Mizunguko

I haven't been writing here lately, because I've been nomadic for the past couple months. First I was in the states, then back to Kigoma, then to Moshi, then to Kigoma again, and now, finally back in Moshi before I move to the states. Lots of mizunguko, wandering around in circles.

I was lucky during one of these wanderings to go by road. The air-route from Kigoma to Moshi goes through Dar es Salaam, takes the whole day, and is pretty boring. The road-route, on the other hand, takes two days, passes through five regions, and is rather uncomfortable. But it's fascinating.

There are a few options for you and your car. All start by heading up north, through Kibondo district and up to Kagera before heading east. From there you could, I suppose, head up to Mwanza, pass through the Serengeti, to get to Moshi. Or you could drive south to Dodoma and cut straight east to Chalinze (near Dar es Salaam), and then all the way up north to Moshi. Or you could do what we did, which is cut a diagonal through Singida and Manyara regions, up north east to Moshi.

Along the road we saw dramatic changes in houses, clothing, landscape, crops, industry, development, livestock, the price of gasoline, and concentration of traffic police. At the end of the trip I was left wanting to retrace my steps, but more slowly. That's something I've learned here; to learn more you need to slow down.

Waiting

I spent last Thursday morning waiting at the police station. I was on a bench in the hallway, in the traffic department. Francis, the man in charge of drivers licenses, had gone out for a short while.

Only a few people were waiting on the bench with me, about an accident that happened on September 17th. Trying to finalize the police report, I suppose.

I asked the woman in the first room off the hallway, who was writing in a thick ledger her precise handwriting stuffed into the thin lines, when Francis will come back. She can't say. Well, since I'm just looking for information about the process to get a driver's license maybe she can tell me what I need to bring when he does come. She can't say. She's not the head of the department, so it's not good to give out information.

I sit back down on my bench to wait for Francis.

Sometimes, waiting on benches or standing in queues is indescribably frustrating. At the end of the month, the bank lines can stream out the door, and I wait 45 minutes to talk to the customer service desk, pressed on all sides by people similarly annoyed, shifting their weight from foot to foot, anxiously starting forward to make sure they're not cut in line. But other days, like that rainy Thursday morning, waiting can be a welcome space. There's nothing to do but sit there and cultivate a serene countenance. Getting pissed off will only make things go slower. You'll piss other people off and you'll get all worked up with righteous indignation. So be one with the bench. Notice the people around you. Enjoy the play of light on the dirty wall.

The police station is an especially good space to watch the world with renewed attention. Women in short haircuts and socks pulled up tall walk in and out in clusters, their stiff khaki skirts making a quick swish. Men with pants belted high on their bellies and long raincoats walk by holding hands, saluting superiors, looking important. A short girl with no uniform, jeans and a tee-shirt that's too tight, wanders into an office and shuffles files around as though she belongs there. Someone calls for a stretcher for the accident down the road.

Seems like a productive hour spent waiting.

Network Busy

I've gone and done it! I have two phones. It's only a matter of time before I have a third, bulging out of my back pocket.

In the past, my cell phone strategy has been to buy the cheapest Nokia on the market, the one with the flashlight and the intuitive menu and the easy-to-read screen in the glare of midday. I've bought around five of those in two years, because eventually they are either left on a counter-top in town, never to be seen again, or are so banged up (having been dropped on my concrete floor at least once a day) that text messages are no longer legible. Last month I went to a cellphone store and got myself a new Nokia. But then two weeks later, I got a SECOND phone. At dinner, I take out both phones and put them on the table. I check both for messages during meetings. And of course have been buying double the vouchers, furiously entering both Zain and Voda recharge numbers.

For a few months now, communicating has been in the hands of God. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. This all started when the leading cellphone networks, Vodacom and Zain, introduced special deals on talk time. Now, a Vodacom user can buy 60 minutes of talking time for 500 shillings (around 40 cents). Hallelujah! People have been calling and conversing with each other, rather than beeping (calling and hanging up to indicate that the other person should call back) or reducing phone conversations to their bare essence (ie: -Hello? -Where are you? -In town. -Ok, I'm coming. *quickly hang up) to reduce cost. But the cellphone networks apparently cannot handle the increased talk time. Now I often get a "Network Busy" message when I try to call. The "No Service" can last a minute or an hour, and I can't seem to figure out the pattern of bad connections.

So I improved my communication ability by getting a second number on a different network. When Zain tells me I have "Limited Service," Voda works like a charm. When Voda tells me "Network Busy," Zain gets me through the day. And when both are down, I dream about buying a Tigo line...

Where Are You Going?

You can take the water taxi to Gombe National Park. It leaves daily at 2 pm, but I recommend you get to the port a little early so you get a good seat. One not facing the sun, and near a cross beam upon which to rest your feet.

You can also rent your own boat if you have limited time or unlimited resources.

You might also walk to Gombe. Last week we flagged down a taxi that took us thirty minutes outside of town on a road that curves just east over the hills from the lake. We told the driver to stop just before the market, where a footpath cuts west between two houses, in the yard where palm nuts are laid out to dry.

We started confidently out of the car.
"Here?" the taxi driver confirmed. "just right here?"
"Yes," we called back.
"You sure?"
"Yes, we know the way," and shouldered our bags as we got out of the car. The path moves up and down, through fields, between houses, across rivers on fallen trees, splashes through streams.

The first person we met who stopped short and greeted us was a mother with two young children, all three carrying firewood on their heads. She turned slowly, maintaining her load's balance, as we passed.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Gombe."
"You know the path?"
"Yes."
"Well," she said slightly skeptical. "Ok then." And let us on our way, fairly sure that she'd still find us lost on her trip back that afternoon.

The second person who stopped for us was a mother with a child in her field, digging potatoes.
"Good morning!" her round face beamed, her eyes crinkled, her hands still on the earth. "Are you going to Gombe? It's just straight on this path, just straight up here till you reach the mountain."
Straight? Her vision of a path making a bee-line for the Gombe border was different from what we saw--an endless string of identical paths that spun around in circles. She waved us on our way and we continued along.

The third woman we met was a grandmother walking slowly with red palmnuts on her head, her slight frame bent at the waist, her head back to balance the load.
"Where are you going?" she asked after a pause.
"Gombe," we replied.
"Gombe?" she repeated.
"That's right."
"Well. You're headed to Mitumba." She turned us around and pointed us to the proper path-- left at the fork in the road, not right, over the stream and up the hill.

We made it eventually. I'm sure I'll remember the path next time. It's just straight in the village, through the river, and up over the hill.

Gobble

I am very proud of myself.

I made my first Thanksgiving dinner and did it in Kigoma--surely I get extra points for that. No one died of salmonella poisoning. And although a giardia and/or E. Coli outbreak did pop up post-dinner, nobody can prove it came from my kitchen--I blame Sun City. Americans got enough food, and then I plied the Spanish community of Kigoma with drinks and pies. Success!

There are special challenges that come with preparing a turkey dinner in Kigoma. Foremost is turkey. I did some preliminary research in September by wandering around the market and asking the guys who hang out next to the poultry stalls, full of chickens about to meet their maker, if they know where to get a...kind of bird.

-No not a chicken it's bigger than that. No, not a duck either, it's even bigger. And it has this weird red thing that hangs down from it's neck. (waggling hand motion).

-Oh! Yes! Bata mzinga! Hmm. Well, a few years ago there were some Baptists who kept bata mzinga. But I haven't seen them in a while. Maybe you can try Mwanga.

That was enough research for me. I was confident that if people at least had some idea what a turkey was, I would be able to find one somewhere in Kigoma Urban District suitable for a real Thanksgiving meal. And plus you can find anything in Mwanga; why not a turkey?

Then last Monday I realized I had made a mistake that only a novice to Tanzania would make; not enough follow-up. Because while everything does work out in the end, usually it works out best if you constantly are calling people and meeting with people and having them meet with their people about getting done what you need to get done. I needed expert help to remedy my lack of foresight. Asha.

-A big bird with a red thing that hangs down that's not a chicken or a guinea fowl or a duck? Oh, yes! Bata mzinga! I think I saw one walking around Mwanga. Let me look for you tomorrow and I'll let you know how much it is.

She walked through Mwanga and up the hill of Kilimahewa, got lost, turned around, and then finally found herself in the sprawling home of a retired Chagga guy who keeps all sorts of fowl in his yard and charges exorbitant prices for turkey. Which, by the way, are absolutely disgusting live. But delicious roasted, so on Wednesday we bought the turkey and proceeded to the butcher in Mwanga. Asha did the dirty work while Carson and I huddled in a nearby kanga stall. She emerged victorious, and we followed docilely behind while she strutted through the market carrying a plastic bag with two limp turkey feet and a few long turkey feathers spilling over the top.

24 hours later, this is what we got.

*photo credit to Rob, who incidentally was a key player in the anti-salmonella effort. Asante sana.