When in Africa ...

(I apologize that these posts are a bit out of order! I am still finishing my last four days at Gonja Lutheran Hospital and hope to post them soon ... the stories below are from the first four days of my post-rotation travel. I love Zanzibar! My friends and I have been here two days, and we are catching a bus to Kendwa, a beach in the north, this afternoon ... My best, Lauren)

April 27, 2009

LIPSTICK PLANTS

I can’t decide which jam I prefer --- papaya and orange or papaya and orange with hints of peppermint. But no matter which one I choose, it is the perfect companion to fresh-baked bread and slices of chocolate cake. Breakfast at the Zenji Hotel is not to be missed --- and the aerial view of Malawi Street from the rooftop restaurant is not too shabby either. Men bike by with perfectly poised platforms of oranges and bananas. Women cloaked in black bui-buis hustle their children along to school, while crowded dalla-dallas careen around corners, swaying under the weight of too many bodies. Old folks bicker over a game of chess ---and the street vendor fires up his grill. Meanwhile, the faithful gather to pray in the mosques, answering the second daily (of five) broadcast wail for them to attend.

Faro, Emily, and I were escorted to Mr. Mitu’s office across the street promptly at 9:15 a.m. and met a handful of other mzungus waiting for the spice tour. While Mr. Mitu no longer leads these tours, his name (and company) is synonymous with quality and popularity (more so the latter, I suppose). A dozen or so of us crammed into a tiny bus and left the city behind, jetting past girls in matching school uniforms and boys riding wooden platforms pulled by donkeys. A few hundred soldiers marched in the streets and turned into a training ground, while salesmen unloaded trucks of foam mattresses and pillow forms.

The city soon gave way to scattered plots of corn and handfuls of scrawny cattle. We made several pit stops at tiny spice farms, learning the intertwined history of the sultan’s spice and slavery trade of the mid-1800s. Trekking through the rainforest from one plant to the next --- we discovered how real vanilla is produced, scraped cinnamon bark, and tasted sour star fruit. We cracked open nutmeg, sliced ginger and turmeric, and sucked on cocoa beans. The guide described how the elephant apple’s sticky entrails and cloves’ oil resin are used for hair gel. My favorite vegetation of the day, however, was the lipstick plant. Used by the Maasai warriors as face paint and the Indians as food coloring in tandoori dishes, a furry pod is cracked open to reveal a double strand of red seeds. When these are crushed, they produce a bright, burnt sienna ink.

Wherever we walked, we were closely trailed by a posse of small boys who produced the most incredible artwork and jewelry out of banana leaves you have ever seen --- necklaces that resemble quilt blocks and tightly woven purses and frogs. Such “gifts” and services are never exactly free --- a few shillings (and then some) are expected in return. We enjoyed lunch prepared by a local woman who employed spices in her cooking that we had tasted on the tour. Sitting on mats on her cement floor, we dished up white rice and coconut sauce, thick chapati, and steaming mchicha (akin to boiled down spinach or kale). Despite the heat and humidity, hot food never tasted so good.

On the way back into town (or so we had thought), our driver stopped abruptly on the side of the road a few kilometers outside of city limits and announced that those of us heading back to Stone Town were to climb out and crowd into the dalla-dalla directly behind us. The rest of the group, apparently, had paid for the full-day tour, a.k.a. an afternoon at the local beach. We obeyed, and I’m afraid that the dalla-dalla passengers were as surprised to see us as we were them. These mini city buses (if this is even a fair description) offer a wide range of seating --- four persons crammed in each of four benches, plus three or so up front with the driver, a couple sitting on the tire impressions inside, at least three stuffed between the sliding door and the edges of the benches, and a few that grip on to the sides or the back bumper like a caboose. Around here, you rather creatively ride at your own risk.

We were inadvertently dropped in the very place we were hoping to visit this afternoon --- the smelly, noisy Darajani Market. Activity reached feverish levels --- vendors hawked their wares; women bargained for better deals on fruits and spices, and men butchered and hung fresh cuts of meat. We stepped over animal manure and mounds of vegetable peels and away from motorbikes and little boys who tugged on our hands and asked for money. We discovered lots of twenty or so live chickens packaged in wicker baskets for sale and a few men out back plucking feathers and plunking the carcasses into hot water. Flies crawled everywhere. A group of old men with toothless grins relaxing in the shade of the chicken barn smiled and shouted, “Obama!” when they learned we were from America. It seems the fastest way to make friends in this land to strategically drop our new president’s name in conversation --- everyone (shop owners, waiters, tour guides, hotel keepers, etc.) wants to know what we think of him and how he is doing. The three of us have seen several stores in Stone Town prominently display campaign bumper stickers, and Obama kangas are available in a multitude of colors. His popularity, charisma, and demeanor toward other nations are not to be understated --- frankly, it’s hard to tell who is prouder of what this particular Commander-in-Chief signifies for humanity, America or the entire continent of Africa. The latter is sure giving the former a run for its money.

After snaking through a labyrinth of cobblestone streets, we toured the Old Slave Market near the Anglican Church and made our way back home, only to venture out a few minutes later in search of the Precision Air office a couple of blocks away. We arrived a few minutes before closing time to learn that we were booking the last three tickets on the Zanzibar – Arusha flight for Thursday. Sometimes, I am more than grateful that things work out the way they do.

I got my fill of heart-stopping fare tonight --- a fish cake, one samosa, and a small platter of chipsi slathered with cabbage and chili sauce. My street vendor was none other than a smartly dressed twelve-year-old wearing a green “Gourmet” apron and speaking with perfect textbook English. While his elders loafed, this young entrepreneur took matters in his own hands, directing the cooks stoking the fire and counting correct change for customers. He handed me my dinner and thanked me, “Have a wonderful evening, Ma’am.” Ma’am? Since when am I old enough to be called Ma’am? Nonetheless, the fried food was exactly what the doctor ordered --- but one of these days, this doctor is going to have to follow the diet she prescribes to her patients. But not just yet --- for the doctor’s out on vacation!

*****

April 26, 2009

PAPASI

All I could were shades of gray. The sky, sea, and waves succeeded in coalescing into the same dull color. Faro, Emily, and I did our best to dry ourselves as our fast ferry clipped through the twenty-five or so miles that separated mainland Tanzania from its famous island of Zanzibar. Soaked to the bone from running through the downpour to catch our ride, we napped and watched a few Michael Jackson music videos from the 1980s, wondering why the Sea Express staff considered this entertainment entertaining.

It wasn’t exactly the postcard-picture arrival for which we had hoped, but after all, the rainy season is here to stay for at least another month or two. We avoided the dock porters and hauled our bags up the ramp and stamped our passports. As soon as we left the protection of customs, the afore-warned swarms of papasi surrounded us, their latest arrivals/prey. Swahili for “ticks”, I can’t think of a word that is more appropriate. Do we know where we are going? Do we want help carrying our bags? Do we want someone to show us the way to our hotel? Do we, do we, do we? No, no, and no. Seemingly all men, they can be downright persistent, persuasive, and at times, corrosive. Everyone is trying to make a buck --- and for so many, this is the only way they know how to do so.

Our room at the Zenji Hotel wasn’t quite prepared, so we camped out upstairs on the rooftop restaurant for an hour or so, sipping espressos and passion fruit juice while listening to the rain pound outside. The wait for our balcony suite was well worth it, and we settled in quickly, planning our walking route for the afternoon. To our delight, the run abated, and the sun broke through in intermittent spurts.
Weathered hotels and cultural attractions with ornate architecture akin to that of New Orleans’ French Quarter lined the waterfront across the road from a narrow sand strip with beached dhows. Boys took turns leaping and twisting over piles of bicycles and diving into the Indian Ocean, while others dutifully sorted through the day’s catch. Cruise ships, sailboats, and tiny houseboats anchored in the safety of the harbor a few hundred meters out to sea.

We stumbled upon St. Joseph’s Cathedral and meandered past the House of Wonders and Palace Museum, describing the shipping/fishing industry and sultanate history of the island, respectively, and stopped for Cokes in the old fort. Within the stone walls of the old defense, a rather maniacal cat took a fast liking to Faro, much to her worry. We surveyed the art for sale --- colorful tingatinga paintings, wooden carvings and keychains, scarves, beaded jewelry, and kangas. The shop keepers were eager to show crafts, and we walked up and down the booths, getting a feel for the range of prices being asked on various items. None of the goods are marked, and all are eligible for bargaining and debate. Let the games begin.

As we approached the busier Gizenga Street shopping district, the papasi flocked once more. “Dada (sister),” they would say, “don’t you want to look to look at this lunch menu at my restaurant?” Hapana (no), I would say.

“Do you want an umbrella?” Asante, sihitaji, (Thank you, but I don’t need it.), I would reply.

“Do you and your friends want a boat ride to Prison Island for a great price?” Labda badai (maybe later), I would shake my head.

“Mzungu! Mzungu! Beautiful lady, are you enjoying your time here? Promise me you’ll come to my shop!” Hapana.

Some of them would get the hint you weren’t interested in whatever they were trying to sell and disappear after a block or two; others follow for what seems forever, chatting constantly. All were happy to give us the Sunday special price or the rainy day discount; they shook their head when I said I wanted both. I did my best to answer their greetings blow-for-blow, firing back in Swahili. I caught a few by surprise, and they would usually challenge me through three or four rounds of greetings to see what I knew. With each progressive round that I could answer appropriately, typically ending with mambo? (What’s up?) to which I replied poa, poa (Things are cool.), they would grin, give me a thumbs up, and generally leave us alone.

“Hey! Hey! Hey! You know you want it!” a vendor yelled, showing me a CD of Bob Marley tunes remade … Zanzibarian style. I just groaned and rolled my eyes.

Faro, Emily, and I relaxed for dinner in a bona fide tourist trap known as Mercury’s Zanzibar. (Freddie Mercury, a native to the island, was a singer in the group Queen.) Nonetheless, sitting on the small pier and overlooking the sea as the sun set were well worth the inflated prices. A large ferry docked and unloaded several passengers and cargo. Fishing boats set out for their night catch, and boys played boisterous games of soccer and volleyball on the beach. The three of us didn’t have much to say as the daylight slipped below the horizon, and the waiter brought us a kerosene lantern. We sat quietly, absorbing the salty air and sea breeze and the waves crashing ashore, the same wind and water of days long gone.

*****

April 25, 2009

FIREWORKS OR SOMEONE IS SHOOTING AT MY WINDOW

Faro (my friend from AmeriCorps), Emily (a former work colleague of Faro’s from New Orleans), and I awoke to a gray day and a steady drizzle. Good morning, Dar Es Salaam. We took our time, sipping black tea for breakfast in the hotel while the rain poured steadily outside. We navigated puddles and mud, floating trash, and cars churning water in search of a cash machine. Needless to say, I was grateful for my rain coat.

Felix, a Safari Inn employee, offered to be our driver for the day. Considering the alternative, we promptly accepted. He helped us avoid the throng of touts at the harbor docks trying to sell cheap ferry tickets and brought us directly to the window. We curved along the coast, past government buildings (where we saw lions and giraffes walking on the president’s lawn), an old hospital famous for its malaria and tuberculosis experiments, the site of the American embassy that was bombed in 1998 by Osama Bin Laden and crew, the Village Museum (where all 150+ Tanzanian tribes are represented in their lifestyle and beliefs), and the University of Dar Es Salaam. Traffic was very much a fend-for-yourself adventure; you honk when you want to pass or worm your way through throngs of cars. We snaked along in the general direction of the Mwenge Carvers’ Market, noting unusual businesses, people, and billboards along the way (particularly Levi’s “Unbutton Responsibly” campaign raising awareness of HIV/AIDS).

I love markets of any kind, and Mwenge did not disappoint --- we made small talk with all the owners and explored several paintings, hand-crafted jewelry, sandals, baskets, kangas, and the like. I enjoyed watching the carvers themselves at work, whittling and polishing wooden sculptures for sale. I managed to pick up a Maasai beaded necklace (Who knew I needed one?) at a great price, among other pieces.
Felix dropped us off downtown for lunch at City Garden, a colorful restaurant that could have easily sprung from the pages of Southern Living (in other words --- non-African looking). I must have ordered a rather strange combination, for the waitress laughed when I ordered a side of ugali with my chicken a la king. We worked our way to the frenzy of Mosque Street, where folks prepare rice cakes and samosas fresh on the street and sell prayer rugs with compasses. We passed shoe shiners, fruit peddlers, and men in kanzu (white robes) hurrying to and from prayer in the mosques. The three of us even managed to stumble upon a delightful surprise at St. Joseph’s Cathedral --- four weddings taking place simultaneously! Roving jazz bands competed in the parking lot, and cars decorated with four different colors or ribbons and bows (maroon, peach, pink, and baby blue) corresponded to the hue of the wedding parties’ dresses. As guests exited the church, they swayed, sang, and clapped their way down the stairs. A few people approached us to exchange money on the street, but overwhelmingly, most were friendly and welcoming.

I fell asleep at a rather decent time, not sure that the ceiling fan was doing its part to keep me cool. At one point, I drifted into a deep sleep troubled by bad dreams of which I don’t remember. Without warning and promptly at midnight, I heard a thunderous burst of what sounded (at least to my ears in the dark) like massive gunfire directly outside my window … gunfire that didn’t stop for upwards of twenty minutes. Large crowds (or so I imagined) chanted and screamed below. I pictured people knocking out windows and overturning cars. I got up quietly and slipped on some clothes --- in the event that I had to evacuate the hotel. I was too frightened to peer through the window.

My friends next door approached the rude awakening with a much greater degree of sensibility --- they read in their travel books that April 26 was Union Day, the joining of mainland Tanganyika and Zanzibar as the United Republic of Tanzania. They opened their curtains and enjoyed one of the most beautiful fireworks shows they had ever seen. I couldn’t believe my stupidity and frank irrationality.

The next morning, Felix was waiting downstairs to drive us to the ferry to catch our boat. He grinned when he saw me and said, “So sorry about last night! Osama Bin Laden came to town!”

I laughed, “Well, that’s sure what it sounded like to me!”

*****

April 24, 2009

WOMEN OF IMMORAL TURPITUDE

There is nothing like a paved road and velocity to make one feel human again. Never mind the cattle and sheep and goats tied to shrubs and posts along the highway. Disregard the houses marked conspicuously with a large red X, dwellings and businesses the government may bulldoze whenever it so feels because they squatted too close to the traffic. Ignore the aimless railroad tracks littered with food waste and moss, whose use was long ago forgotten. I whizzed by them all, sipping my glass bottle Coke and munching on chocolate wafers.

Little in Tanzania operates on time. But within minutes of arriving at the Same bus station, Todd and I confirmed with his soccer coach friends (who double as bus ticket agents, mind you) that the Dar Express bus would pull in at 8:30 a.m. Much to my surprise, it did. I pushed through a frenzy of vendors and men who wanted a tip from the mzungu to load her bag, placed my suitcase in the bus storage, and made my way to the back of the bus. We left at 8:31 a.m.

East Africa is nothing if not a blur of lively color and energy. Every time we abruptly pulled into a pit stop or wormed our way through crowded villages, vendors hoisting all manner of goods --- oranges, wooden stools, lottery tickets, pineapples, sandals, cutting boards, combs, cold drinks, jewelry, and coconuts --- burst into a full sprint for the bus windows, cajoling those inside to whip out a few shillings. We even picked up a cashew salesman in one town so that he could walk the aisle to sell nuts and dropped him off a few kilometers south. I wondered how many buses he hops a day.

We passed women hoeing crops under the hot sun, men shooting pool and playing chess, and children selling live chickens. There were the isolated petrol stations, the bike repair stands, and the overturned cabbage truck. We made a quick, twenty-minute lunch stop at the “Highway Restaurant” where I acquired an impromptu Swahili lesson from a sweet teenage boy who kept addressing me as “Madam.” We jostled over countless speed bumps, got stopped by the police (I have no idea why.), and came to a grinding halt to pick up a man with a plaid suitcase walking along the side of the road. But the best part of the ride? I was not the only woman wearing pants!

Ubongo bus station in Dar Es Salaam was nothing short of a madhouse. As soon as the taxi drivers noticed a pale face inside, they started pumping their fists and whistling to get my attention. I bargained my driver down to what my hotel told me to pay and soon was snaking my way through the bustling streets to the Safari Inn downtown. My driver accidentally tossed his cigarette butt in the car, prompting a small Chinese fire drill at a stoplight in search of where it might have landed. When we got closer to downtown, little boys washing windows begged motorists for business, and a dirty child in a torn shirt tapped on my car calling out “Mama” and motioning for food. I rolled up my window.

I was delighted to find my hotel staff exceptionally accommodating --- the front office attendant patiently answered all my typical tourist questions and lent me his phone so that I could try making a call to the US unsuccessfully times about ten (busy signal and too many tall buildings). The small Internet café manager grinned and asked me how Obama was. I bought a stale Kit-Kat for dinner and whiled away the afternoon and evening getting work done and waiting for my friend Faro and her friend Emily to arrive from the airport. During one of my treks downstairs, a rather peculiar sign caught my eye. It read, “Women of immoral turpitude are strictly not allowed in the rooms.” I better keep an eye out for those women lurking in the hallways --- they may be dangerous!