The Armpits of Strangers

Warning: this essay is not for the weak. Only those experienced travelers will stomache it with little pain. In previous posts, I talked about the ups and downs of rollicking taxi rides. Since I take less taxis now (and have less official business), I take public transport for personal trips. Today I had one of my craziest transport experiences I've had yet, and, even 7 hours later, I've still got the body odor to prove it. With two friends, I went from Mwenge market to downtown Posta stop on the daladala in order to treat ourselves to Lebanese coffee, then shop for kangas -- the quintessential Tanzania textile (photo upcoming). It took us one hour on the daladala to go 10 km. During the hour, I stood nestled between five sweaty people, with wet rivulets taking several trajectories down my body; they dripped from my neck down my shirt, my thighs to my calves, and my forehead to my eyes (it's a pity -- no, ridiculous, really-- that I haven't bought myself a handkerchief yet). I typically stand on my tiptoes in the daladala to avoid trampling other feet. My hips find support either on someone else's hips or against a vinyl-covered seat (vinyl!?), and my hands grip a silver bar on the roof of the vehicle. And even though I rest my head on my arm, often closing my eyes to distract myself from the overwhelming heat, I cannot avoid armpit proximity. I'm fairly certain that my stench is at least as equally repugnant as those around me, yet I just can't get used to strangers' armpits. The chaos inside would seem to be matched by the gaping potholes outside, but no matter to the daladala as it rolls up and down expertly across semi-paved roads. And just as I think the bus is full to capacity, and the shocks stretched to their limit, the conductor makes a sucking noise between his teeth to entice even more passengers. We commuters obey, of course. We hardly hesitate to make room, adjusting one limb or another to welcome the newcomers, who then fill all crevices and cracks in the human mass.

Next chapter: rural moutain potholes

Kimara Mwisho: Lunch at Rose's House

On Sunday it's common to visit friends in Dar. Although it's been hard for me to get to know Tanzanians (and easier to get to know Europeans), I've kept in touch with a few students from the Feminist Institute (see previous blog) who are also university students. When I invited them over for some coconut milk dal and Zanzibari spice cookies one day, they shared their proposals for a research project on teenage girls' access to reproductive health information with me, and I gave them some feedback. They were about to embark on interviews but had no tape recorder. So I had my friend from the states bring a tape recorder with him, and today went to Rose's house in Kimara Mwisho to give it to her and Sikijuu.

Last time we met they were horrified to know that I hadn't spent much time with a "real Tanzanian family." Mind you, P and I have visited my friend Luitie, who works for the Ministry of Food and Nutrition, twice now. But Rose's family was quite different (read rich). Our lunch was simple -- rice (wali), mashed potatoes (viazi) and cabbage (cabachi). Rose lives in a palatial place with her family, who sells a bunch of things outta their house. Her retired father exports lobsters and crabs to Singapore (and there were rows of crates w/lobsters meandering), chickens pecking on feed, and cows munching sweetly on grass. Stalls and stalls of animals surrounding their 3-story house. Her mother must have figured out I am addicted to textiles; she sold me a beautiful batik, then we made plans to have her tailor make me a skirt outfit.
Rose and Sikujuu are, like other university students, wondering what will happen as a result of the boycott. They were hoping to graduate in June, but now it's uncertain. If they write letters of apology to the administration, pay the rest of their fees, then pass their exams, they will graduate. Otherwise, they'd have to pick up again next year. Rose sounded depressed when she told me about these circumstances, since she already has a job lined up for June. Sikujuu comes from a less prosperous, peasant family near Iringa, and would be devasted to have to pay the increased fees. She has no one to help her out.

Tomorrow: planning the end-of-the-party for students, host families and faculty, and a trip to the Urafiki Textile shop downtown.

Reality Bike Tour

Two friends J and S arrived from the states this week within one day of each other. On Wednesday we accompanied J to Kariakoo Market, near Posta daladala stop. Called the biggest market in Tanzania, Kariakoo is also full of pickpocketers, who've attempted to get friendly with me in the past. P was not happy this time when one young man -- a supposed plastic bag merchant-- reached into his pockets when P was trying to buy some eggplants. But he elbowed the gent, and he looked at him, stupefied, without running away. Thiefs risk mob violence when caught, so P chose not to yell out. The thief didn't succeed, in any case.

As we toured the streets and shops in the hood, P and I made our usual reverent visits to used clothes and textile shops. I've heard that one of the biggest U.S. industries here is bringing used T-shirts. The packs of what look like freeze-dried t-shirts are sold by the pound. Hawkers stand on top of them, and call your attention to the treasures through some performance resembling an auctioneer's. Usually P's in the mood to tackle these mounds of fresh threads, but it was a humid day in the rainy season so we took shelter in the Kariakoo Social Club, a relaxing outside bar and club.

On Thursday, P arranged a bike tour of Dar with a company called Afriroots. It was sensational to ride a bike for the first time since last fall, and to see the cityscape in such a unique way, even if the bikeseat had no cushion and the perilously muddy terrain clogged up our wheels and spokes. Through Mejia's expert guidance, we entered some fabulous neighborhoods we have never explored by daladala or by foot. We got some weird looks; after all, Tanzanians mostly ride bikes to transport heavy loads (water, timber, iron rods); it's rare to ride on the road or on the sidewalk for leisure or commuting. In fact it's plain dangerous.

Along the way, we visited a traditional urban healer, an ujumaa village dating back to Nyerere's period, and a market near Magomeni and Kariakoo. In the market we had fresh fried donuts, spoke with children for a while, then bought some beautiful batik, the likes of which I hadn't seen before. At one point, J took a tumble as he attempted to cross a rickety bridge made of rotting planks of wood. When he veered a bit to the left of the most solid part, his foot dove, followed by the rest of him, into the garbage stench below, composed of last week's cabbage leaves, orange rinds and water bottles, topped off by cooking oil and rivulets of sewage. He scraped his shin a bit, but didn't hurt himself enough to not pick himself up, wipe off the tomato skins coating his calves and Chacos, and laugh wildly.

Tomorrow morning our visitors will reverse the downward trend and start their ascent of Mount Meru, near Arusha.

A Meditation on the Absence of Bike Helmets

New Year’s Eve Day in Amsterdam—a brilliant idea! We arrived on December 28, put some bags in an airport locker, and took the train to the HEM Hotel at 7 am—it was still dark! In exploring the city we enjoyed amazingly dark and steamy coffee, South Indian and Indonesia dining, vegeterian grub at a place called Green Planet. Thanks to P’s suggestion, we saw both familiar and lesser known Van Gogh works at his museum (favorite painting being Le Zouave) which this French teacher-fan appreciated). Amsterdamers have fine tuned the art of biking with accessible and safe 2-way lanes, and urban biking apparati: bells, paniers, lights, mudguards, etc. The bikes themselves are not too fancy, but they have all the right gadgets to make urban life liveable & sustainable. Favorite exotic sight: bundled-up baby plopped into seat, held in securely by seat belt, in the front of the bike. We wondered how much this changes a child’s perception of the world, to see the city zooming by on a bike from such a young age. It reminded me of Stephen Colbert’s bike helmet anecdote at the Knox Commencement ceremony 2006. This generation of US college grads, he blasted, have been coddled like never before—take, for example, the bike helmet (an invention he used little when he was growing up), now a requisite for American riders. Everywhere you go, you have something to buffer your experience and catch you when you fall. I wondered whether American children wouldn’t benefit from the more direct, unfiltered, Amsterdam biking experience.

Have arrived in Dar & settled in. Still catching up on sleep, more to come.

Kiswahili Confessions - originally published on January 16, 2007

Today, after more than two weeks of living in Dar, I began Kiswahili lessons. Great delight. Not a shining pupil by any means (painful for a language teacher by profession), but I chose a Swahili name (Aisha), practiced greetings, and asked the language tutors many questions. Not easy at first but I caught on somewhat quickly. Problem is, tomorrow I must take off my “student” hat and put on the study abroad director’s hat. I will head downtown to the bank, meet with the on-site coordinator and do paperwork for the first part of class. I'm already skipping class! The second I will attend, and the students promised to catch me up.

Our group has stuck together incredibly over the four days since they arrived, surviving bacterial infection, thievery, Tanzanian bureaucracy, and severe culture shock-induced anxiety. On our way to Jangwani Beach last week I was guiding 14 students in Mwenge market, and a thief dipped his hand in my outside purse pocket, where I’d just put my cell phone. I felt him stealthily make his way into the pocket, and edged away. As he put it in deeper, I clasped my purse tighter ( I was, after all, responsible for the group’s funds), and yelled out, “F***ER!” He jumped and fled. As I hopped into the daladala (where students were awaiting), they shouted, "Our fearless director!”

Otherwise, our social circle is expanding slowly as we get to know people at the university and beyond. P and I went to dinner at Luitfrid’s house; he works at the Food and Nutrition Dept, and is coming to give a seminar for the students. We’ve also already eaten dinner at our neighbhor's place twice – and he fixes a mean mango/pineapple fruit smoothie. He hosts a number of music students who seem to come and go all the time and jumps about campus on a scooper.

Hakuna Matata - originally published on January 21, 2007

Student orientation is over today; now it gets less hectic. The past week’s been intense exploring the University of Dar es Salaam and the city with students every day. We are going to Kiswahili class for 4 hours in the morning. He started teaching his US history class last week – 5 students so far. He’s enjoying his experience—quite different from US teaching.

Life in the hood. I’ve already mentioned our neighbor, an American ethnomusicologist who’s lived in Africa since the 1960s. We also had A for dinner one night—she’s a Norwegian linguistics Ph.D. studying Tanzanian court language. We meet her swimming every other day or so.

P.S. Our neighbor has a fabulous collection of pirated DVD’s; last night we watched CASINO ROYALE in Russian with English subtitles. Except the Eng subtitles didn’t match the movie; they were for some other movie.

Food shopping in the hood. We’ve found a veggie and fruit seller who speaks no English. Good for us, although I’m certain we sound illiterate. We bring our newfound Kiswahili vocab and attempt to order fresh, locally grown tomatoes, potatoes, papayas, mangoes, pineapples, shallots and limes. There’s also great masala spice mixes. Our acquaintances keep asking us, how do you survive here being vegetarian? The meat has made 2 students sick already.

Group activities. As leaders of the group P and I trek around w/our 14 “children” everywhere – I’m mother goose; P follows in the rear of the brood making sure everyone’s safe (the aforementioned pickpocketing incident occurred when I protectively tried to follow in the rear—mistake). I’ve learned to stay in front surrounded by my posse of tall male students. Other recurring director activities: pay large bills for lunchs for 14 at white sandy beaches, swim while students watch my purse, do yoga on the beach & go for long walks. 4 students and I did yoga at Kipepeo Beach on Saturday, and attracted beachgazers interested in our warrior forms. Our students are laidback; they don’t mind sweat dripping into their eyes as we smash into a daladala—one sitting atop the engine, another nested in someone’s lap. We invited 6 Tanzanian women students with them to the beach yesterday, and later last night the whole brood went out to the disco. One friend of mine pointed out that the title of this post comes from the Disney film Lion King – swear I haven’t seen it and am not stealing, but life is good!

Upcoming events: Bagamoyo field trip (coastal city north of Dar), budget balancing (starts in 5 mins actually), P arrives home from Kariakoo Market with an African shirt or two!

For more photos see www.flickr.com/photos/sawtooth

Bayamoyo past, Morogoro future

This week has brought my discovery of the Immigration Office (get paperwork stamped and money paid for students’ residence permits), the New Zaidi (lunch in the Asian Quarter of Dar), scarves at Kariakoo (with our neighbors, some Tanzanian undergrads), seminar tonight with our neighbor, M, and his grad student, K, who told, sang and showed stories of Tanzanian music (especially the infamous Wagogo people around Dodoma).

Last weekend it was Bagamoyo, a historical beach town on the northern coast, one hour from Dar. We first visited the Kaoli Ruins, the remains of an Islamic society dating from 13th century. Then we saw the Catholic Mission and Freedom Village, where missionaries were responsible for stopping the slave trade controlled by Persians between inland Africa and Zanzibar. The Caravanserail museum housed former lodging for slaves and traders. At the College of Art we saw traditional dances; on Saturday we shopped around and chased crabs on the beach.

Happy to meet some Frenchies in town, and the mix of Kiswahili and French together is fun! Swimming in the pool is X, a Tanzanian student who works at the French Embassy. I also met a Tanzanian French prof at the University of Dar es Salaam and interpreter. Before she left for Addis Abbaba, to do work with the African Union at a meeting this week-end, we talked about French and Francophone Literature and she said I should meet C, the French assistant and Dr. H, who teaches courses on phonetics and civil servant French. Tomorrow we are having C, who hails from Normandy and has lived in Tanzania for 5 years, over for dinner.

Coming on Friday: a trip to Morogoro, 3 hours away from Dar, and close to the Uluguru Mountains, where some of the oldest forest in Africa exists—the 25 million-year-old Eastern Arc Mountain Chain! It’s home to the yellow baboon, blue monkey, wild pigs, antelopes, the Usambara eagle owl and the Uluguru bush-shrike. We are taking a Hood bus from Ubungo Junction Friday afternoon, to arrive in Morogoro early evening, then going for a hike past a German colonial settlement called Morningside up to Bondwe Peak.

Drivin Miss A - originally published on February 26

An important part of my duty as Program Director of this exchange program at the University of Dar es Salaam is to sit in a taxi while being whirled around the city. In spite of it evoking colonial times, I try to make the best of it because the work would be undoable in a daladala – public transport. Why?

1. P and I cannot drive motor vehicles here ( I don’t know the reasons for this rule, but I agree wholeheartedly with it).

2. The bank is at least 10 km away from the university (as are most administrative centers in downtown Dar). To go to the bank, I must go in a taxi because of the cash factor. On the way to and from the bank, I accomplish other admin tasks.

How am I driven around? Although the process used to make me itch (the glaring sun, the scorching dust, the stops and starts, the horns and the potholes), I’ve become somewhat comfortable with it now.

The Night before: I send a text message to Edson to arrange for his work and see if he’s available the next morning (phone calls are relatively expensive here, esp when you can text message for 9 cents per msg)

11:55: He arrives five minutes early, comes in and fills up his water bottle (we have a filtered water dispenser, a life saver. When the water runs out, we call the water company and they bring replacement jugs, usually a day after we’ve run out).

12 am: I hop in Edson’s taxi. He asks “Tunaenda wapi?” (where are we going?) Although his English is excellent, he generally attempts to speak Kiswahili. I lay out our itinerary.

12: 10: We drive out of campus onto Old Bagamoyo Rd towards Mwenge Market. The road is permanently under construction. Edson doesn’t put the AC on unless he has to close the windows due to the dust.

12:30: We pass by the Italian Deli that sells tofu, as well as the Palestinian bakery – leaven there is heaven!—at a place called Oyster Bay. I purchase falafel, hummous, baba ghonoush, 4 tofu blocks and more if possible. On the way out I buy mangoes, pineapple, humungus cabbage, shelled peas and a banana bunch for the week (or less, veggies and fruit have no preservatives, so they last less time). No bargaining here, but I attempt to speak completely in Kiswahili (not a common feat at this particular Westernish market). Today I bought more tofu than normal for the student dinner tomorrow night – the one Japanese student who’s on the trip is making a Japanese delicacy (requiring 7 cabbage heads).

1:00: Before we leave for the bank, we share a lunch of Middle Eastern Pizzas. I spill some pizza sauce on my khaki pants, clean it off then we’re off to the bank.

1:15 I again force my broken Kiswahili on bankers. Sometimes they mimic me, like today when the banker said “HABARI” (how are you) with a wilted “r” like any good American would. Then I made fun of him back. Then he converted my dollars into shillings (1 dollar = 1300 shilling today). Don’t ever try to cash travelers’ cheques here, even if someone tells you it’s okay. It’s a huge hassle (took us 1 hour one time).

2: Second to last stop at Mwenge Market at Martha’s juice stand. I’ve text messaged her earlier to ask if she could make us two bottles of mango juice, but the network isn’t working so she hasn’t gotten it. She’s distressed at this miscommunication, so she offers to make 2 bottles right there on the spot. I’m so happy! No end in sight to mangoes.

2:15 Last stop on grocery day – Shoprite – fancyish grocery store – to get other items on student dinner list (including 7 pounds of ground beef in spite of the Rift Valley Fever disease, which is linked to beef). I check out the newly opened theatre at Mlimani City – it’s showing “The Departed” and “Blood Diamonds.” It will be fabulous to see the latter movie here in Africa.

3: Home, unpack, chat with Edson and students, decompress.
And eat my chocolate.

Feminist Institute

At this point in the semester, halfway through the program, I’ve begun to branch out from routine, and acquainted myself with some new people. It’s been advantageous to attend university courses less and leave the UDSM campus more often. Last week I finally saw Salma for the first time since we met during an Amsterdam layover last year. Salma’s the head of the Three Sister’s Foundation, a Feminist activist group she established in Dar. I first saw her last year when I was boarding the plane in Dar for Chicago. She was talking back to an airport bureaucrat, telling him not to harrass her (something about her passport). Her spunkiness was impressive, all the more so because she’s slight in build and modest in appearance. She wears glasses that hide her beautiful eyes and wraps a scarf in a style common on Zanzibar. I didn’t talk to her at first at this time and didn’t see her again until we got off the plane in Amsterdam. Maybe I was intimidated by her strength at first. But I began a conversation when I saw her buying coffee at “Paul” a French Boulangerie, and we talked for 2 hours before boarding our respective flights about her work at the feminist NGO, and her trip to Copenhagen, where she’d been invited to give a presentation at a conference.

Over the last year I haven’t had much contact with Salma, but I got in touch with her when I first arrived in Dar in January. While we spoke by phone she unpacked her bags from a long absence—first she’d visited an uncle in Arizone for a month, then she attended the World Social Forum in Nairobi (this is the global forum for NGOs to meet and strategize for the upcoming year, an opportunity to rival/subvert the simultaneous G8 conference of superpowers that meets in Europe).

Over the last 2 months, we’ve tried to get together. Salma lives near Kunduchi Beach (not an easy jaunt from here), so she called me on her way to Mwenge Market (10 mins from here by daladala). I was busy. I called her to invite her to dinner, but, as it turned out, the power failed and we couldn’t cook anything. She took a trip to Zanzibar during the recent Music Festival in February, then stayed there for a few weeks. By the time she returned, her Feminist Institute was about to begin.

She invited me to participate in the institute, and of course I agreed, but we never talked on the phone long enough for me to get a substantial idea of the format or objectives. I was surprised she was so open to my participation, I guess because I was left with a memory as an undergrad doing study abroad in Senegal, when people warned me to stay away from this sensitive topic or activist issue; they said white women’s focus on it tended to piss Senegalese women off.

On Wednesday I took a taxi to the Ardhi House, a 10 minute walk from Mwenge. The Institute had begun a week before, so I was joining on “debriefing” morning, during which the 20 or so women were giving a status report on what they’d learned, enjoyed, found challenging, etc. Since the discussion was in Kiswahili, I had some trouble deciphering it. I got the main ideas, though, esp because they were focusing on emotions and reactions. Some of the exercises were physical, too, with women walking around the room to express their response to the questions Salma posed them. I think they said they were delighted with Salma’s openness, surprised that they had learned so much about feminism, and excited to develop their independent research projects in the next few weeks.

This diverse group comes from many parts of the country: Songea, Mbeya, Kibera, as well as cities like Arusha, Moshi, Dodoma, Dar and of course Zanzibar. Some women are activists, others are academics or teachers. There’s real bonding and solidarity going on, thanks to Salma’s careful planning (women applied to be a part of it, and it was a selective process).

The first day, Wednesday, I just listened. The second day, Friday, I worked with one group of women who had relatively proficient in English. We focused their research ideas and reviewed the basic components of a research paper. By the end we devised a working thesis or two. I shared with them things I’d learned as a writing instructor in the freshmen liberal arts classes, and they seemed genuinely happy (if nervous to get started on their projects). Salma’s doing some really important work here, empowering Tanzanian women personally and intellectually. Some of the research ideas involve reproductive health and family planning counseling for girls 15-18, prostitution, and obstacles to secondary school education. Students were surprisingly open to my suggestions, and I was amazed by their passion and enthusiasm. It’s no small feat for them to write 20-page papers in English (I haven’t really touched on this topic, but most Tanzanians use Kiswahili in school until secondary school, which means they suddenly have to learn and write in English. It makes for a very lopsided proficiency). This week students will propose their research projects to the group, and we’ll give feedback. I also offered to read drafts.

Other acquaintance news: I attended an Alliance Francaise course with Professor Christophe (who also teaches at UDSM), and comes from Normandy. The Tanzanian students in my class are very sweet and I’m sure we’ll get to know each other. P leaves for South Africa on Friday, and I may go to Kipepeo Beach with Kat, an American Rotary Fellow, and a friend of hers for Saturday. There’s a concert Thursday—a Malian musician named Ba Cissoko sponsored by the French Embassy.

Josephine's Knee - originally published on March 15, 2007

Josephine is our 30-something housekeeper. I’ve wanted to write about her for some time now, but couldn’t find the words.

J plays netball, a sport played only by women in Tanzania, akin to volleyball (as far as I understand, although I haven’t watched it). She is also a star gospel singer who’s recorded an album and sings often at area churches. Every time her cell phone rings, it plays a riff from her most famous tune – it’s a lighthearted, cheery one.

J is the guardian of our house, having worked and lived here for over 10 years. In rural Illinois, of course, I don't have a housekeeper, but here she accomplishes all kinds of handy tasks: she changes our sheets, washes the floors, dusts around, orders water, buys household supplies (but not food) and provides essential cultural information. She’s been an enigma for many a director, who have trouble understanding her rhythm. Some have not appreciated her living here; accustomed to privacy, they find her a disturbance and therefore ask her not to spend the night here. Then she makes the 1 1/2 hour commute home each night, or stays with a friend on campus. We thought this was a bit selfish to ask her to do this since we are only two people living in a 4-bdroom house. There have been some minor frustrations at this situation, which I think, largely result from cross-cultural misunderstandings about work expectations. The strangest was when J had to leave for a week when an older sister passed away. As the second eldest sister, J had to travel far to the region of Mbeya, near Zambia, to take care of the funeral arrangements. During her absence, she had her younger sister, Itika, replace her. Since we usually pay J to do our laundry, we thought it appropriate this week to pay Itika instead. But when J returned, she was quite adamant that she should be paid instead of Itika. It took us nearly a day to unravel the cultural logic of her request (she’s the sister who takes care of everyone else, so if she doles out work to her younger sister, then SHE is the one who must be paid). I finally understood her thinking, but found out later that it is not necessarily shared by other Tanzanians.

Last night, J damaged her knee while playing netball. A different sister rushed in during our Wednesday night student dinner to tell us the news, and get some of J’s things to take with her to the hospital. I spied her in the ambulance as it pulled out of the driveway; the pain was wretched, and she came home late last night with a cast on her leg.

This morning she called me in to her room to say that two sisters were coming to do the chores this morning under her supervision, and that one would stay here for a few weeks while Josephine recuperates. Just now they are bustling around the kitchen, boiling water for tea, cleaning up our breakfast dishes (one of her regular assignments, I was told at the start), and washing some rags outside in the courtyard. I know that J’s income is the most considerable in the family. I bet that the sisters depend on it to such an extent that the minute she falls they must come pick her back up again. What is a mere twisted knee in the face of sister power?

Vive la Francophone: posted originally on March 20, 2007

All over the world, Francophiles everywhere celebrate Francophonie this week (today’s actually the main day, March 20). This may seem a bit bizarre for me to do this kind of fete in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, but it has been darn fun.

I remember during the first visit I made to Tanzania last year, I went to the Alliance Francaise. I was warned by a Tanzanian that I should not hang out there too much because it was full of expatriates. Expatriates are people who may live in Tanzania but always think of their homeland. They live in an imaginary box, trying to recreate home wherever they go. Of course many a traveler is guilty of this (yes, me included), but I sorta told myself I wouldn’t hang out at the Alliance Francaise very much.

And I have.

I take a course to keep my French fresh with a group of Tanzanian students. Our teacher’s name is Christophe; he’s from Normandy. We discuss politics in class – the Presidential Elections, in particular. Sometimes we slip into Kiswahili—but rarely English. The course goes from 6 to 8 pm. The classroom is air-conditioned, and sometimes we hang in the library, where French books and mags abound. Since the Alliance Francaise is located 45 mins from our house, I take the daladala there in the afternoon, then ride home with a group of male students back to campus. Last night one hipster had his parents’ Land Rover, and gave everyone rides to their doorstep. He jammed Kenny G on the way, and swerved around enormous potholes in ways no ordinary groundhugging car could (my Mazda Miata, by the way, would survive exactly 1 day on Dar roads). Miraculously, there was no traffic.

Last week was the start of Semaine de la Francophonie. It started with a bang with a concert at the Diamond Jubilee Concert Hall by Ba Cissoko, a Kora player from Guinea. It was an electrifying blend of traditional kora (a harp / guitar instrument with 6 strings, made from a calabash) and rockin kora. So modern. Really better than most African world music I’ve heard recently. Better than Youssou Ndour, rivaling Baaba Maal. Definitely more complex than the Bonga Flava music so popular with Dar teenagers.

Last night the fete continued with the visit of the famous Zep, Swiss cartoonist and author of the Titeuf series. Though there was some magnificent egg rolls and samosa, as well as red and white wine for all, the ambiance was strange. I could barely see the bald cartoonist, let alone hear a word from him. I guess I couldn’t figure out why the author didn’t speak, and didn’t sign books. Why come all this way from Switzerland, if not to inspire the Tanzanian audience (me included) and give away his books. But we hangers-on had fun. It was an opportunity to meet one Tanzanian journalist for the CITIZEN, and the owner of an art gallery (with an exhibit opening next Thursday). And now we are getting ready for the next big event—a play on Friday evening called LES VEUVES (the Widows) with actors from the Comores Islands.

Francophone is very important—even thriving—in Tanzania (more so than in rural Illinois? you might ask). Students are hungry to learn French at the university even though there are only 2 profs with doctorates in French. They know that French will play a big role in their careers (whether in interntl work with diplomacy, translation, banking, teaching, etc).

VIVE la francophonie!

Maasailand, beef and boycotts

Even though it's not spring here (no, it’s the rainy season), for spring break the student groupo here headed to the north of Tanzania—on the border of Kenya – on a cultural field trip after our classes ended. We feared our trip would suffer from the weather, but the rain started late—bad for crops but good for us. It’s daunting to describe all our experiences (and this might explain why it’s taken me so long to blog about it); it all went so fast and we learned so much—with each day we spent time with a new ethnic group: the Pare, the Chagga and the Masai. Tanzania is unique from its neighbors because the country has more than 120 ethnic groups. In a Maasai traditional village or boma at the foot of sacred Mount Longido , we listened to a storyteller-guide tell us about Maasai life. The pastoral Maasai, it is said, are one of the only groups who stick to tradition in spite of the pressure to modernize. Even those Maasai who seem to have abandoned their ways, hawking beautiful bead jewelry in Dar markets, lead their cows to graze across highways dressed in the Shuka. We stepped inside one of their dwellings to hear how men are the community leaders, often leaving the village for days at a time to take care of cattle. Women are responsible for house construction and maintenance. We saw few adult men around, and so concluded that they were often absent, in the fields. Usually, tours include a taste of Maasai beef bought in the market, but Rift Valley Fever—transmitted through eating uncooked beef, put a kibosh on that. This disease hasn’t been to traumatic, but it gave us the opportunity to praise vegetarianism to our students!

Not long after returning to Dar, a student boycott of classes started, causing the government to ask all UDSM undergraduates to leave campus without taking their final exams. I can still hear the uproar on campus, the singing of protest songs, and the marching of their feet down paths. I can still the sticks held by some more radical students who guarded classes to make sure other students weren’t breaking the strike. By May 4, students are supposed to submit a letter requesting re-entrance, so they can take their final exams starting May 14. Campus is empty, only foreign students left, hanging out in empty dorms. We ramble around campus and run into a few acquaintances from time to time.