Chinese Witchcraft

The Chinese company Henan is building a road from Kigoma to Manyovu where the Burundian border lies.

The first inkling I had of the impending road construction were the painted codes that suddenly appeared on each house, the signal that these mud-brick buildings were soon to be bulldozed. Then last September surveyors appeared in each village. A temporary camp was erected in an empty field near the Bitale dispensary. Kumho bulldozers, graders, and dump trucks began moving dirt around. People were pretty entertained. "It's like an elephant--an elephant moving things with its trunk!” one guy chuckled at a bulldozer scooping up dirt. "And that grader over there, it's weaving back and forth just like a preying mantis."

Large machinery and piles of dirt meant that children multiplied by the side of the road. Where in previous weeks there had been two, suddenly there were twenty. They slid down dirt piles on palm-frond sleds, losing momentum barely feet in front of the Land Cruisers that swept past.

The Chinese supervisors and Tanzanian workers moved quickly through the lowlands, and began taking chunks out of the hills up north. Once they get rid of the makona (curves) in the old road and pave the whole thing, it will only take 45 minutes to get to Burundi--compared to the 2 hours it now takes in the dry season. And only God can say how long in the wet season.

We're nervous though. The road is nowhere near complete. Huge stretches of formerly OK dirt road have been churned into potential mud puddles of death. When the rains come, we hear the road will be totally impassable. And on top of everything, El Nino rains are coming this year--which means torrential downpours that make travel impossible anyway.

How are we supposed to get any work done?

Luckily the Chinese had the same question. Their answer--magic away the rain. Village gossip has it that the construction workers know a powerful witchcraft which prevents rain from falling. Clouds pass right over the villages and storm somewhere out on the lake. There were a few days of rain in September, but since then we've been watching the sky and waiting. People are pissed. Their coffee blossoms need water to turn into coffee beans. Their freshly planted corn and bean fields will wither without rain. But for now, if the Chinese are stopping the rain I'm not complaining. Maybe that means they'll finish the road on time.

Bricks

In June the rains stopped and the brick making season started. Large groups of men and women gathered on clayey soil in villages and the suburbs around town. People brought their friends together to form the red rectangles with wooden molds. Soon they had deep pits on one side of the yard, and a large number of bricks on the other.

"Does the owner pay all those people?" I asked, shocked at the thought of what it would cost to pay 10 laborers to form bricks all afternoon.
"No-- people just help out. Then when it's their turn to build a house they know they will have help of their own."

The bricks stayed in scattered piles for weeks and weeks. Then slowly they were stacked into a kiln structure--a dome-topped rectangle with openings at the bottom to light a fire within. More weeks passed. A few days ago, I passed a group of half a dozen women carrying seven bricks on their heads on their way to the construction site. One at the base for balance, then three pairs stacked perpendicularly.

As Carson says, houses grow right out of the earth. And their construction goes at an organic pace. It depends on the rains, how many people are around, and the demands of other labors.

Toddling

Last week the mosque in Mwanga made an announcement over the loudspeaker during the morning call to prayer. Someone in the neighborhood had found a small child that night. She was her own, but not old enough to talk. Was anyone missing a toddler?

When people asked the girl where she lived she answered "mama." Her chubby feet were bare--she was too young for real shoes. But she looked well-fed and was well-clothed. How do you return a child to her parents when she's too young to tell you where she lives?

As the devout left the mosque, word spread from one neighborhood to another. After morning prayer, many mosques through town picked up the announcement, and the parents who hadn't found their daughter got her back that night. "Kids just start walking," it was explained to me. "They go far. They walk and walk without paying attention to their path, and then can't find their way back."

Kids have a lot of freedom, and also high expectations of their capabilities.

Last weekend I went to a birthday party for a one year old. His cake was enormous, about as big as he is. After lighting a dozen candles his mom lifted him up by his armpits and said, "blow!" He wasn't too successful. Next she set him down on his unsteady feet and put a napkin-wrapped knife in his hand. "Let's cut the cake!" she said.

Her baby still has a lot to learn, but he's going to learn it fast. By the time his fourth birthday comes around he'll probably be used to handling sharp knives, lighting fires, and wandering around the paths near his house. And if he looses his way, his mom can count on her neighbors to guide him back to her.

Instructions for Moving Heavy Objects

In Kigoma, all things come from Dar--well, except fish. Electronics, stationary supplies, agricultural machinery, canned goods, and bottled water arrive in town on trucks, usually Scania, often with phrases like "Sweden Power!" or "God is Great" splashed across the top of the windshield.

I have a bit of experience shipping supplies into Kigoma from the Dar es Salaam port. Getting the packages released from the port is no easy process, usually one too complicated for me to follow. I just wait for the export agent to say "ok, your shipment is in our warehouse" and then step forward to watch the transport process unfold.

The most exciting part is getting the shipment from the trucking company's depot to its final location. Arranging for transport from Dar is simple, and payment is straightforward. It's the offloading from the truck that's complicated.

Yesterday, I went to pick up a shipment.

First step: hire a pick-up. At the taxi stand in town a row of beat up trucks stand at attention, waiting for customers. They're all the same--Toyotas with no shock absorption and bodies that are held together mostly with twine. Usually it's better if they park facing downhill. Chose one that seems likely to be able to carry the weight of your goods-- surprisingly, most are able to manage just about anything.

Second step: agree on a price with the heavy lifters. This can be complicated, because you must figure out who the proper spokesman of the group is, try to understand who is working for who, and agree on a fair price. Also you should avoid being mobbed by 24 flip-flop wearing, wiry muscled, dust covered guys who are hoping to pressure you into choosing them to carry your stuff around at exorbitant rates. It's better to quietly negotiate with the leader, and then let him deal with the mob.

Third step: stand back and watch as the group of men you have hired transfers the goods into your pickup. You might want to close your eyes. At times it might seem like they are going to break your package or the truck or themselves-- but don't interfere, it always works out in the end.

Forth step: lead your pickup to the place where goods will be deposited, with your group of heavy lifters catching a lifti in the back. Repeat step three, but in reverse. Pay the lifters and your truck driver. Make yourself a cup of tea, or a stiff drink, to relax and admire your new shipment from Dar.

Awkward Silence

Rhythm of conversation changes with language and culture. Tanzanian Swahili has a varied tempo. Conversations start off quickly, with rapid exchange and extended introductions.

"What's up?"
"Not much. What about you"
"Good. How's your family?"
"All OK. How's work?"
"Just fine. It's been a long time!"
"Yeah, true."
"Where have you been hiding?"
"I'm around. Busy though. You?"
"Oh, I'm here."

But once that's all finished, the pace of conversation changes. In fact, it might slow down to a standstill. If you don't have anything to say, you can sit in silence. Or if you have something to say but don't know how to approach it, you can sit in silence. Or, if you know the person you're talking to has something to say but you want them to bring it up, you can sit in silence. Or, if the person you're with doesn't feel like talking, you can sit in silence. Or if you're tired, you can sit in silence and close your eyes.

But the conversation might turn into a giant group back and forth, like volleyball teams tossing around a conversational gambit. I once sat at the airport waiting for a flight to arrive, and listened to a 45 minute discussion about pork. The dozen or so taxi drivers who were also waiting for the plane became quite energetic in defending or deriding pig-eating. Mainly divided along religious lines, they hugely enjoyed the rhetorical exercise.

"Pigs! They're dirty animals." (collective laughter)
"Why do you say they're dirty?"
"The Koran says they're dirty. I can't believe you eat that." (more laughter)
"Better that you don't eat them, more for us and they're aren't enough pigs around." (laughter continues) "...Plus, I bet you do eat them. I think I've seen you ordering roast pork at a dark corner of the bar." (roaring laughter)

Then when the jokes of pigs and pork died down, the taxi drivers sat in a a comfortable silence. Till the talk of dogs started up.

A Dog's Workweek

On Saturday mornings all across Tanzania, at an hour when I'm usually still tucked into my mosquito net, hordes of dogs drag small boys all over town.

Saturday is often a dog's one day of the week to step outside the family compound. He's in their home for security reasons. There's no point in walking the dog--his family doesn't want him tired out, he has to save his energy to ward off intruders. But on Saturday the only things that separate a dog from the wider world are a ten year old boy and a flimsy chain. Sometimes the dog to boy ratio is three to one, and I can only watch and hope the boy makes it. There's plenty of drama en route--the dogs fight, the boys fight, the chains get tangled--but usually the dogs don't make their break for freedom. Instead they all get dunked in the communal flea bath. Saturday is dog-dipping-day! After the dip comes a nice return walk full of interesting smells and social interactions, and then back to work till next Saturday.