To wonder...

...is to think or speculate curiously. And that is exactly what one does when abroad or when put in situations alien to one’s known mindset. Though I had some experience in encountering with different cultures, people and societies there is always that tiny difference that puts things in motion in my mind.

For instance: in one of my previous posts I talked about being squeezed into the local transport (daladala). Remember? Well, there was this one day. Like any other day I was squeezed and still needed to move a little to make room for other commuters. One guy signs me to come and stand in front of him. Not facing him of course. Oh no! But then – and here we have the true wonder of the brain cells – I started thinking. Bear with me. If this is a healthy man… Are you still with me? Hmmm. I move a little and forget about it. Untill the moment my friend pulls out a story of one of her colleagues. That co-worker of hers embarrassed a guy on the daladala. Because the thing creating inconvenience at skirt height was not the guy’s cell phone. Haha! My friend continues and asks me if I had not been asked to take the baby of a woman trying to get on. She urged me not to because those toddlers can start peeing on me which would totally mess up my (office) wear. My friend continues and asks me if I had never felt a but in my face while being the one on the seat. Before I could answer she added: “look the other direction, people fart”. Yesterday I was reminded of her advice…

Did you know:

- Cars are not bought at a local car dealer, but they order their car directly from the Japanese companies and arrange for an agent to take care of all the port and registration documents. (Why? Car dealers’ choice is not myriad and car parts are taken out.)

- They actually respect traffic lights.

- You see a lot of women behind the wheel.

- Traffic on the main road going into town sometimes moves in one direction, sometimes in two…

- They burn litter every night.

- Their finger tops are used to hot food.

- In most restaurants you will not find pork. (To avoid discrimination towards the Muslim population of Dar es Salaam.)

- When somebody is selling water he makes a kiss sound to get your attention.

- When you go to a pedicure, you best bring your own materials. (They are afraid of infections.)

- Slippers are worn both by men and women (without white socks. Hehe).

- Most siblings differ in age lot.

- Indians run a lot of businesses, but also Koreans and Chinese find their way to this country.

- Some women can grow a beard. (kweli!)

- The first president died a poor man.

- The Indian Ocean’s – blue – water is always lukewarm.

First weeks language training

Okay, so how much progress did I make with the Swahili lessons, the main reason I reside in Tanzania? Well, I must admit it was quite a lot to take in. About 4 hours a day, 5 times a week during 3 weeks, but we learnt a zillion things. The first two weeks Danlee and I were accompagnied by Benjamin, the final week Paul was our teacher. The subtle differences in teaching were an absolute asset to our weeks. Meanwhile I have started the intermediate level. 4 hours, 5 days, 2 weeks. Actually I don’t know what I was thinking when I decided this. Haha. But I am in for it.

Three weeks give me an understanding of the basic grammar constructions and I can make easy sentences. When they talk back, I am usually in trouble. Hehe, but if you scan the context with the few words you know and watch the body language you can guess what they are trying to say. This in itself is a very good learning process. It gives you an insight in different forms of communication and how valuable they are. Though I am looking forward to the day I can have a proper conversation. Language is the key to the heart.

Every Friday we had outdoors lessons. We visited Kariakoo, the biggest veggie and fruit market, the Fish Market and the Art craft Market. All of them are quite impressive. Of these three I liked the fish market the most: lots of styles, colours, sizes of fish. People running around bare foot, hands filled with the rests of fish after having cleaned them and that sea smell everywhere. Some stands were in the building, others were improvised. Some sell fish with a more or less fixed price, others sell it by auction. And a view on the boats drifting in the Indian Ocean. Awesome experience.

A normal day in Tineke's Tanzanian life

* translation in English of previous published article!*

At 6.15 am my alarm goes off. About fifteen minutes later I stumble out of bed. The breakfast can be bread with jam - Peta did observe well during her stay in Gent - but it can be boiled pieces of yam (potato with a purple colour when cooked) or pumpkin with a pinch of salt. At 7 am I leave the house. With or without having breakfast. Passing the Kwetu Pub and Pharmacist centre I reach the main road. The shower – or better: splashing cold water over me with tiny baskets, because the water pressure is absent – I took is no longer visible if you look at my feet. The sandy way is coloured black due to the ashes coming from the wooden stoves. Whether they have swept the way or not. At the main road I await my first daladala. I carry my course book, a notebook and 300 Tsh (equivalent of about 0,15 eurocent) for this journey. At the junction of Moroco I alight. I cross the road and await my second daladala, the one to Masaki. Or rather: the one to Msasani peninsula, the place to be for my course. Once again I pay 300 Tsh. Around ten to eight, so in no time, I arrive at Slipway. Tanzanians complain about traffic jams which made me gniffle a little. Two year ago, in Nbo, the jam started a few meters passed my door all the way to town. Surely, everything is perception and to be honest, the cars do queue sometimes.

My second daladala drops me at Fitness Center, a bus stop about 5 minute walking from my class. Once again I wander through black coloured sand, watching the women cook mandazi, chapati and kasava.

Slipway branch is located at Msasani peninsula, so near the water. The compound houses a children's playground, a hotel, a terrace restaurant, shops, a small soukh, a bank and exchange office, a supermarket, a bookstore and so on. The prices are significantly higher than somewhere else in Dar. Not surprising since this is clearly a meet and greet for expats. During our class break I quickly run to the supermarket to go and buy salted dry fried banana crisps and juices from the brand Azam. A famous brand. The owner is filthy rich. If I say he also owns the ferry mooring spot for instance, I am sure you can picture his wealth.

Pure wealth is a rare good, but if you were to explore the city centre on a business trip and stick to that centre - which stretches from one end of the coastal corridor avenue to the other end - you have an absolute wow! impression. Gigantic fancy, new buildings (for pictures scroll down to two blog entries ago)in the street view. Clearly they invest into buildings. Apart from that, you spot old Swahili-houses, with similar architecture to the pasha-houses of the Ottoman Empire you see along the riverside of the Bosporus, beautiful old mosques and lots of coloured facades. Facades with those South-Americanlike pastel colours.

At noon my classes finish and I take the same route back home, in the opposite direction of course. One hour later I arrive back home, in Mwenge. I change into a top and a shirt, and wrap a blue kanga (piece of cloth with bantu/ Swahili-design) around me. Peta and Alex are at work, but Razaro, Alex’s younger brother, is present. Though he is thirthysomething he is currently finishing his secondary education via an adult education system. As one of the youngest he never got the chance to finish his school. Nowadays his brother invests in his education. Razaro's wife and his three sons are still upcountry.

Razaro and I have kinda come to a silent agreement for one of us to do dishes every other day. Kinda funny. Once the kitchen is restored to its former glory, he puts on the kettle to boil water, which is cooled down afterwards and used as drinking water, and prepares lunch. Late lunch though because by the time he serves it the clock is ticking 3 pm. No big deal. Especially because the dinner is not served untill 9.30 pm. Peta cooks in the evening, but after finishing her plate she gets comfortable in the sofa. The men clear the table. A lovely scene to watch. Hehe. And yes, I am kinda spoiled. No reason not to like that. Haha. But in return I need to agree with the daily portion of ugali (looks like smashed poatoes; ingredients: water and maize flower; boiled). But I can imagine that a daily portion of potatoes or bread is as boring for them as ugali is to me. Now and then we eat rice and last Friday Peta cooked spaghetti for the guest, yours truly. Quite nice. The food in general is actually quite tasty. I just miss olives and real European soup sometimes. Weird, because the temperatures don't go below 25 during the day.

Meanwhile I do homework, look at some vocabulary, read a little, write about a zillion things. At night we mostly watch tv. Not that I understand even 5%, but a tv programme guide can also give an insight in a lot of societal and cultural customs.

There is Isidingo, a South-African soap serie, Soy tu dueño, a dubbed South-American soap serie or Nigerian tv-shows. Other programmes include the Epiq Bongo Star Search which hosts super funny judges. Two women, Madame Rita Paulsen and Salama, and a man, Master J. Sunday night one of the candidates folded a gecko and put it into his mounth. The two female judges runned out screaming. At home Alex rolled out of the sofa laughing. Razaro nickered. I remember these first rounds from Belgium as being epic and extremely funny as well. Unfortunately the Tanzanian version shows sad stories as well.

They do not shy away of portraying this at tv. Moreover there are ads warning you from harm. There is this one add that really touched me. It starts with a whimpering school girl being pulled in the corn field by a masked man. Some minutes later her friends find her schoolbag and try to find her. She is found huddling and sobbing. Amongst these friends different opinions arise. One thinks she should forget about it, the other one urges her to go to the hospital first and the police after that. The latter is then stimulated to do.

The tv-programming also include parliament's debates, live from the political capital Dodoma, and early in the morning somebody is reading the scoops written in the newspaper. Little publicity or on the strangest moments, like in the middle of a newsbulletin.

By 10 - 10.30 pm, or as Tanzanians say ‘saa 4:00 usiku’ or ‘4 at night’ because just like Ethiopia they have a slightly different timetable, the Sandman arrives. Lala salama (sleepwell)!

Mijn dag

* translation in English will follow!*

Om 6u15 gaat de wekker af. Een kwartier later rol ik uit bed. Het ontbijt is soms een boterham met confituur - Peta heeft goed geobserveerd tijdens haar verblijf in Gent - of soms gekookte stukken yam (paarse patat) of pompoen met een vleugje zout. Om 7u ’s morgens wandel ik de deur uit. Met of zonder ontbijt. Langs de Kwetu pub en Pharmacist centre naar de hoofdweg. De douche – of het gooien van koud (niet erg in deze temperaturen) water over mij met kleine emmertjes, want de douche heeft niet genoeg druk om te stromen – die ik genomen heb, is al niet meer zichtbaar aan mijn voeten. De zanderige weg heeft immers de kleur aangenomen van de houtskoolvuurtjes. Of ze het nu geveegd hebben of niet. Aan de hoofdweg wacht ik nu op mijn eerste daladala. In mijn handen mijn boek en notitieboekje en 300 Tsh (ongeveer 0,15 eurocent) voor deze reis. Die brengt me naar een groot kruispunt, Moroco genaamd. Ik steek over en wacht op de volgende daladala, die naar Masaki. Of eerder naar Msasani peninsula waar de lokatie is van mijn lessen. Opnieuw haal ik 300 Tsh boven. Tegen tien voor acht arriveer ik in Slipway. In een mum van tijd dus. Ze klagen hier over verkeersopstoppingen. Ha! Moest ik toch effe hartelijk lachen. Twee jaar geleden startte de file al een paar meter verderop de bushalte tot aan mijn afstaphalte. Bon, alles is perceptie natuurlijk en het is wel degelijk aanschuiven.

Ik wandel na de afstaphalte van de tweede bus, aan Fitness Center, nog een minuutje of vijf. Wederom in zwart zand, want langs de kant van de zandwegelingetjes koken vrouwen mandazi (oliebolachtig, maar in de vorm van een driedimensionale driehoek), chapati en kasava (aardappelsmaak). De geur van de houtvuurtjes komt me dus elke morgen tegemoet.

Slipway branch is een plaats in Msasani peninsula. Het ligt aan het water, heeft een speeltuin, aanpalend hotel, een terrasrestaurant, winkeltjes, een soort souk, een bank en wisselkantoor, een ambachtelijke bakker, een supermarkt en een brasserie. De prijzen zijn beduidend hoger. Dat is ook niet moeilijk, want het is duidelijk een ontmoetingsplaats voor de expats van Tanzania. Zo kan je Nutella en Frère Rochers vinden voor respectievelijk 3,5 euro en 8 euro. Onze prijzen dus. Eigenlijk loop ik die supermarkt tijdens de pauze enkel binnen om gezouten droge gefrituurde bananenschips en Azam-fruitsapjes te halen. Sapjes van het Azam-imperium. Stinkend rijk is die mens. Een van zijn bezittingen is de aanmeerplaats voor de boten naar Zanzibar. Ik moet er geen tekeningetje bij maken, denk ik.

Pure rijkdom lijkt iets zeldzaam, maar als je als zakenman enkel in en rond het stadscentrum – dat eigenlijk vooral te situeren is rond de koridor aan de kustlijn – vertoeft en er niet buitengaat, heb je echt wel een waw-gevoel bij de stad. Gigantische sjieke, nieuwe gebouwen (zie foto's vorig bericht). Er wordt duidelijk geïnvesteerd in gebouwen. Je ziet ook oude Swahili-huizen, te vergelijken met de pasha-huizen uit het Ottomaanse Rijk aan de waterkant van de Bosporus. Mooie oude moskeeën, jaartallen op de gebouwen (vooral 1930er) en allerlei gekleurde gevels in het straatbeeld. Pastelkleuren zoals in Zuid-Amerika.

Om 12u eindigt de les en leg ik opnieuw dezelfde weg af, uiteraard in omgekeerde richting. Een uur later ben ik terug in de patio. Ik verkleed me in een topje en shirt overlapt met een blauwe kanga (stuk stof met bantu/ Swahili-motieven). Peta en Alex zijn uit werken, maar Razaro, Alex’ broer is aanwezig. Hij volgt volwassenavondonderwijs. Als achtste van negen heeft hij nooit de kans gehad zijn humaniora af te maken. Nu, jaren later investeert zijn broer in zijn opvoeding. Zijn vrouw en drie zonen zijn achtergebleven in het dorp.

Razaro en ik zijn zo tot een stilzwijgende overeenkomst gekomen dat we ongeveer om beurten de afwas doen van de dag ervoor. Grappig. Als de keuken er opnieuw deftig uitziet, zet hij water op, water dat erna afgekoeld wordt en als drinkbaar water dient, en maakt hij de eerste potten opnieuw vuil en kookt hij middageten. Niet echt meer middag, want tegen dat we dat opeten is het meestal al 15u. Bon, dat is niet zo erg, want het avondeten wordt pas tegen 21u opgediend. Peta kookt ’s avonds, maar zet zich dan ostenatief in de zetel. De mannen ruimen af. Heerlijk om te zien. Ja, ik mag mijn benen onder tafel schuiven. Heel fijn. Ik moet er wel bijnemen dat het bijna dagelijks ugali (puree-achtige brei, gekookt van maïsbloem en water) is met iets anders. Nu ja, alle dagen patatten met iets erbij is waarschijnlijk voor hen even zot en saai. Af en toe is er rijst en vorige vrijdag kookte Peta speciaal voor de gast, yours truly, spaghetti. Best lekker. Eigenlijk is het eten lekker. Alleen mis ik zo af en toe eens olijven en een soepje. Vreemd, want het is hier om en bij de 30 graden en de ventilator draait overuren.

Tussendoor maak ik huiswerk, bekijk ik wat woordenschat, lees ik, mail ik of schrijf ik aan vanalles en nog wat. ’s Avonds staat de tv aan. En de programmatie geeft wel een inzicht in het een en ander.

Zo heb je Isidingo, een Zuid-Afrikaanse serie, Soy tu dueño, een gedubde Zuid-Amerikaanse serie of Nigeriaanse (Nollywood, weet je nog van 2010?) series. Daarnaast heb je ook de talentenjacht Epiq Bongo Star Search met supergrappige juryleden. Twee vrouwen, Madame Rita Paulsen en Salama, en een man, Master J. Gisterenavond stak er een kandidaat na zijn liedje een salamander in zijn mond. De twee vrouwelijke juryleden waren al schreeuwend van hun zitje gelopen. Thuis rolde Alex van de sofa van het lachen. Razaro kwam niet meer bij. Die eerste rondes zijn bij ons ook o zo grappig. Herinner je je nog die met de handbewegingen van flapperende olifantenoren? Jammer genoeg zitten er ook schrijnende verhalen tussen.

Ze schuwen dit trouwens niet op tv. Zo heb je bijvoorbeeld een advertentie – of eerder een soort boodschap van algemeen nut – die adviseert om een verkrachting aan te geven en naar het ziekenhuis te gaan voor een check-up. Deze advertentie start met een schoolmeisje dat door een gemaskerde man in de maïs getrokken wordt. Vriendjes arriveren iets later en vinden haar rugzak en even later het meisje wenend en ineengedoken. Er ontstaat een discussie onder de vrienden. Enen zegt van het zo te laten, een andere jongen geeft de eigenlijke boodschap mee: ziekenhuis en politie. Straf stukje tv.

Voorts worden ’s morgens de titels van de meeste krantenartikels voorgelezen. Ze voegen er tevens de korte inhoud aan toe. Ook de parlementszittingen vanuit de politieke hoofdstad Dodoma worden live uitgezonden. Weinig reclame eigenlijk, of op vreemde momenten zoals middenin een nieuwsuitzending. Mij hoor je niet klagen. Haha.

Tegen 22u – 22u30, of eerder ‘saa 4:00 usiku’ oftwel ‘4u ’s avonds’ daar net zoals in Ethiopië de uurregeling anders loopt, vallen mijn oogjes langzaam toe. Lala salama (slaapwel)!

Pictures Dar es Salaam city centre

Click here

Daladala, Danlee na mwalimu wangu

The daladala is the equivalent of the Kenyan matatu or dolmuṣ in Turkey. The sidekick does not tab your shoulder, but shakes the coins he is holding in his hand when he stands in front of you. Opposed to some matatu’s that act like a Saturday night club, most daladala do not have radios. Hurray! Also, the price is fixed accordingly to the distance you are traveling to. In Kenya you end up paying more when held up in a jam or in the rain. The Ms Debate in me tends to surface. Yet, I do understand their point of view. One journey less to and from town reduces their income for the day. Another difference is the amount of customers you are allowed to take. In Kenya it is according to the available seats or let’s put it a bit more accurate: in Nairobi they stick to this rule. The further away from town the more people get squeezed into this tiny bus. Hehe. In Tanzania you are squeezed anyway. No limits. This results in a game of Twister. Red for grabbing the bar above you, blue for putting your feet in between the legs of your neighbor, green for having your purse preventing the view of a sitting neighbor and yellow as a Joker. The latter is of great importance. You can be lucky and have a free hand to take the seat and balance yourself. Or your European but can be pushed by an African but onto the lab of somebody else. No disrespect. But one needs to acknowledge that their anatomy is slightly different. Hehe. In Tanzania they seem to care a bit more about you not missing your stop. They shout the name of the bus stop and you respond with ‘shuha’ if that is the place to be for you.

On some hours of the day these buses are not so crowded and then the folklore is so lovely. Muslims and Christians, men and women, young and old, police men in white which makes you wonder how they can sustain it that white, youngsters with a bucket filled with ice and fish taking a fish out and presenting it to you as a proposal to buy it and so on and on.

Danlee, my fellow colleague student, is not too fond of this means of transport. She rathers travels with the bajaj, also known as tuk tuk in many parts of the world (Thailand, India, Peru, Mombasa-Kenya). Or for those who are not familiar with it: kinda of a motorized (Indian) riksja. Anyway, Danlee is more comfortable in a small bike taxi opposed to being squeezed in a bus. She is tiny and cannot reach the bar easily, so you can’t blame her. She is a very sweet lady. Originally from the state of New Mexico where she rents a room for tourists/ guests, two dogs and finds peace after stressful months on a movie set as a make-up artist. How cool, right? She is in Tanzania to volunteer with the Jane Goodall Foundation - if I say Tarzan, Jane's name should ring a bell - for six months after which she wants to continue to India. I can’t get rid of the feeling she is on a Eat Pray Love – tour. Hehe.

Our teacher(mwalimu) is called Benjamin. He likes pizza and warm beer (gosh!). He has two children. For now. He has been quarreling with his wife. She wants a third, he does not consider it as a bright idea. Currently it is cold war at that house. He just opened up about this. Quite surprising, because it is my impression Tanzanians are far more humble and introvert than Kenyans. This is portrayed in their speech. Tanzanians say ‘Ninaomba…’ or ‘I would like…’ whereas Kenyans can’t see a reason to be that polite if you are a paying customer. So they use ‘nipe…’ or ‘give me…’

Another reason for their silence might be the fact their English is not that fluent and my Swahili not yet good enough for a sweet conversation. Once they do speak English better a lot of jokes still go down the drain and my kind of humor is not understood. Maybe I am not funny or maybe they have a different kind of humor or maybe there is a language barrier. Too soon to judge on that.

One thing is certain: the impressions are piling up, so hapa hapa! (stay tuned)

From savannah over fruit plantations and mountains to the ocean

Take a bus from Nairobi to Dar es Salaam and that is what you are about to see. The spectacular views are amongst what you will experience. Other include: cheeky young boys asking to see your passport while walking the 3 meter no man’s land at the border , a 15 hour road trip with sudden road bumps, security checks and a mix of Gospel TV, Asian B-movies and Tanzanian soap series on the tiny screen in the bus. Some of you might think ‘Why did she not just take the plane?’. Well, that would definitely have shortened my day intensively, but com’on guys, this is me you are listening to! Actually, there is really no big theory behind it. I just rather submerge in an adventure, grow into the country’s customs and observe local interpersonal relationships.

Observe is what I have been doing in the past week. So rewind (like the reggae artists when they perform live). What has changed in Nairobi since 2010? Firstly, the security measures certainly have gone up. Not that surprising after multiple bomb explosions of late. Soldiers are in the street view. Everywhere you enter a male or female guard is checking you and your purse. And not just at Junction or Jaya center, meeting spots for wazungu, but about everywhere. Secondly, the traffic police are fining citizens on regularly basis and after paying on the spot they even give a receipt. So, three cheers for this corrupt free attitude. Corrupt free-ish, because you can still bribe them not to be taken to court. But it is doing the trick because even the Matatu drivers won’t stop anywhere you want in town anymore out of fear of getting fined. Thirdly, the road works are just about everywhere. Truth to be told, the ring and bridge around University Way is super cool. A bit disorienting at first though, but every road still leads to town. They are trying to create bypasses though, which might cause a decentralizing movement. Or that would be my hope. Unfortunately the road works come with little organization and signalization. But let’s turn a blind eye to this, because if the city would not have taken up any will to change infrastructure, regardless the Kenyan organization style, that would now really have worried me. Apart from these modifications, it is still Nairobi a.k.a. the town as I know and grew to love it. And that is just fine with me.

Rrrrrewind to the first paragraph again. Saturday late at night I arrived in Dar es Salaam, the (economical) capital of Tanzania. I am staying with Peta, an exchange student I have met at UGent. Together with her husband Alex and his brother they live in Mwenge, one of the many neighborhoods. Opposite their compound there is a Lutheran church community, sided by a Hotel, called BnB Hotel. Their hospitality is heartwarming. And they insist on talking as many Swahili to me as possible (the main reason I am in Tanzania). I feel like being in Turkey all over again. My Turkish host mother used to talk to me for hours while she was cooking. At some point I even think I became her personal voice diary. But it allowed me to quickly understand the context of a conversation and rather learn to talk this language fast. So, Peta and her family can bring it on. I just realize it is so much less threatening because I have already experienced the not being able to understand anything, or the thinking they are gossiping about you. Anyway, on Monday I have entered my first Swahili lesson at KIU Ltd. It is soooo exciting.