As you may have noticed, it’s been a little bit since the last blog entry. About two months, in fact. I know I’ve been shirking my duties as a blogger (and apparently some of you guys do actually read this thing), but I swear I have a good excuse---namely, my epic, four-week long jaunt around the country. I’ve also been frantically trying to throw together a lesson plan for the new A-level term, which has eaten up a lot of my time in the past couple of weeks. In any case, once again break out your jumbo-sized maps of Tanzania and a safety crayon: we’re about to play “Where the Hell Was Paul for the Past Two Months?” (And yes, I know, this post is huge. I recommend reading it in parts, hence the handy chapter layout.)
Chapter 1: IST
As is customary for all Peace Corps Tanzania volunteers, IST (In-Service Training) is held roughly three months into service, its primary function being to reinforce the lessons learned during PST (Pre-Service Training) as well as educate us further about the role of the Peace Corps volunteer in country---i.e., stuff like grants, secondary projects, and other community integration activities. For my class, IST was scheduled for the last two weeks of March in Morogoro, which excited me greatly since Morogoro is incredibly safi: that is, it has ample electricity, running water, and non-East African food (all of which we in Peace Corps consider to be luxury items). Let it be known that I made full use of these lifestyle accoutrements during my stay, which, in turn, devastated my wallet and resulted in rapid weight-gain, but was totally worth it. Some of you may have even heard from me during this time through GMail chat or whatnot… all I can say is that if you can find 3G internet in Tanzania, you use it.
As far as the sessions went, IST was a lot like PST. Every day had a full agenda, and, true to form, we learned about grants, secondary projects, and other important stuff. It was kind of like being back in school (I had to wake up early and take notes and everything!), and I definitely got my fill of PowerPoint presentations and flipcharts while I was there. I’ll be totally honest and say that some sessions were better than others; my personal favorites were those led by other, more senior Peace Corps volunteers (making an electric motor out of some scrap copper wire and an old speaker magnet? Hell yes!), while others were… less engaging (a three-hour debate on the nuances between the terms “goal,” “objective,” and “task”? Uh… cool, I guess.). Whatever, I’m sure everyone felt differently about each of the classes… that’s why I have that disclaimer on the side of this page.
The one curveball element of IST was that we were required to invite a counterpart of our choice to attend the training with us. Ideally, we were supposed to invite counterparts who taught similar subjects to ours and had proven themselves capable community leaders. True to form, I picked my counterpart Mwasi, one of the younger and more motivated teachers in Songea Boys’. I also chose him because he was a good friend and a capable teacher, and I felt that that was pretty important if I was going to be working with him every day I was in Morogoro. In all, it was pretty cool to have a genuine half-American, half-Tanzanian conference, and, as trite as it may sound, there was definitely an active cultural exchange between the Tanzanian counterparts, the Peace Corps staff, and us, the Peace Corps volunteers. Still, though, no enlightened cultural exchange is complete without a few faux pas, and there might have been some clashes of opinion here and there. In other words, there may or may not have been some mildly sexist remarks offhandedly and unintentionally uttered by a certain PCV’s counterpart (ahem) that may or may not have irked a few, unnamed female members of our group. I mean, let’s face it: in this country, it’s considered totally culturally appropriate to state a wife shouldn’t have a say in a relationship, otherwise---heaven forbid---the husband might have to cook or clean, and that work is only suited to women. It’s just an opinion, and, like all opinions, it’s open to refutation. And as we have often joked in Peace Corps Tanzania, there is no word for “subtle” in Kiswahili, and, well… it shows, as far as casual misogyny is concerned.
Socially, IST was great. Everyone got back together again, and, war-stories from site notwithstanding, it was as if we had never left PST in the first place. Between watching movies, going to dinner, or just sitting around and chewing the fat, it was an excellent reprieve from the relative solitude of site, and I don’t think I’ve been so social during my entire time in Peace Corps. The preferred party destination was invariably Dragonaire’s, given its proximity to CCT as well as its extensive pizza selection (and exquisite garlic sauce!). I definitely went there more than I care to admit during IST, which, coupled with my being exceptionally lazy, was probably a significant factor in my weight gain over the break. Runner-up to Dragonaire’s was the heretofore-dubbed George’s Bar, which is a safi Tanzanian bar that enjoys playing American music (there’s no sign demarcating the name of the place, and since George is the only PCV in Morogoro, it’s now his bar.). Good kitimoto (fried pork) and beer at non-mzungu prices, plus a pool table and a creative men’s room (it was a urinal nailed to a tree… awesome)---in all, it was a great place to hang out.
By far our most inspired moment at IST was the celebration of the First Annual IST Prom (a.k.a. Morogoro Nights). We went the whole hog: some folks made a banner, we dressed up in our best clothes and Tanzanian-style ties (i.e. short, fat, and heinously colored), picked dates, took awkward prom photos, ate a crapton of pizza, and elected a prom king and queen. All this followed by an epic karaoke session and dance party, and you have an excellent evening.
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| It should be a crime to look this good. |
So yeah, that was IST. Good friends, good fun, and a lot of pizza. Oh yeah, and we learned stuff, too. I’m not entirely certain, but I believe the next time we’re all going to see each other is at MSC (Mid-Service Conference), which, unfortunately, doesn’t take place until next January. Still, though, I can hardly wait.
Chapter 2: The Post-IST Capers
So IST finishes and you have two weeks of break before school starts again. What do you do? Why, have a post-IST odyssey, of course!
The post-IST odyssey, in fact, was a plan long in the making, and many factors contributed to its fruition. For one, most of my time during break (but pre-IST) was spent putzing around the school while grading final examinations, which, in short, was heinously boring. Granted, there were some scattered events during the weekends---other PCV visitors, various culinary misadventures, sporadic forays up to Njombe for school business, etc.---but nothing terribly fulfilling. In other words, I was bored as hell, and I felt compelled to do something, well, less sedentary. I mean, Songea is an awesome little town, but if you live there long enough, things can sometimes get a little repetitive.
A second factor contributing to my decision was that I was on break, and I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to make the most of it. A fellow volunteer in the area had already embarked on an epic voyage up to Moshi to run the Kilimanjaro marathon, and, when asked if I was coming, I had discretely opted to sit on my butt in Songea and twiddle my thumbs rather than engage in something fulfilling and worthwhile. I’ll be honest, I genuinely didn’t believe that I was in good enough shape to run the marathon, and I wasn’t terribly motivated to travel across the country just to sit and watch everyone else have a good time. Moreover, due to my being an A-level teacher, my break was out of sync with everyone else’s, meaning that if I were to travel anywhere, I’d travel alone---a factor that contributed heavily to my pre-IST procrastination. As a result, I felt compelled to do something with the last week (or, given the way the Tanzanian education system works, two weeks) of my vacation. I can only imagine the shame I would have felt if I had simply gone home and resumed putzing around for the last week until school started.
The last factor was The Road. Not just any road---the Tunduru Road. For those of you who didn’t break out your jumbo-sized maps of Tanzania, the Tunduru road is the main thoroughfare in southern Tanzania, connecting Songea in Ruvuma region with the so-called “Deep South” of Tanzania (i.e. Linda and Mtwara regions) via the small, gem-mining town of Tunduru. It is also perhaps one of the worst roads in Tanzania: if the roving bands of brigands don’t get you, the lions will. I’ve seriously heard of entire buses being stopped by a tree trunk across the road and all the passengers getting robbed by outlaws. I’ve also heard that Tunduru is the #1 site of death-by-lion in Tanzania (incidentally, Tanzania has one of the highest death-by-lion rates in the world). Moreover, I had heard (and now I know) that the road straight-up sucks: it’s completely unmaintained by the Tanzanian government, and it passes through a wilderness preserve so no one feels the need to start maintaining it anytime soon. So yeah, in conclusion, it’s a terrible road that goes through a dangerous part of the country to reach a place that has no redeeming value. You’d have to be incredibly brave (or, more likely, incredibly stupid) to even attempt taking it, especially during the rainy season.
And yet, I live on that road. I can see where the pavement ends from my house. Prior to making this voyage, I had often climbed Unangwa just to watch the road twist off into the unknown, flaunting that certain “HERE THERE BE DRAGONS” air of mystery which mercilessly teased the furthest reaches of my imagination. I just had to take that road, goddammit. I couldn’t not take it! For the past four months, that road had been staring me in the face, taunting me with its utter inscrutability, daring me to travel its winding, muddy length. I wouldn’t be doing it just for the street-cred or the checklist nature of the trip (although I’m pretty OCD/masochistic when it comes to that sort of thing), but also for the sheer thrill of the journey and to satisfy my aching curiosity. As a result, I could see no better opportunity to explore the Deep South and take that damn road than the two weeks following IST. I mean, hell, I was already halfway there in Morogoro, I would just be going home, albeit circuitously. In many ways, I was motivated by that same, strange compulsion that compelled me to go to Mongolia after my study abroad ended in China… and that trip paid off in a big way, so this one should, too, right?
In any case, the first leg of the trip took place in the Morogoro-Dar area. Since I didn’t really know where the hell I was going, I glommed onto a few of the Lindi/Mtwara volunteers as they navigated their way back to site. To this end, we stayed an extra day in Morogoro with select members of the Mbeya crowd, enjoying the finer things in life (3G internet, delicious Indian and white people food, and hot showers) before moving on to Dar. In truth, the only real notable event of this extended stay in Morogoro was a private screening of a Danish movie that certain volunteer (who shall remain nameless) had been obsessing over since staging in Philadelphia---The Human Centipede. I won’t bore you with the plot details (use your imagination… or better yet, don’t), but I will say that the title is not a metaphor. With that in mind, I didn’t actually come away from the movie nearly as scarred as I thought I would be, which may say more about me than anything. Regardless, the movie was entertaining enough, if not terribly special.
Following our extension in Morogoro, the Deep South crowd and I moved on to Dar es Salaam, where we stayed at a local hotel. Dar, crime-ridden and dangerous as it is, somehow becomes less scary every time I visit it, and at this point I almost felt at home amidst the plethora of thieves and shysters roving the streets. Perhaps I was simply too distracted by the safi-ness of the city, eating pizzas and drinking milkshakes like there was no tomorrow. The only real disappointment with this particular visit was that I didn’t get to go to the wazungu mall, which is rumored to be like a little bubble of America within Tanzania in which you can buy literally anything and everything. In any case, though, save for one feeble pickpocketing attempt, this visit to Dar was fairly by-the-books, and we all boarded buses to Lindi/Mtwara the next morning.
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| Newsflash: Life is good in Dar es Salaam. |
Actually, the boarding of the buses was a mini-adventure in and of itself. While we all knew that we had to wake up bright and early to catch the bus at standi (i.e. the bus stand), we miscalculated the departure time, meaning that we saw our bus pull out and head for the highway literally the second our taxi entered the station. After screaming at our driver to “follow that &%$* bus!”, we were treated to a high-speed car chase through downtown Dar es Salaam at 6 in the morning. If there’s one thing I gleaned from this particular experience, it’s this: the taxi drivers of Dar es Salaam do not fear death. We were all over the sidewalks, crossing the median, driving on the wrong side of the road, running red lights, weaving like crazy… for most of this time, I simply relegated myself to ducking my head between my legs and praying that my death would be a quick one. Luckily, though, we didn’t hit anything, and the bus had stopped at another standi on the outskirts of town, so we were able to catch it there. A close call, for sure, but before we knew it, we were on our merry way to the Deep South.
Chapter 3: Lindi and Mtwara
The ride down to Lindi was mostly okay, save for a brutal two-hour section on an unfinished part of the road between Dar and Kilwa. I was unfortunate enough to be sitting in the very back of the bus, which meant I got the worst of the bumps… there’s nothing like getting catapulted a foot in the air every thirty seconds for two hours straight, killing brain cells every time the back of my head smacked into the backboard. This inconvenience was compounded by the fact that I was wedged between two smelly, narcoleptic Tanzanians the whole trip, both of whom had a penchant for sleeping on my shoulders. It blows my mind that they could sleep at all during that part of the trip, and having their heads crack against mine at every bump in the road (and that they managed to stay asleep despite these collisions) really got annoying after a little bit. Lacking any better option, I eventually resorted to repeatedly smacking them upside the head to get them to stop drooling all over my t-shirt---a technique which, while rude, was effective.
My first gracious host during my long journey was my classmate Will (the guy with the epic beard in the above picture), whose site is located at an O-level school atop a plateau near the Lindi-Masasi road. For no electricity and running water, his living situation was damned nice: he lives in an old bishop’s residence, replete with Western-style toilet and a substantial jikoni (kitchen) next door. Granted, his house is also infested with giant cockroaches, rats, and bats, but they tended to stay out of sight while we went about our daily business. Still, though, the house was incredibly homey… I kind of wish my site were more like that.
Most of my time in Lindi was spent hanging out (playing billiards, checkers, or shooting the shit) in the local villages, cooking delicious food, or gawking at the beautiful escarpment located about 50m from the house. I also spent a fair bit of time observing classes at the school, which, albeit not terribly applicable to my A-level teaching method, was informative regardless. Moreover, during the course of my stay, I definitely began noticing a number of distinct differences between Lindi region and Ruvuma; namely, the soil is almost pure sand, the food is laughably expensive, everyone is Muslim, the houseflies are indefatigable, and palm trees are everywhere. All part of observing the diversity of the nation, I suppose.
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| Not all Peace Corps housing comes with a view like this. In unrelated news, I was completely soaked about thirty seconds after taking this picture. |
When it came time for me to leave, I caught a lift from the school car to Lindi town, where I hung out briefly before getting on a daladala to Mtwara. As it turns out, Lindi proper is pretty nice as well, albeit much hotter and muggier than the plateau. Perhaps the most striking aspect of the town is the clear Arabian influence in the architecture… it felt a little bit like I was walking through a scene in Disney’s Aladdin, except, you know, in real life. Other than that, though, there’s not much to the place, save a cool little beach and some pretty rockin’ samosas (gotta love that Indian influence).
The same cannot be said for Mtwara. Mtwara, Tanzania’s southernmost port, is far larger than Lindi, originally built to accommodate an ultimately-abortive German groundnut scheme hatched during colonial times. This unique history definitely shows as far as infrastructure is concerned: Mtwara is a big city with most modern amenities, but it’s incredibly spread out and empty. It’s as if someone came and paved all the roads in an organized grid structure, and no one moved in. As a result, the development around standi kuu (the bus stand) is separated from the development around the banks by a 30-minute walk through empty lots, and it takes another 30-minute walk through empty lots reach the madukani (shops) by the beach. It doesn’t really make any sense, but it makes for an interesting (if exhausting) meandering.
For whatever reason, I wasn’t able to get into contact with any PCVs in the city, so the two days I stayed in Mtwara were primarily left to myself. As a result, pretty much everything I did in Mtwara was the product of my own initiative/wandering. I guess that’s a good thing because I had a ton of fun in town, but I also feel that I missed out on a lot of stuff since I didn’t have any inside information regarding all the secret safi amenities Mtwara has to offer. Oh well… if I go there again, I’ll be sure to plan well in advance first.
My first day in Mtwara (i.e. the day of my arrival) was largely spent getting acquainted with the city. In other words, after I checked into a local guesti (hotel), I simply started wandering around aimlessly in the rain. After a thorough soaking and a little banter with the locals, I managed to ascertain that there was a local wazungu resort, Msemo, in which one could purchase such delicacies as prawn pizza and calamari. This was more than enough motivation for me, and “visiting Msemo” quickly moved to top priority on my Mtwara agenda. To this end, I armed myself with a half-downloaded Google Map (damn you crappy internet), pointed myself in the general direction of the ocean, and started walking. I must admit, as I made my way out through the main peninsula, I was pretty blown away by the neighborhood… big houses, satellite dishes, gated communities---if I didn’t know better, I’d have thought I was in some beachside community in America (albeit with dirt roads).
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| A typical street in Mtwara. Notice that there are lampposts in this picture. LAMPPOSTS. |
It was at this point that I met up with a Tanzanian doctor, John Rodgers. He and his friend were stopping by for drinks, and we got in an interesting conversation regarding the Loliondo scam that’s currently taking over Tanzania (in case you don’t know, some minister in a village called Loliondo near Arusha is selling some sort of miracle chai, insisting that it cures HIV/AIDS, cancer, diabetes, and a plethora of other diseases… and the whole country is falling for it). According to John, there is actually some demonstrable proof that drinking the medicine has beneficial effects, most specifically with diabetes. He insisted, however, that the curative properties of said beverage were grossly over-exaggerated, and he was largely against it, especially since the Tanzanian government is spending over a billion shillings paving the road to the village (in a blatant, blatant popularity move). As for me, I remain HIGHLY suspicious of this so-called “miracle drug”… in many ways, people will believe anything. (For more information on Liliondo, I direct you to my classmate Danielle’s excellent blog post here.)
In any case, following this conversation, John Rodgers invited me to hang out with a bunch of his friends at the Tanzanian bar next door. I was a little on-guard, since I didn’t know the guy, but he seemed to know his stuff regarding medicine, and, moreover, there were police officers everywhere (of course, they were drinking on duty, but whatever), so I went with my gut and trusted him. As a result, before I knew it, I was hanging with about 10 or so drunk Tanzanian guys in a local bar, discussing (in boisterous “Kiswinglish”) the social, cultural, and theological issues plaguing the human condition today. It was pretty hilarious, and I definitely had a lot of fun arguing with these guys. A sampling (translated and paraphrased) of the “Mtwara Pub Follies,” taken from my journal:
On Tanzanian hand gestures:
Me [thumbs-up signal]: “So does this mean the same thing in Kiswahili as it does in English?”
Guy #1: “Yes, it means ‘good,’ ‘cool,’ whatever. It also means CCM. [Chama cha Mapinduzi, the Revolutionary State Party]”
Me: “Wait, really? Then how do I say ‘good job’ without pissing off the CUF [Civic United Front] people?”
Guy #2: “Easy. Do this.” [thumbs-down signal]
Me: “Wouldn’t that mean ‘bad’?”
Guy #1: “No no no. THIS means ‘bad.’” [same thumbs-down signal, but while frowning]
On gender roles:
Guy #3: “Are you married?”
Me: “No.”
Guy #4: “Why not?”
Me: “I don’t know… I guess I’m just not ready.”
Guy #3: “When you get a wife, make sure she can cook and clean. And make sure she knows how to use a hoe. Then you will live well for the rest of your life.”
Me: “I have to like her, too, don’t I?”
Guy #3: “I guess. But make sure you don’t like her too much. Then she will have power. Next thing you know, you’ll be cooking and cleaning and taking care of the babies!” [laughs]
Me: “Um, I already cook and clean. In my house.”
Everyone: [boisterous laughter]
Me: “Uh, no, I’m serious.”
Guy #3: “Oh. Sorry, bwana.”
Guy #4: “Seriously? You don’t have a mother or a sister or a housegirl or something?”
Me: “No, I live by myself.”
Guy #4: “That’s… not right.”
On human physiology:
Guy #5: “Did you know that the reason why women are stupider than men is that large amounts of estrogen actually erode the synaptic connections in the brain?”
Me: “You can’t be serious.”
Guy #5: “It’s true! That’s why you can’t drink breast milk for too long when you’re a baby, otherwise you’ll drink too much estrogen and you’ll grow up retarded.”
Me: “Didn’t you JUST tell me you were a doctor?”
(Side note: he wasn’t actually a doctor, rather a university student with aspirations of becoming a doctor. Keep reaching for that rainbow, buddy.)
On hand gestures again, this time with a bit of theology thrown in:
Me: “So what does this mean?” [“peace” sign]
Guy #1: “‘V’ for ‘victory.’”
Me: “And this?” [reverse “peace” sign]
Guy #1: “DON’T DO THAT. It’s a sign that you have accepted Satan as your master.”
Me: “Uh, okay, how about this?” [“A-OK” sign]
Guy #1: “NO! That is the evil eye. It is also a sign that you worship Satan and have rejected Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior bless his name.”
Me: “I almost hate to ask, but now I have to know: what does this mean?” [“Heavy Metal”/“Hook ’Em Horns” symbol]
Guy #1: [slaps my hand down] “SHIT! What kind of Christian are you?!”
Me: “Well, I’m not a Christian. Not the kind of Christian you guys are, anyways.”
Guy #1: “What?! You mean you haven’t accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior bless his name? You must realize that accepting Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior bless his name is the only way to get into heaven.”
Me: “And you must realize that you’re in Mtwara and that you’re probably the only non-Muslim in the room. And yeah, if you’re the only one getting into heaven, where are all your friends going when they die?”
Guy #1: “They are going to Hell, where they shall suffer a million agonies in fiery damnation! They will curse their god and yearn for the loving embrace of Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior bless his name, but he will scorn them and let them burn for all eternity!!! [suddenly calm] But for now, they’re still fun to drink with.”
With a couple Muslim guys:
Me: “So I’ve always wondered… why can’t you guys eat pork? Pretty much everyone else eats it.”
Them: “Our faith forbids it, and so we may not eat it.”
Me: “But have you tried it? There’s kitimoto everywhere here. It’s delicious!”
Them: “No! The pig is a dirty animal and so we cannot eat it. We are good Muslims; we obey the teachings of the Qur’an!”
Me: “Aren’t you two drinking beer? I’m pretty sure the Qur’an forbids that, too.”
Them: [pause] “This isn’t beer. This is rotten grain with water in it. There’s nothing in the Qur’an that forbids eating rotten grain.”
Me: “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
With the same Christian guy:
Him: “I have heard that there are a lot of Jews in your country.”
Me: “Um, yeah, I guess.”
Him: “Have you ever seen a Jew?”
Me: “I went to school with many Jewish people. Some of them are my friends.”
Him: “Oh, you should not make friends with Jews. They are a bad people. Don’t you know that the Jews control the entire American economy?”
Me: “Um, I don’t think that’s…”
Him: “You know what I think? I think that it was good that Osama bin Laden destroyed the World Trade Center, because then he killed all the Jews in New York.”
Me: “I… WOW.”
Him: “I am sure there are Jews here in Mtwara, too. We need to find them and get them!”
Me: “I think I’ll be leaving now.”
In any case, I eventually found myself back in my hotel room around midnight, courtesy of John Rodgers (and some helpful traffic cops) pointing me the way home. It was interesting… the whole time there, John Rodgers was talking about investment opportunities in Tanzania; that is, he wanted me to join him in some hare-brained, moneymaking scheme involving the natural gas off the shore of Mtwara. While there is, in fact, natural gas out there, I found it pretty funny that he, a 40 year-old doctor, found me, a scruffy, 23 year-old Peace Corps Volunteer with no money, as a potential source of investment capital in Tanzania. Just goes to show that some of the stereotypes---namely, that all Americans either have money or know someone who does---run deep in the culture, even amongst supposedly “Westernized” individuals.
The following day involved a thorough exploration of the Fish Market/Island area of Mtwara. I had remembered passing the fish market on my way to Msemo, so I just headed out the same way and took a right this time. The fish market itself was pretty interesting… it’s in the middle of a rich neighborhood, and it’s only a block away from a university, but it’s very old-school---ramshackle, dirty, and smelly. It’s also quite hectic: people are drying, buying, selling, eating, and distributing all kinds of seafood, and most of the sambuk sailors are an unsavory bunch. Given that the seafood in Songea sucks (all that exists is super dried/salted Lake Nyasa fish), I took this opportunity to eat as much fish/shellfish as possible, which, unsurprisingly, resulted in some severe dietary distress over the next few days. Still though, I found it curious that, despite being amongst a ridiculous number of delicious fish, everyone there was still adhering to the Tanzanian staple diet: ugali/rice, beans, and spinach. Just further proof that Tanzanians, as a people, are pretty set in their ways.
After wandering along the beach for a bit (and climbing an old, abandoned seawall), I eventually hopped across the daladala-esque ferry to go visit the island across the harbor. I forget the name of the place, but it was pretty big, consisting of at least three or four villages plus two secondary schools. The ride was cheap (200/=), although the boat was a bit rickety and infested with sand-earwigs (or whatever) as well as crabs (and I have the crab-pinch scars to prove it). Upon my arrival at the opposite shore, I got a ride to the opposite end of the island, where I chilled on the beautiful beach, tried my hand at fishing (I failed miserably), and played with the local kids. After a bit more meandering around the island, I eventually headed back into town, where I ate a nice dinner of chipsi nyama (french-fries and grilled beef) and then retired to my room for the night. Overall, a nice, relaxing day.
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| If you ever want to get stampeded by Tanzanian children, just whip out your camera when they're around and tell them you're sending a picture back to America. |
Chapter 4: Newala, Masasi, and Beyond
Having wrapped up my brief visit to Mtwara, I decided to begin heading inland again by catching a bus out to Newala from the main standi kuu in Mtwara---a task I originally thought to be simple. As it turns out, though, getting a bus on the Newala-Mtwara road is no laughing matter: tons of people travel between the two cities and there are very few buses running at any given time (especially because it’s the rainy season and the road sucks). As a result, when a bus rolls into Mtwara standi, you’d better be prepared to elbow the throat of every Tanzanian man, woman, and child to ensure that you get the hell on the bus and grab a seat. The particular day I was there, it took five hours (8am to 1pm) for the bus to arrive, and spending five hours in a crowded bus stand with about 50 other Tanzanians---all of you poised to strike the second the bus finally does decide to arrive---can definitely wear down on your nerves. True to form, when the bus came, all hell broke loose: a kid got trampled pretty bad, a mama got pushed in the mud, and I had a guy literally vault over me to get on the bus---as in, he used my shoulders as a base and front-flipped over my head, crowd-surfing his way through the door. Fortunately for me, I’m bigger than most Tanzanians, and I definitely used that to my advantage during the fracas by physically relocating a couple locals in my way while I climbed up the steps. Welcome to public transport in Tanzania.
Newala is pretty charming as towns go. A former German outpost, the city is located atop a giant plateau overlooking the Ruvuma valley (hilariously named by the locals as the Shimo la Mungu, or “The Hole of God,” although I’m sure there are no dirty implications in Kiswahili). As a result, the weather is considerably cooler in Newala than Mtwara, and the town’s small size affords a much more relaxed atmosphere overall (much more relaxed than the Mtwara standi, for example). The local PCV contingent may feel differently, but the people seemed pretty nice to me for the short time I was there, and it was cool that the town is small enough that pretty much all the volunteers stationed there know most of the major players by name (either their proper names or affected, Americanized nicknames). I definitely can’t say the same about Songea.
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| Shimo la Mungu, the Hole of God. Not very hole-like, in my opinion. Stretching across the middle of the picture, you can see the Ruvuma River (the same river that's near Songea). The land past it is northern Mozambique. |
Perhaps one of the most interesting things about Newala (that you definitely won’t find in any travel book) is what my classmate Katie has been telling me ever since we all moved out to site---namely, that “there’s something in the water down there.” Newala, for whatever reason, has a disproportionately high number of mentally ill people, who, given that there’s no insane asylum in the area, freely roam the streets, mostly around the market area. No one really knows why this is, although the locals (in typical Tanzanian fashion) tend to attribute the phenomenon to a particularly high concentration of demons and wizards in the area. Still, for the most part, these people are more amusing than dangerous; aside from the initial reaction to our being wazungu, they tend to go about their daily business, doing… whatever it is they do. What’s pretty funny is that the Peace Corps volunteers down in Newala actually have a catalogue of these individuals, assigning each a moniker based on his or her condition. So far, I’ve learned that there’s “Wewe,” a man who enjoys escorting shoppers in the market area while pointing at them knowingly and saying “wewe”---“you”; “Crazy Bird Guy,” a man who likes to follow people around the market making bizarre bird sounds with his mouth and hands; “Crazy Hat Guy,” a guy who wears zany, homemade hats; “That Weirdo Who Lived on Katie’s Front Doorstep for a While and Thought She Was His Wife and Kept Yelling at Her to Make Him Chai”; and “Crazy Pirate Guy,” a man inexplicably says “arrrrr!” to punctuate his sentences. I felt pretty lucky during my visit, as I got to witness a rare display from Crazy Bird Guy, who had gone missing over the past couple of months. I was actually really impressed… that guy could be a really good street performer if he weren’t, well, crazy. In all though, I imagine living in Newala can be a lot of fun, and I’d definitely like to stop by there again one of these days.
The next stop on my trip was Masasi, usually described by the Deep South crowd as “a glorified truck stop.” Not to put down the people there, but, well, the town really is kind of dumpy… there’s a big bus stand and a big lorry stand, a small market, a few stores, a couple of banks, and that’s about it. My reason for stopping in this town was that it served as the launching point for my long trip home: from Masasi, you can head west to Tunduru, at which point you can board a different bus to get back to Songea. As a result, since I got into town late and I had to wake up early the next morning to catch my bus, my night in town was pretty unexciting… the only thing I can recall as being truly noteworthy is that I found a gnawed human fingernail at the bottom of my chipsi mayai (Tanzanian french-fry omlette). Gross.
The next day, I woke up at 7am and boarded a bus headed towards Tunduru. It was at this point---tired and beleaguered, anxious to get home---that my journey truly began. But that’s a story for a different post. Stay tuned for Part 2 of The Grand Tour, coming out whenever I finish writing it!
It's funny cause it looks like the palm tree is coming out of that kid's pot.
ReplyDeleteYour stache makes you look quite the roguish gentleman.
ReplyDeleteI love that you used the word "shyster" in a blog entry.
ReplyDeleteHello, I was rolling around my mould soaked mattress in fits of laughter while reading some of your blog. Looking forward to reading the rest! Thanks for brightening the evening of a geologist marooned in the middle of nowhere somewhere north of Namtumbo.
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