Announcement.

Success!

What I was here to do - to get the PIUMA website up, running, and sustained by the staff - which turned out to be only a small part of my job, is finally done.

There are still things to be changed around and added, but we just made the move to our permanent host.

It's nothing special or fancy, but our logo is sick!

http://www.piuma-simba.org/

How I Became African

Back in Njombe, almost seven weeks ago, I met a South African geologist of about 30, just starting up an exploration company here in Tanzania to strike gold. Or iron, he said. I've come to decide that his mannerisms were somewhat typical of his country, after now having met four after this week, all somehow involved with mining. So maybe it's the typical mannerisms of gold-diggers (not through marriage), an ambiguity not solved, though perfectly portrayed, by DiCaprio in the movie, Blood Diamond. "Am I right, bru?"

If you haven't seen the movie, these are real men, with big character and an even bigger appetite for beer. They act like they own everything. It could be seen as quite offensive, but they manage to pull it off. I guess their charm is that while you may be slightly uncomfortable being alone in a completely different country, you get the sense they would be cracking jokes and lighting smokes even with a gun at their heads.

In Njombe, Jan (pronounced Yon) and I spend an afternoon hanging out and shooting the shit. He clearly knew his way around the country, though was quite anxious to get home to some real barbeque sauce, and I was just arriving, trying to suck as much knowledge from him as possible.

His favorite thing to say was that so and so "is the most beautiful place in the world," a phrase he used twice a minute. About the Serengeti: "You look around, and it truly is the most beautiful place in the world. But then in front of the guest house porch, there's a stinkin' outhouse - the most awful thing in the world. If they just planned it right, it would be the most beautiful place in the world."

You get my point.

Jan had never been to Matema, however, let alone without his truck. If he had, his statements would only have been an echo to what was going on in my head.

Izack and I started walking at 4:00 a.m. Thursday morning. It was a walk we knew in the dark; the same one we made that day I got sick, except that this time things went right. I felt great, and not a cloud in the sky to wreck my view and sunrise.

Once we got to Utengule, that last village before the the lake, a friend of ours set us up with some breakfast, and the sun was just peaking over the hills of Bulongwa as we set off on the rest of our trip. It was three hours walking to there, and it would be another three hours, 7000 feet straight down.

The hike was incredible. Super steep, technical terrain, winding down the face of a cliff at times, as it passed from raw, crisp and cold grasslands to damp forest, to almost jungle. Just when I was feeling like a total badass - sweat dripping down my face, sharpened bamboo walking stick in hand (a gift from a friend at the top), rugged hiking boots and bag, and manly, not-so white beater - an old woman appears, clad in full kanga and foam flip-flops with a parcel on her head. Right, it's not hiking, it's commuting.

Descending 7000 feet in 3 hours was no easy feat. It's pretty much like three hours of wall sits, and by the time we got to the bottom, our quads were thankful to be on flat land.

The Rift Valley is amazing; a point not lost on one of the South Africans I would meet in Matema, Timothy, who endlessly repeated that this was the birthplace of life, and paradise. Highland gives way to lowlands in sharp jagged peaks that meet at almost right angles. That is to say, you could pinpoint the exact step where mountain and plain meet.

At the bottom, it's a different Tanzania. It's the land of banana, mango, cocoa, palm, you name it, plantations. It also has a different feel. Unlike Bulongwa's sparse, grassy hills, the dense vegetation and flat surface here are enclosing. The road continues straight and flat, but you never know what's behind the next overhanging palm. Settlements appear and disappear, homes with naked children chasing chickens, dried riverbeds, a washed out bridge; evidence of an almost forgotten rain season.

All this I saw from my perch, standing in the bed of the ghettoist Toyota pick-up that could be. "The body is finished, but the engine is good," I'm told. It started first try. It was our short ride from the bottom of the mountain to Matema beach!

Lake Nyasa is as incredible as they say, if not more. If my pictures turn out half as dramatic as reality, it will still be unbelievable. Rich sandy beaches sprawl across the Northern shore from the faded blue hills of Malawi to the wall that is Livingstonia. Lush, sharp peaks break from the crystal water, whose flat horizon is dotted with fishing dhows. Matema should be a beach resort, but it's really nothing but a starting point for the journey of fish to Mbeya.

It's off the beaten path, but some tourists make it, with effort. I met two girls from England who arrived via Mbeya, and they reported having to take three cars from there - a total of 7 hours. The ride from Bulongwa to Mbeya being six, our exhuasting hike took half the time of driving.

With these girls, I went hiking again on Friday, two hours up to a frigid waterfall. When we finally arrived, we hung out for a while, talking about our experiences and stuff, then one said, "Did you really come over those mountains? There's been a whisper in the village." That helped remove the commuter woman from memory.

I did the hike to the falls barefoot because I stupidly only brought hiking boots, and the way up is to zigzag through the rapids. That was the beginning of my transformation. Our guide commented, "I've never seen Mzungu walk without shoes so fast." That, a few compliments on my Kiswahili, and the effects of the sun, and I was on my way.

When we got back, we met the South Africans I mentioned earlier. Timothy was 40, the other was probably in his early fifties, but looked well beyond that. We called him Old Man, and spent the afternoon and evening - Izack, those two, and the two Brits - hanging out on the beach, drinking local juices and beer, reading, talking, swimming. It was nice and relaxing. The South Africans got a little drunk and rowdy, but it was all in good fun. Timothy continued to rave about the Rift, and may have used Jan's phrase a couple times. For a geo-technician, his science was questionable, and his repetitive statements were all too well characterized by his need to go on and on about what he smoked in Malawi while working a uranium mine. The old one, who had obviously heard this all too often on their road trip to the beach, snored softly against a nearby tree.

As the sun set, we watched Old Man slither his way across the beach to his room.

This morning we were up again early; beating the equatorial sun. When we started climbing again, a path that seemed even steeper, if possible, than in descent, Izack informed me that it would probably take us 6 hours to reach Utengule. Then we had three more hours to Bulongwa; we were in for a long day!

But somehow, after the first hour, we had made good headway, and weren't showing signs of letting up. We took one break to split a papaya, a gift from one of the plantations at the bottom, and managed to race up in 3 and a half hours! We raced up, but on any small downhill sections, we crawled. Our legs were still mush from coming down.

With the steam we built going up, we powerwalked the 20 k to Bulongwa in a little over two hours. We were passing merchants on their way to the market left and right. None of them could believe our speed or that we were coming from the bottom. When we finally collapsed at Lupasso - home - Izack turned to me and said, "Now you're African. Only we can walk fast like that."

So that's the story of how I finally saw my sunrise(s), the lake, and became Afrikan, with a k, in the most beautiful place(s) in the world.

Tutaonana badai,

Gébé (as it is pronounced here)

P.S. I don't think my legs, feet, or back will ever let me walk again. I boast now because that status won't ever again be mine.

Pitchpole!

...or nosedive, to use some sailing terminology for the good old days.

Yesterday I went in on a kamikaze mission. Juma, the Clinical Officer at PIUMA, and I were sent to the District Medical Officer with the goal of procuring a copy of the health budget for Makete District. I was well aware that we would fail before going, but I thought we'd give it a shot.

When we first arrived, I tried to be cordial. It was clear that Juma, who has to deal with the man on a regular basis, was not so comfortable with confrontation, so I tried to persuade the DMO of the usefulness of such a document for our organization. I told him we were planning our activities for the following year, which would involve an education and testing outreach program, and in order to offer services of the same high quality (yeah right!) as the District, we would be at a loss without their budget.

His answer was that if we wanted, we could submit our action plan to them, to be included in the budget (though not financed), providing government record of PIUMA's work. Clearly not what we were after!

After going through the same circles several times and making no progress, I thought it might be time to be a little more direct. I said I was under the impression that the operations of public institutions and the allocation of public resources were supposed to be made public. As citizens of Tanzania, PIUMA was demanding to see a copy of a public document.

He laughed! Then he repeated what he had said before.

I would have kept pushing, but I decided it wasn't worth it. Talking to him was like running into a wall. Not to mention, I didn't want to screw up an already rocky relationship with the government, I don't actually know about law, and I didn't feel like it was really my place to be fighting for it.

I guess it is pretty funny - me, a kid, an outsider, trying to tell him about his about citizens' rights in his country, without even being able to discuss it in the country's national language. But he was also a little nervous. He held the budget book tight; he wouldn't even set it down on the desk. When he left the room for a minute, he took it with him.

He should have been nervous, however. Our intentions were not in his favour. If we were to get our hands on that document, the ultimate goal would be to uncover some embezzlement or something, to use as fuel in the fight against notoriously corrupt public officials.

Either way, it was a pretty frustrating experience. While I can take it lightly now, last night I was a little ticked. The drive to Makete Town alone - a 2 hour each way, super cramped, bumpy journey - and to not make any headway, was discouraging to say the least.

But it was also exciting to be in that sort of situation. Like a nasty crash on the water - yes, it can hurt, and can lose you the race, and get you wet and cold - but once you're off the water, it's one of those moments you don't forget. It also proved everything I've heard about government non-cooperation true, showing me that what PIUMA claims to be working against is a real issue. It's nice to know that what you're working for is actually needed.

Time's now running out in Bulongwa. I've got exactly a week left, and I hope, lot's of cool experiences to be had.

The origins of tradition

For a while now, I've been probing people about Bulongwa's history and the traditions of the Ukinga (tribe) that live here. This has given me many conflicting stories, and has probably made me annoyingly incessant in my questions. So, finally a couple days ago, Izack said he would introduce me to someone who could answer all I had to ask. As it turns out, he is also among the oldest coherent people left here. His name is Mzee (Mr.) Allam.

Upon entering his home, a relatively large brick house near the big Lutheran Church, the first thing he asked me was my age. When I answered, he started rolling in laughter. "20," he said, "did you know I was born in 1928!" That's ancient for here. His slouched posture is supported by a crooked wooden cane, with so much weight put on it, that you can't imagine he would be able to lift his head from staring at your shoes. But, when he finally does, with effort, his face looks younger than his body; only tufts of white from under his cap give away his age. That and his missing right eye.

We sit down on his couch and he begins his story. His grandfather was the first to arrive in Bulongwa, a name meaning, "Look everyone! I'm the first person here!" At that time, this area was a combination of heavily wooded zones and barren grasslands. Allam's grandfather chose a forested hill to build his home. Soon others followed, but people lived sparsely - roughly one house per mountain ridge. They cultivated many things, most don't have an English translation, but one of the staples was millet. Their protein was gathered from the forest. Again, many animals that I can't translate, except for gazelles and hogs.

In 1895, the first missionary arrived. Missionary, singular. In Bulongwa's history, there have been a total of three to reach this area. And that includes all the villages around here.

The missionaries made friends easily. They brought salt and oil and teapots and spoons. They also managed to convert pretty much everyone. They built a church or two, and a couple schools. People still lived far apart, however, and not many got an education.

The British took control of Tanzania as a protectorship in the Treaty of Versailles following WWI, where Germany was basically hung to dry. That was 1919, but the first sign of British presence in the highlands wasn't until after the second World War. The Brits came to dispose of the German missionaries, and it was around this time that the seeds of independence were being sown.

In typical Tanzanian fashion, independence was a peaceful diplomatic affair - one that you might not expect to make a difference in the lives of villagers. The opposite is true. From the arrival of Germans, not much changed for the people here. The creation of the Bulongwa, and in fact, the Tanzania I have seen stems wholely from independence.

That means, much of what I've taken as traditional, is only 60 years old!

From the "traditional" colorful kangas the women wear to the "traditional" ugali (a porridge made from maize with a consistency slightly thicker than mashed potatoes), even to the "traditional" agricultural community - none of this existed before independence.

One of Nyerere's first tasks as president was to totally reform agriculture. He promoted growing larger crops of maize, wheat and potatoes, keeping livestock, and living in communities to promote trade. Before this, not only did those crops not exist here, but people lived far apart so they would have more forest to hunt in, and they grew only enough to eat each day. Nyerere's system, which developed food stockpiles meant greater resilience to weather changes, and allowed the population to grow, taking over almost all the vacant space around. Any forest that is left has been planted for timber, and is mostly imported pine.

Bulongwa is composed of about 5 or 6 last names, spanning the thousands of residents that inhabit these hills. While now they form a large and disparate community, it's easy to imagine that less than one hundred years ago, there actually were 5 or 6 family units in the area.

Even though the longer I stay here, the less I find all that different with life in Canada, I think the divergence between the two countries stems from ages ago. I was talking to big E (I know you wouldn't want me to say your name here haha...) about this yesterday, and he thought that the major separation comes from 5000 years ago, when a small group of people began to worship one god, instead of everything, thus allowing them to understand, rather than worship, the world around them.

I think it's a combination of three things. That definitely played a part, and I think a second, important step came from that same movement. Writing things down. Getting a history here can be incredibly frustrating because the further back you go, the less memory there is of the time. At one point I asked Allam something and his answer was that so-and-so would know the answer, but unfortunately he's dead. Similarly, if you ask someone under 50 about their traditional foods, they'll tell you Ugali and chipsi (fried potatoes), while maize, potatoes, and certainly oil, were not here until a century ago.

The third thing that I think has led to the differences we perceive is the division of labor. In Plato's Republic, Socrates sets out to define justice through an ideal society, and his first point is that each person must have his or her own role, and must perform only that job. A butcher is not a baker, and a farmer is not a soldier. That was 2500 years ago, but the tradition is very much continued in what we call Western countries.

Here, self-sufficiency is the order. No matter what each person does, say owning a store or being a pastor, they each fulfill their own basic needs. Everyone farms, everyone builds their own home, even their own bricks. Obviously others sell their services and their materials, but people would get by regardless.

I am, however, comparing two extremes; rural Tanzania to Montreal. I didn't want to rant about here vs. there, just to present the subtle tendencies I've noticed. It's funny how here, with the new quest for money, people are moving away from self-sufficiency, and back home, with the scare of environmental catastrophe, people are moving towards it.

If they meet half-way, the world will become Dar es Salaam: a metropolitan city with banana trees and maize growing in every sidestreet and yard. As green roofs, green spaces and green living continue to rise in the West, we're probably not that far off.

The day that could have been

I was seriously looking forward to today. The plan was to visit PIUMA's vibrant members in Utengule. Utengule is about a three to three and a half hour walk from Bulongwa. What makes it so unique is that it is the highest point of land before Lake Nyasa in our region. The views are reported to be amazing, with it straddling the border between the smooth green mountains, and the rugged sandy peaks that drop towards the lake.

Secondly, from its location at the Northern point of the lake, the sun rises above the dramatic Eastern peaks. A sight not to be missed.

So the plan was to walk through the night to arrive in time for this occurrance.

Unfortunately things didn't pan out.

We left at 4 a.m., as planned, and walked through by the moonlight for two and a half hours. That was nothing short of bad ass, I won't lie.

But that's also when things began to go wrong. Firstly, it became apparent that the clouds, a rarity in these parts, would obscure any view of the lake and even the sun. Secondly, I began to feel not so great. A combination of fatigue and fighting off the numerous bacteria my body is not used to, I would guess.

At this point I should mention how pathetic one feels when complaining of a low fever to an HIV-positive audience.

I fulfilled my duties, however, and met great people, and hopefully picked up some good information to write about. I was not feeling too hot though, and I didn't think I could make the over three hour return.

Utengule has no car. Bulongwa is the nearest one. We called the driver and got him to come pick us up. The fare came to about 20 000 Tsh (shillings), or roughly $20.

Bulongwa is also the nearest hospital, and a reputedly terrible one at that. So, this experience opened my eyes to why there seems to be an approving pacifism towards sickness here.

I've heard several stories about people who refuse to go to the hospital because "if God willed it, then that's how it is."

This attitude horrified me, but after today it is understandable (though still horrifying). When I was in Utengule, I wanted nothing more than just to find a bed there and lie down forever. Obviously I wasn't dieing, but the walk to Bulongwa seemed insurmountable.

You'll probably say, "well, at least there's a car you can call for a relatively low price." The problem is, for most, 20 000 Tsh is not easy money. Treatments at the hospital run at a few dollars per day - even that is enough incentive to keep people home.

This is, in fact, PIUMA's most important mandate. Through its collection of HIV patients, it teaches people of their right to quality health care access. It also breaks the lethargy associated with treatment through collective pressure, and sometimes even going to peoples' homes and carrying them to the hospital.

We think of health care as a fundamental right. In practice, it is only the right of the rich enough. And this is true of anywhere in the world, but deeply exaggerated here.

**Note: I did not go to the hospital. I wasn't that sick, and that place scares the crap out of me. After lot's of sleep, I'm feeling much better.

Shout Out to Danny Boy (A Poem)

D oesn't eat tomatoes, but
A nything else he will.
N ot cucumbers either.
I nconsideracy makes him clench his teeth,
E voking maybe a punch.
L ook out for him while he reads this post!

M any times, he's been calmed by Big
A .
L isten
D aniel, she scolds,
O thers would not approve!
F ine, says he as he lowers his fist,
F ine.

Funeral for a Friend

In a post a while back, I talked about the pain-in-the-ass rooster who crows at my window every morning. Well, last night I ate him.

We had a visitor here for a few days, and for his last night, he decided to buy a chicken for us to share in the office. Little did I know it would be the one that hangs out next door.

Upon finding out, I was confronted with a weird set of emotions. Even though I thought he was hideous and annoying, I had grown accustomed to his morning ritual. I had even enjoyed when he'd grab my crumbs while eating breakfast in the sun on my back steps. Knowing the animal you're eating intimately, knowing what it looked like and how it behaved, makes a strong case for vegetarianism.

But that sort of thing is normal here. Animals are strictly tools and nothing else. Besides, my little friend was delicious.

The same sort of thing happened to me a couple weeks ago. At the Saturday market, I had the unfortunate experience of passing by the slaughtering pen as they were preparing the meat. I'll spare the details, but it was awful, and the cow they were killing looked a lot like Bessie, though I quickly dismissed this association.

Bessie was a brown and white. She often used to graze in the field outside Lupasso, achored to a stake. Once when we were out tossing the frizbee, in my first few days here, it was clear that Bessie (a name I've given her obviously) was really afraid of the flying disc. So I did what you would have done with a dog. I walked up to her slowly, holding the frizbee low for her to smell while I scratched her head. Bessie seemed to love that because afterwards, any time I would pass by, she would trot up to me, pulling hard on her rope, and nestle her head into me, or lick my pants. If you've never been licked by a cow, it's a lot more forceful than a dog's tongue, and much coarser.

Back to the market. I buy meat from a cow that looks awfully like Bessie, and for days after, Bessie is not around to graze. Naturally I was pretty upset, but a week later she turned up again to my relief.

The concept of pets, of having animals around for company, is something people simply can't afford to share here. Animals are expensive, and they are also valuable - owning one is nothing but business.

A few nights ago, I was reading in the living room. Izack was there too, browsing through an Austrian magazine that had been left here. At one page, he stopped me and pointed to a full-page adverstisement. I don't read German, but if I had to guess, I'd say it was about a retirement plan. The picture showed a grey-haired man walking seven or ten dogs of different breeds, being pulled by all his leashes with a huge smile on his face. Izack says, "so this man has BIG dog business!"

How do you explain that no, in fact it was just this man's dream leisure activity? How do you explain the notion of pets when dogs here lie in the dirt outside, their ribs prominent through scaling skin and scrappy fur as they breathe heavily, hoping you will throw them some scraps or drop some crumbs? Or when mud-huts teem with guinea pigs, an eventual source of valuable protein?

Don't be horrified, it seems natural when you're here that guinea pigs would make good food. I'm told they taste pretty good, and with the amount they reproduce, they're perfect for the job.

Iméhé-zing

Wow, it's been a week since my last post, and a lot has happened. The main thing being that I've started walking out to the different villages where PIUMA has members, which is why I haven't had much time to write. These trips have been amazing, and have really helped me to understand the area a lot better. I'll write about visiting Imehe yesterday, because that has been my favorite so far.

Bulongwa is one of many ridge-top communities in the Southern Highlands. I believe the people here build their homes high up because the lower valleys, being warmer and closer to rivers and streams, are better agricultural land. My house is on Lupasso street, which runs along the top of a ridge that fingers off from the center of town. Past my house, the finger drops into a valley, and peaks rise in all directions around. For this reason, I had never been past my home, only traveling in the direction of town and beyond, but Imehe is perched on one of those overlooking peaks, so off we went.

The hike to Imehe was incredible: two hours through fields and forest along a single-track trail, occasionally joining up with an old horse trail, built by the Germans in the 1890's. The trail snakes down the fairly steep walls of the valley, hopping over small cliffs and winding through trees, then follows a narrow river before clambering up to Imehe, much like the descent. This would have been a great hike, but unfortunately I can't call it that. My hiking boots, my backpack and waterbottle, all of these were out of place. Upon arriving, I found out that this technical trail is actually the only access to the village. So, really, this was just a daily commute. I should have been wearing flip-flops and a blazer, carrying a briefcase or a basket of fruit on my head if I wanted to fit in.

One of the members I met lives at the furthest South end of the village, offering incredible views of Lake Nyasa in the distance, and the jagged, rocky peaks of the Southern Livingstone range, almost within reach. These mountains are steep and remote. There is no visible agriculture or houses, and from Imehe, they look like piles of dark sand.

The best part about these walks is the people. Everyone is so appreciative of the effort made to greet them that they treat me like an ambassador. They offer me food, they show me their homes, introduce me to their families and always offer gifts. Being peasants for the most part, their gifts are what they are farming - ranging from sweet potatoes, to assorted greens, or, my favorite, a sunfish! This was given to me today in Makwavuta where a bunch of members have gotten together to work on group projects, one of them being a nursery. Even though they forgot to bring a net when showing me the ponds, they wanted so badly to give me a fish that two of them dove in with one of the women's shawls, skimming the water for almost an hour before finally catching one.

But aside from the friendliness of the people, I've gained a much more realistic sense of my surroundings. My tiny Bulongwa is a bustling metropolis compared to some of these villages. From Lupasso, Imehe is barely visible, but from Imehe, Bulongwa looks heavily manicured, with neatly arranged plots and dotted with houses, of sheet metal, not grass, roofs. Futhermore, the electricity I took for granted (and cursed when it went out every few hours) is extremely rare. Not only is this one of the few towns in the district to have power, the PIUMA office is a rarity even in Bulongwa. Road access is almost as sparse, and the guys I work with have told me stories of having to walk to villages to physically carry sick members back to Bulongwa for treatment.

I probably should have noticed this sooner. Since I arrived in Njombe, almost 3 weeks ago, everywhere I go I'm asked to give a speech. People here don't seem to understand that I'm just another stupid student. In my speeches, which have started to become natural and familiar now, though quite uncomfortable at first, I usually give a description of why I'm here and what I'm doing. The tell-tale sign should have been that my line, "I'm here to help set up a website," takes more than five minutes to translate!

What has become overwhelmingly apparent to me is that Tanzania is very fragmented. The gap between the rich and poor is continually widening. The further you get from Dar the worse things get for people, and the less opportunity there is for that to change. Kids either grow up to become peasant farmers like their parents, or they somehow scrape together enough cash to get to a city, where they'll likely sell crap on the street, sending a pittance home for their parents' retirements. But, it has been jarring to see how much people can accomplish, even when disconnected from everywhere but their village, and how surprizingly modern they are. It's easy to joke around and carry out conversation (with translator of course) and we seem to understand each other, even though we should have nothing in common. Not to mention, as far as I've been, cell-phone reception is always 4 bars or more - if only the same were true back home.

Football (Soccer)

Yesterday we had our first of what will hopefully be many PIUMA soccer practices. In an effort to promote a healthy lifestyle, as part of our Home Based HIV Care initiative, PIUMA members will be facing off against members of another NGO in Makete next week. So, we have to train and get fit!

The practice was a pretty cool experience. Things get organized very differently here, and it was really amusing to watch. Particularly because I don't understand the majority of what is said, watching the events unfold had a cinematic quality. Think the cricket match on that terrible field in the movie La Grande Seduction.

It started like any other day in the office. Yes I knew we had the big game next week and yes I had heard plans of practicing, but I guess I didn't understand how that would go down. In the past we had kicked the ball around on the little field outside Lupasso, where one wrong kick sent the ball deep into the surrounding valleys, so when I was told we were going to practice, I thought that was what was meant.

I follow the staff outside, and keep following as we walk right past the nearby open space, and head towards town. We are led by the general secretary, Anna, who is bouncing the ball as we walk along. Slowly, people are drawn to our group, mainly, I think, because we have a real soccer ball, and what you often see being used is bundles of rags taped into a spherical shape. So, our train keeps growing, and we keep walking - 45 minutes, all the way to a "real" soccer field in a valley on the far side of town.

This field is really just a meadow where cows graze by a river. It is beautiful, surrounded on all sides by mountains. It's also not really level, is full of cow dung and random gopher holes (but I don't think there are gophers here), and in some areas, little shrubs that can out-deke even the skilled. The nets are made of wooden posts.

Turns out one of the guys who joined us has a whistle that he begins to blow incessantly. I thought this meant the game was starting. No. We wait and pass the ball around as people converge on the field from all directions over the next 20 minutes, clearly having heard the whistle. We begin to play, and everyone is loving it. Our group spans all ages and all abilites, luckily, since we all know about my lack of foot-eye coordination.

And then, everyone slowly disperses, and we walk back home. The next practice is tomorrow!

Note: The picture is only of who remained after everyone dispersed.

Thank you Willy. You are so amazing and perfect and incredible.

It was Willy who told me about Kapuscinski, and I owe him everything. Willy, you are so unbelievably brilliant, I can't even put it into words. Truly a philosopher of men.

Happy now??

Settling in...

Every time I speak to someone on the phone, I always tell them that I'm finally settling in and getting used to it here. The truth is, the first few days were pretty difficult, and though every time I say that I'm starting to get it I mean it, the fact that it seems even more true the next day, says I'm probably not there yet. However, I think I'm now approaching that turning point.

The first days saw me traveling hundreds of kilometers from Dar to Bulongwa, staying a night or two here and there. In Njombe, I toured around local villages with the NGO, Chakunimu, feeling more like a flag than anything else. Being the only white person (or Mzungu) around, and a foot taller than everyone I've met, makes me stand out like crazy, and no one lets you forget that. People stare, try to swindle you into buying some dollar store item, beg you for money, kids yell "Mzungu! Mzungu!" and more than once I've been asked to help someone get a passport, referred to as "my friend" before launching their request. I have found this very difficult for two reasons. One, I'm just trying to do my thing and, unsure of local mannerisms, not to stand out too much. Two, it really bothers me that I'm looked to with envy, or hope that I can 'save them' from their situation. I've always thought of equality as the most important principle, and to find I'm considered almost superior here is quite disconcerting. It's as if our ideas of tolerance and respecting diversity haven't reached here, and what's left is an acquired sense of self-depracation (for example, Tanzania is not called a developing country here, they call it Third World.). I think, though it's easy to say now, I would find rage or resentment towards me a less frustrating response.

Once in Bulongwa, laying my bag to rest so to speak, I was much more at ease. Having something to work towards was great for me. But soon enough, I found that my job was going too well, a lot of my responsibilities moving forward quickly, leaving me with not much to occupy myself. So, I was getting a little bored, and also a little frustrated that aside from my project, nothing was really getting done in the office. Obviously, I started to take initiative and to try to get people on track and figure out what projects they should be working on. Then, someone told me that many cultures differ from Canada's in that they're not as goal oriented, and progress works on mutual consent, with directorship usually scorned. Shit, now I really didn't know what to do.

Things are going up again now, though. I think I'm now understanding how they work here, and with a few helpful hints from my Canadian connection, I know which projects should take precendence. I also feel like I understand how to get them going. I'm not sure if they work on unanimous consent, but more on lengthy discussion before doing exactly what you wanted to do before! Every party has to feel consulted, but the outcome is almost not debated. I'm also starting to get to know the people I'm working with, and to become friends with them - particularly the clinical officer, Juma, who also lives at Lupasso, and my translator, Izack, who's amazingly friendly and outgoing.

Another thing that has really helped has been trying to learn the language. Not only has it given me something to work on (being the goal-driven westerner I am), but people are so appreciative of the effort, and I'm even beginning to connect with the rest of the staff who speak English as well as I speak Swahili - our broken conversations are absolutely hilarious!
eg. "I you want to rice?"
"Yes, satisfied tea morning thank you, afternoon, see you."
(translation: "Would you like to have lunch with me now?" "No thank you, I'm still full from breakfast. I'll eat later.")

Kapuscinski, a Polish journalist, writes of his first trip to India:
"Language struck me at that moment as something material, something with a physical dimension, a wall rising up in the middle of the road and preventing my going further, closing off the world, making it unattainable. [...] Cast into deep water, i didn't want to drown. I realized that only language could save me."

A little melodramatic, but he's got a point. You can only get so far without being able to communicate, and I think traveling in English in a Swahili country distorts your perception. It could be that what I took for reverence of western culture might actually just be the structure of the English people have been taught.

What a cock!

Of all the creatures that roam around Lupasso (name of both the street and my office building), this rooster might be the ugliest.

As you can see from the picture, he's got these big bulgy eyes, dirty ruffled feathers, and a lanky balding neck. And despite this, he walks around slowly, arrogantly raising his head and bearing that gross neck of his.

Every morning, this gangly little fella flaps up onto my window sill and salutes the rising sun. At 5:30 a.m.. For two hours. Then his brothers from across the valleys echo back, competing for territory, American Idol style.

I never realized that those cartoon images of roosters crowing at dawn were actually not exaggerations.

At the same time, these pests might actually be useful as alarms (and eventually food). My life here is much more governed by daylight hours than I ever imagined, and when I look out my window at 5:30, people, mostly women, are actually getting up, setting fires and beginning to boil water. Dusk comes early near the equator, and with scarce electricity, day actually ends with the sun. Staying up until midnight means enduring 6 hours of darkness, with not much to do but maybe go for a beer, read by candle-light, or (as I've been told, this might be the central reason for its prevalence here) spread HIV. So getting up early is the only way to maximize time.

Transportation

I seem to be writing a lot about the state of Tanzania's infrastructure, but I think I can explain why it's been so important to me.

When Canada first began to form, the two most important tasks were to populate the West and to unite it via a railroad, and eventually the TransCanada highway. What I've always taken from this is to unite a people, they have to be able access each other.
While Tanzania doesn't have the same distances to cover, with its current infrastructure, the geographic obstructions to travelling are definitely greater than Canada's. It's visible with everyone you encounter, particularly in the Southern highlands. Most of the older generations had never left their community, and many now cannot afford (money or time) to get to other villages more than a couple times in their lives. And yet, people overwhelmingly feel Tanzanian.
The only way I can explain this is Julius Nyerere, Tanzania's first president, who ruled with a padded iron fist for nearly 20 years.
Nyerere did some terrible things to the country. As a quasi-communist leader, he took a country with enviable resources - agriculture (using only 10 percent of arable land with inefficient small-scale farming, TZ is still a net food exporter), great hydro-electric potential, rich deposits of diamonds, gold and iron, and vast forests great for building material and energy creation - and turned it into one of the top five poorest countries in the world. But in doing so, he did some things that really promoted national unity.
He created a school program that transferred students to different areas of the country for secondary, breaking up the typical tribal boundaries, and he unified people with Swahili as the sole language. His socialism caused the retreat of foreign presence, without violence, and he stripped people of all their belongings, leaving most equally poor.
All of these are awful things, but among the nine countries on its border, Tanzania is one of the only never to lapse into civil war - something Tanzanians are very proud of, and probably something that's been difficult. Originally having strong tribal zones and deeply divided among religions (Muslims and Christians are about equal in population), peace has been a feat.
However, it's easy to see things are starting to change. Since Nyerere's retirement in '85, the West has slowly crept into the country. Most can remember when coca-cola became a household name, but now bilboards for it are found in the most remote places, alongside cellphone towers that stand on every peak. Radio and TV play American hits, and everyone is now looking for money or to get out of the country (although, I can't say I know what it was like before, I've often been asked for help to enroll in a Canadian school, or to help get a passport). I would think this transformation has broken the generally level footing of Tanzanians under Nyerere and has begun to create a class of haves and have-nots. Or at least this segregation has become increasingly clear to residents of more isolated villages.

I'm not saying business is bad, though. In fact, I think it has huge potential to get people what they need. The PIUMA clinical officer says everyone here is suffering, and while I don't think that's necessarily true, people are doing little other than getting by, and are clearly yearning for more. As long as pressure is put on new business to help develop infrastructure - build roads, hospitals, pay decent wages - then amazing things could happen here. The country-side is by no means a blank slate, but a little money and vision could go a long way here. The majority of people are unemployed and really itching to obtain the sort-of lifestyle they associate with Western. The unfortunate truth is that, with the state of government corruption, disorganization and the general disenchantment with it, when (and if) investment comes to these parts, it will likely not be socially vigilant.

Going to the bank

I had no idea what to expect as I moved from Njombe to Bulongwa. All I knew was that Njombe appeared on maps, while Bulongwa did not. One thing that should have occurred to me was to take out money before leaving.

So, there I was in Bulongwa, realizing now that it was just a conglomeration of subsistence based farming huts, with essentially one small store, two tiny bars/restaurants, and a market on Saturdays where effectively the entire county population arrives to purchase their weekly food supplies. But no bank. With a team of PIUMA members heading to Mbeya last Friday - Mbeya being the closest bank - I took the opportunity to ride with them into town.

Just so you understand, there is one car in Bulongwa. You leave when they leave. So, we were told to be at the car for 4:30 am. In typical Tanzanian fashion, the car only left at 6:30.

Mbeya is about 50 to 60 kms away, along a dreadful dirt road, making the trip last about 6 hours. Part of the problem is the road, the other problem is the car is a relic of the 60's I think: an old Land Rover with a left-side driver side, despite Tanzania's British road system. Packed with well over 20 people, you're lucky if the car can break a trot on flats, and up hills, people walking whiz by you.

Nonetheless, the ride, as with all my others here, was spectacular. The road snakes through the rolling farmlands of the Livingston mountains dropping into one valley after the next before climbing way up onto a plateau. This part was amazing. On one side of the road, golden alpine tundra extends indefinitely, and on the other, steep jagged cliffs and peaks fall into the clouds below, where warm air off Lake Nyasa coats everything in a rich tropical green. It makes you realize how high up you are. The clouds are far below, and further is the lake. Lakeside tempertatures average near the 30's, and on this plateau, directly above, it's barely 15 degrees. With temperature falling about 1 degree with every 250 meters of altitude, even a conservative estimate puts you up well over 10 000 feet. What's Whistler? 7000 feet?

Eventually the road drops back down to Mbeya - a real city - set on a desert flatland and surrounded by dramatic orange peaks. It's a nice place, complete with several banks, tarmac roads (some of them at least), and a cool market area that sells everything imaginable. It felt great to be back in an urban setting, and I finally feel like I'm getting the hang of it. In Dar, I was overwhelmed by the amount of people soliciting me for various things, but now, with my minimal Swahili, I understand how to turn them away if I have to, and how to figure out what they're really after.

Since, the car's return was only in the morning, I spent the night in town. My room had its own bathroom and shower - a luxury! Unfortunately only cold water... still beat bathing out of a bucket though! The nearby market at night is a little intimidating with no lights, but once you get used to the atmosphere, it's really a cool place to walk around. The food is all delicious, but Safari beer tastes like turpentine.

Despite the incredible lengths it takes to get to a bank, the trip was well worth it. Don't get me wrong, I'm still really hoping the money I took out will last my stay.

Finally Home!

Well, after almost a week of traveling, I'm finally here - Bulongwa, my base camp for six more weeks.

It's been an interesting ordeal getting here. Traveling 600 kms or so in this country is a five day affair, particularly if you're doing it the budget public transit route! In Swahili, any sort of trip from one place to another is a "safari," which then becomes translated to "journey." At first, i found it striking when people would ask how my journey was, but now I understand that it's the right word to use. Here's a quick sketch of my journey here:

Montreal - Amsterdam - Kilimanjaro - Dar Es Salaam: 27 hours (MD11, 777)

Dar Es Salaam - Njombe: 11 hours (Soviet era coach bus, complete with vomiting children, broken windows, seats, everything... and stopping every few kilometers because of flipped or broken down trucks blocking the one-lane asphalt highway)

Njombe - Makete: 3 hours waiting for the daladala to fill, 7 hours travel (Daladala: gutted 1980's Toyota version of a VW van, now sits 30 uncomfortably piled up against rusty door pannels that fall off if opened too wide, or sometimes on the incredibly large potholes along the dirt road)

Makete - Bulongwa: 2.5 hours (Toyota Landcruiser, also from the 80's, filled with 17 adults, 3 children, and 4 men hanging off the bumper and roof-rack)

* Picture taken at a PIUMA meeting. The building in the background is my home and office - they love watching foreigners follow local custom and eat with their hands!