Yesterday I went walking up the local mountains with one of my African friends. It was a gorgeous day – sunny but cool enough to make it very comfortable for walking up fairly steep slopes.

We walked through small townships, past local churches, through banana plantations, maize and corn-fields. I really enjoyed the serenity of the countryside, meeting local children who nearly died with the excitement of seeing a Mzungu in their area. Once again I was a celebrity.

Then, in the midst of all this beauty we passed a small plot of land which belongs to this friend of mine. As they have not yet built on it, a poor family lives there rent-free. We ducked our heads in to see the family. However only the three children were there playing in the small garden. Aged around 18 months, three (3) and five (5) though possibly younger) the three children were on their own, totally unsupervised. The two younger children wore only t-shirts, which were both dirty and very old. The eldest child was the spokeperson for all three. She told us their mother was at work (their father is AWOL) and that the middle child had malaria. I took the youngest one in my arms and she immediately clung to me, clasping her arms firmly around my neck.

As I looked at where they lived (in a tiny wooden shack, around 2 metres in depth by around 5 metres in length) with this tiny piece of garden, unsupervised, covered in mud, sick and unclothed, I felt so helpless and powerless. Where and how do you start to help people like this? I sat with these children for a while – the baby clung to me the entire time. I looked at the washing on the make-shift line in the garden – the clothes were all so old that washing them couldn’t have done much use. And yet this mother is probably doing her best – going to work to support her family, washing the clothes so they have something to wear. And as the rain beat down last night, I thought of these children and their mother in a tiny shack with no electricity and probably very few blankets – no child should live like that.

If I thought it would have helped things or if I could have done so legitimately, I would have happily taken those children. But as little as she can give them, I’m sure their mother loves them and is doing her best. It just seems so unfair because it’s just so much less than any child deserves.

I don’t know why I’m writing about this. I guess it just disturbed me. I’ll try to help them. Not because I think they’re unique because there are hundreds and thousands of others like them in Africa, but because I can and I feel compelled to. And maybe the clothes or mosquito net I give them will be sold by the mother. I just hope it’s to feed her children and not a habit.

I’m not sorry that it’s a sad tale today but I’m very sorry that it’s true. And it's just the tip of the very big, proverbial iceberg that is Africa.

HIV & AIDS IN AFRICA

While my African friends were surprised that stealing is very common in the Western world, when we started discussing HIV, they were also surprised to learn that it wasn’t rife in Europe and Australia. All of them know someone or many people who have died of AIDS. Several had stories of groups of friends who had died from it, having passed it to each other.

I struggled to explain why it hasn’t reached epidemic proportions in the Western world, that I’m aware of. I could only say that we were threatened by it in the 80’s and early 90’s but that, to a certain extent, it was under control. Education is the key I suppose.



One night over dinner, some friends and I were talking about a local orphanage. They told me that of the thirty orphans, 29 had lost their parents through HIV. I commented how tragic it was that these children would also die from AIDS. They said that only one of the children had contracted the virus. I couldn’t understand how this was the case since it was transmitted to the fetus ineutoro. They explained that this isn’t always the case, but in any case, the likliehood was that the parents didn’t have the virus when the child was born.

I was totally confused at this point while my friends laughed in disbelief at my ignorance. I maintained that surely as soon as the parents got together, one of them gave the virus to the other. How could they have acquired AFTER a child was born? My friends all laughed at my naivety – surely it was obvious, the parents got it from a third party as they were unfaithful. I was genuinely surprised that infidelity was so prevalent, indeed such an assumed part of the culture. It couldn’t be so – I made a comment to this effect. My friends assured me it was the case.

As I thought about this, I was curious to know why HIV/ AIDS is such a major problem here. Many friends have told me it’s because of a lack of education. Others have said it’s because one or both parties in many couples are unfaithful. One friend told me of a friend who was unfaithful to her husband (and he was likewise unfaithful to her). The man she was with was married but his wife was unfaithful to him and the man she was with was with many other women. Anyhow, so basically, this originally couple were both with others who were with others, who were in turn with many others. And somewhere along the line, one of them contracted HIV and passed it right along the line until around twenty people had it!

And since then, I’ve been reading up on this and asking questions and unfortunately it seems to be so. Though generally it’s only the women who will agree with it. The men deny it. That said, unfaithfulness isn’t limited to men here, according to most.

Another friend told me about a book she was reading talked about the AIDS route through Africa. While hitching a lift with a truck driver, the writer and driver stopped for a break. The driver said he would be back in a few minutes. Around an hour later, he returned. As it transpired, the truckie had gone off to a prostitute! This is pretty typical along truckie routes which cover Africa and therefore along those routes, up and down the continent of Africa, HIV and AIDS is very prevalent. And of course, when the truckies go home, they spread it to their wives and their future children!

I read only the other day that 56% of pregnant women in Swaziland are infected with HIV and in Lesotho 30% of women aged between 15 and 17 are infected with the virus (Sun Herald March 19th... takes a while to get here).

I meet AIDS orphans all the time, and those statistics speak for themselves. What more can I say?

MID-TERM BREAKDOWN

Last week was mid-term break. I stayed at school because it was busy in the office. Meanwhile some of my friends went away. I was pretty jealous as I would have liked to have gone but I've been living vicariously through their stories - this one is my favourite.

Paul (Aussie Paul for anyone who knows him) and Dan (Old Man Dan for anyone who knows him too) decided to head off to Mombasa, a beachside town in Kenya. It's a bit of a journey there. You take the bus to the coast of Tanzania (Tanga) which can take up to 7 hours and then you take another bus into Kenya and to Mombasa.

After a few nice days there and rather a lot of rain, the boys started to make their way back to school on Thursday. That is until, an hour into the journey, Dan realised that his passport was still under the bed in the fairly mediocre hotel they had stayed at. Dan got off the bus and Paul stayed on with the bags. Dan trekked back to the hotel and caught the night bus back - he got back around 12 hours after Paul.

As Dan was leaving he asked Paul for some US$ for his visa back into Tanzania as he only had Tanzanian currency (not the most popular currency here!). So Paul gave him a US$50 note, leaving himself with only a US$100 note. When you get to the border, you get off the bus, pay your visa fee and if you're unlucky, get tricked into paying a second fee. Paul was too clever for that but found himself in a predicament as the immigration men said they had no change for a US$100 note (the visa costs US$50). After holding his ground for some time, they eventually came up with US$40 - it was $10 short but Paul decided to cut his losses and head back tothe bus, only to see a big empty space where it had been. It had left in his absence.

Now the exciting part is the story is that Paul got to say "Follow that bus..." though it was probably lost in the translation into Swahili. So for the next twenty minutes, Paul and his excitable taxi driver friend pursued the bus. As the taxi gained on the bus, to Paul's horror, the taxi driver leaned over Paul and out the passenger window to attract to the drivers attention. Finally, after much waving (and swerving I suspect), and a US$20 cab-ride later the bus stopped and Paul rejoined his fellow passengers. I guess as it transpired, the visa had cost him $80!

All was calm again. A few hours later, the bus pulled into Moshi, a large town around an hour from Arusha, only to be impounded by the police - complete with passengers, driver, baggage and all. Paul and his fellow passengers found themselves sitting in a police yard, unsure if it was just the bus and driver or it's contents/ passengers that had to stay. Finally, they filed off the bus, out of the police yard and went in search of transport. They ended up on a dala dala to Arusha.

Paul, as a regular user of dala dalas, wasn't surprised to find himself one of around 30 passengers in the dala dala as this is commonplace. But some of the Kenyans, having come from law-abiding Mombasa, were less than impressed with having to share a seat with three others and possibly a child on their lap, and complained the entire way there.

When Dan returned the following day, passport in hand, having spent the entire night before travelling, he didn't get much sympathy from Paul. It was a toss up to decide who had been more misfortunate! Aren't I glad I worked all week!

Swahili-time

There’s an ad for some drink (Malibu or something) and the gist of it is that wherever Malibu is made everyone is chilled out. And if everyone got stressed in this place (wherever the hell Malibu is made), it would never get made!!

Reminds me of Africa really! We waited for a bus one afternoon, to take us from the coast back to Arusha. As we stood on the side of the dusty road in the middle of nowhere, some men passed in a truck and offered us a lift. We said no thanks as we didn’t fancy traveling in the back of a ute with around ten other men crushed in. They told us the 4pm bus wasn’t coming today. We smiled, knowing they were just trying to con us to going with them (like, why??). The bus didn’t come! Fortunately there was another one a few hours later. We were lucky – neither of the buses came the following day!

Sometimes we summon a parent to the school to talk about a child. When they say they will come at 3pm, sometimes they aren’t just a late by a few hours – they come a few days late!

Which leads to another complication. In Tanzania (and indeed anywhere they speak Swahili), they have what’s called “Swahili time”. So basically the way it works is this:
At 6am, it’s known as 12am (so you to the opposite side of the clock). That means that at 9am, it’s 3 in Swahili time! So if you tell someone you will meet them at 9am, they will probably come at 3pm. Get it? I don’t really. But if you tell someone English time, you have a chance of meeting them at the right time. If they understand English or English time!

Why this is unique to Swahili speakers baffles me. This is Swahili time not African time (that’s just the concept of being late or things not happening when they’re meant to).

So don’t say I didn’t warn you if your cab turns up 6 hours late!

WHAT'S IN A NAME... GOD KNOWS

One of the thing that surprised me most at school were the Western names that many of the children have; Catherine, Lucy, Daniel, Samuel (spelt Samwell). I guess a lot of them are biblical names but I had expected more exotic, African sounding names. I’m not actually sure what an African sounding name is, now that that I think about it. But you know what I mean!

That said, names are fairly loose here. Because Swahili is a phonetic lanuage and for many other reasons I don’t quite understand, the spelling of names tends to change, depending on God knows what. One child told me that she spells her name both Mary and Mery. I’m not sure how she decides – perhaps just on a whim. But essentially it doesn’t matter too much if you misspell someone’s name here! They’ll probably bugger yours up too.

But not all the children are called by names that would be commonly used in my world. What I really didn’t expect were some of the God names. Yep, there are many God variations here. You have to hear them to believe them. We have children called wait for it...
Godlove, Godson , Godliving, Goodluck , Godlisten and Godbless (I wonder what they say when he sneezes)…So far, I have only met boys called by names starting with God! It seems that God is a man here too.

Even though I was starting to adjust to the names, I was still surprised to hear “Godlisten is coming to dinner tonight”. It’s just not the dinner guest you expect really, be it in Africa or anywhere else for that matter! And then there are the unexpected ones like Innocent, Queen or Loveness

And finally you’ll be glad to know there are few African-sounding names (yes, I'm still going to be vague about what qualifies as African sounding but I know what I mean)…
Ebenako, Melkizadeki (no idea how to say this one), Elibariki (my personal favourite because I just love the way it sounds), Esuvat, Baraka (like Berroca the drink except erm, it sounds different and it means “Blessed”, not “cure for a hangover”), Amani (means Peace), and not forgetting my friend Enjuvai! And there's lots more...

And apparently there are children called Shida, which means problem! Yes, there are parents who do that! God knows why – or maybe Godlisten knows…

Who’s in Charge?

So, over here God is a man and so is the head of the household.

Last week, we had exams and I happened to be invigiliating (read supervising) and I learned that the man is the head of the household. It’s not a matter for debate, it’s an answer to an exam question.

Mama carries the water, goes to the market, possibly works there too, does the cooking and cleaning (along with the children). And daddy is the head of the household.

Which brings me to another point. I am old here. Not once or even twice, it has been remarked that I’m pretty much past my use by date. If I don’t start churning out those babies, not only will I not have respect in the community but I will have no-one to support me in my old age.

And you know, that’s how it is here. Women do have babies and men are the head of the household. It’s not that women aren’t respected. They are – very much so. These are just the roles that still exist in Africa.

I can’t say if it works or not. In Australia 50% of marriages break up. In Ireland we only got divorce but let’s face it, there were a LOT of separations before that happened. Who knows what makes a family stay together. So I can’t say that our way is better. It certainly seems like there's a much greater sense of community. Neighbours help each other, families eat and pray together and people talk to each other. It’s just a shame that in a country where family and community are so important, many children lose their parents to AIDS.

Behind Closed Doors

While I wait for my resident visa to be approved (I’m going to be a missionary – who would have thought it!), I am on a tourist visa. The problem is that tourist visas only last for three months and they prohibit me (or anyone for that matter) from working, paid or unpaid! So that rules our volunteering or doing any kind of charity work! Ahem!

Suzanne, my Aussie friend, and I found ourselves in the position last week where we had to renew our visas. We had two choices – cross the border into Kenya (Nairobi being one entry point) and then return the next day and get another visa on the way back into Tanzania. But that involves traveling there for five hours on the bus, paying for a visa into Kenya, staying the night, dealing with Nairobi and then coming back on the bus for another five hours (if it doesn’t break down)!

The other option was to go into immigration in the local town (Arusha) and cajole (read: bribe) one of the officials to give us an extension for three months, by which time we should have our missionary visa.

We decided to have a bash at the latter option.

Our first mistake was to roll up to the door of immigration in the St Jude school bus. If you don’t know what one of our buses looks like, take a look at a picture! You would have to be carrying a white stick to miss one of these buses! To be fair, we didn’t realise the bus driver was actually going to try to park in the Immigration carpark! Anyhow, suffice to say, we attracted a little bit of attention. Still, I figured they might not have noticed! I was being a little optimistic.

We were ushered into an office within moments of our arrival in the office. Three officials stood around, chattering excitedly for a few moments as Suzanne and I smiled benevolently and hopefully (or we tried to appear that way though we were absolutely petrified!) One official started the questioning; where were we staying, why did we want to stay longer etc. We explained that we had met at a local camping ground and that I wanted to climb Kili and Suzanne wanted to paint me and the mountain! They talked for a while, gesticulated rather a lot (probably argued over how much cut each of them got!) and then told us it would cost. We explained that the website said it was free to renew your visa but they told us that was a different type of scenario. Just what that scenario was we never managed to find out. The reasons kept changing but we held out.

Realising we were sticking to our guns, they summoned the man they felt would be the deal-breaker. The other men disappeared and this one sat down, smiled and put the ball firmly back in our court with a “So, what should we do?” I smiled and decided to play and said “I don’t know, what should we do”. He suggested we go to the border but I told him we didn’t want to and didn’t have the money. Our little game of verbal tennis continued as he suggested we were loaded and I tried to explain I was a poor student. To help our case, So Suzanne told him her sorry plight of being an artist and making very little money. He looked at her excitedly and said “so you make money from Art?” and she said “very little” to which he replied “You cannot work on this visa”. We of course assured him that as a pretty poor artist, Suzanne clearly made no money at all… We all tied ourselves into knots. We knew it and he knew it.

As this debarcle was taking place, the irony of it all struck me. Here we were, in the immigration department, playing a little game to which we all knew the outcome. We were paying (not to mention lying) so that we could help to change this country. And the very things we tell the children not to do (lying, bribing), well, we were doing ourselves. But hopefully the end justifies the means!

Finally, realizing this could go on forever, Suzanne said to George “So, what if we pay some money”. Stopping to consider this suggestion as though it were a novel idea, George (our new friend) said that maybe we could do something if we paid. We haggled for quite a while on this new arrangement. George made a quick call to talk to someone. We were expecting to pay around US$130 so we started bargaining at US$50 and just as we agreed it, and said we needed a visa for three months, George then said we could only get a visa for a couple of weeks for $50. For three months, it would cost more!!! After making a few more phonecalls (God only knows to whom – if he’s like my father, he pretends to be an employee, calls the non-existent boss upstairs, haggles a bit with him and comes up with a price). Finally, George told us we would have to pay US$100 each. We got him down to 100,000 Tanzanian Schilllings which is around US$90.

Just as we were about to do the sordid deal, George thoughtfully closed the door. Must have been because of the draught! We then handed over our money and he put it in the inside pocket of his rather expensive looking jacket. He then took our passports and told us to come back in half an hour. He didn’t give us a receipt, funnily enough! Sure enough, half an hour later, our passports were stamped and signed.

And now we can legally travel around Tanzania. So, Suzanne can paint her heart out and I can do all those other wonderful things I told George about! I’m sure he’s worried about us. Obviously we would never consider helping anyone, doing any kind of volunteer work or more specifically, assisting in the education of poor, underpriviledged children or anything of the like. That would breach our visa conditions! If anyone is looking for me, I’ll be the one struggling my way up Kili! Ahem!

When Opportunity Knocks

One of the first pieces of advice I received from colleagues at school was that I shouldn’t leave any of my belongings in a place where they might be taken. This included out the front of the volunteer house, around the school etc. The explanation was if things that are left around, Tanzanians will consider that they are not wanted, so they will take them.

Later, someone elaborated on this for me. Taking things is not considered stealing, it’s seeing an opportunity and taking it. I have to be honest, I still have trouble with this concept. I understand that people are considered to be “have nots” (Africans in this case) could probably easily justify taking things from those who do have (Mzungu). And let’s face it, they’re probably right – we can probably afford to get a new whatever, whereas they could never afford one in the first place. But I’m sure they know it’s stealing – whether you call it taking an opportunity or stealing really is just a question of semantics.

A couple of months ago, someone got past our night watchmen (askari), came into our school, broke into the office (without breaking the door), got into a locked filing cabinet (without forcing the lock), and then opened a locked cash box. They then took off with a few thousand dollars that were intended to pay staff wages the next day. Houdini obviously knew that we paid our wages on the last day of the month and turned up the night before. That was a hell of an opportunity!

When it was discovered the next morning, it was heart-breaking not to mention baffling! How someone had gotten past all these locks without breaking any of them was quite incredible.

We have yet to work out how the thief(ves) were and how they did it. And even though it’s really not surprising that in a country this poor, people would steal, it was a shock nonetheless. In my little bubble, and to this day, I just can’t fathom how someone could steal from a school that was educating poor children (many of whom are orphans). You would think that even the most common thief would appreciate what we are doing, and look at the bigger picture.

But then again, they probably justified it by thinking that because we have and they don’t, that makes it all okay! Forget the fact that we struggle to make ends meet every month. No matter that we are trying to change Tanzania by fighting poverty though education. If you want to justify something, you’ll find a way to do it. And whoever stole from our office did. I hope they are happy but somehow I doubt it!

LIFE AS A MZUNGU IN AFRICA

Despite the fact that I had been in Australia for seven years, or that I had Australian citizenship, I was always different. I was Irish and aside from the Irish jokes, no matter how long I stayed there I would always be different for the simple reason that my accent set me apart (unless I tried to adopt one of those fake pseudo-Australian accents – I gave up on that long ago).

Being a Mzungu (white person) in Africa is a far more intense experience of “otherness”. Here I need not open my mouth to be identified as foreign. It’s perfectly obvious from a hundred paces. In fact, I’ve even been in the mountains without no-one apparent around and heard “Mzungu” from the bushes… Being a Mzungu is a privileged position. It’s like being a doctor or lawyer in the Western world – it mostly commands respect. In fact, being a Mzungu is kind of like being a bit of a celebrity at times. Children want to hold your hand or shout Good Morning (at any time of day) from a distance, if they’re a bit scared. Only every so often does a child cry at the whiteness of my skin.

As a Mzungu, it is automatically assumed that you are rich. And to be honest, by African standards, we are. The average wage here is around US$100 a month. To have electricity or running water is highly unusual. So, when we Wasungu (pl. of mzungu) rock up with our cameras, MP3players and laptops, we own more than most people here will ever dream of owning. And let’s face it, most of us are here through choice. I could go back to the Western world at any time. Many of those who live here don’t have that luxury.

Someone told me that one of the reasons many Africans want to be near Wazungu is because they believe that just by being close to someone who is (perceived to be) rich, a bit of it might rub off on them. And hey, if that doesn’t work, they can pickpocket you – only joking (though it’s certainly not out of the question in some cases).

I could lie and say that everyone here is nice just because they are kind people. Many of those I meet want to be your friend because you might be able to give them something, whether it be a little food or a passport to Europe. Mind you, it was nice little ego-boost to have so many men whistle and smile at me in my first few weeks here. I quickly realized that they’re pretty indiscriminate and the only pre-requisite for receiving attention (or the odd marriage proposal) is a pale complexion! Many friends here have regaled me with stories of being friends with someone here only to be told a story of a sick mother, child, University fee that has to be paid within a matter of days. But I can’t say that were in their position, I wouldn’t try the same thing.
So being a Muzungu is all at once a joy and exhausting. Some days it’s tiring being different. Some days I just want to be normal… yes, yes, I know, those of you know know me are saying it’ll take more than leaving Africa to feel that way
: )
Anyhow, after I had been here around a month, we went to a local bar that is mostly frequented by Westerners. The next day I realized something. It was the first time since I had been in Africa that I didn’t feel like I stood out. And to be honest, it was nice for a few hours. I felt like I was in one of those tourist bars Bali or Thailand! In fact, I was pretty invisible in this bar because we were surrounded by a hundred 18 year old “gap year” kids in skimpy tops, with size 8 figures – I felt like a grandmother. Talk about going from celebrity status to invisible! What a transition. But really, it was a nice break. It’s not the kind of place I would choose to go to often but it was nice not being ‘different’ for a few hours.

And yet, despite my little whinge, I think it would be a LOT harder to be an African in the Western world. Sad as it is, I know that the star-treatment and welcome we are given here might not be reciprocated, were the locals here to visit my country. It’s amazing the way that the colour of skin can determine so very much in this world.