Karibu! – 10 May 2009

Days 7-30 – Dodoma (Tanzania)

Kev in Africa #2 photos
Simba in Africa photos

(Note: 100 shillings = 10 cents)
Text messaging = 60 shillings
Chai = 100 shillings
Dala-dala ride = 250 shillings
Mango juice = 400 Shillings
Experiencing a Tanzanian village church service = Priceless

For everything else there’s your digital watch. But more on that later…

Dodoma – the administrative capital of Tanzania and also my home for the last three weeks – has its fair share of critics. One parishioner from my church in Melbourne described the much forgotten city as “hell on earth”. Lonely Planet guides likewise informed me of the disappointment that follows the municipality.

Subsequently few tourists decide to visit Dodoma. This fact became clear to me one sunny afternoon when I got lost on my way to the city centre. I had been told that a shortcut would save me plenty of time. What I hadn’t been told was that this shortcut would lead me through mud-brick houses. Don’t get me wrong; villages are fantastic (as I will soon elaborate on), however when you are all alone and everybody is starring at you as if you are the first wazungu (white person) they have ever seen you get the feeling that visitors are a novelty and, if anything, a vending machine with a faulty coin slot.

Personally, I decided not to listen to the fierce critics. If I was going to follow anybody’s judgments it would be my own. As a result, I have found myself rather enjoying this unlikely tourist destination and its relaxed and kind hearted people.

One of the first things that impressed me was the friendliness of the locals. In Melbourne if you greet a stranger you receive a rude glare that suggests ‘Say one more thing to me and I’ll call the cops’. In Dodoma, you speak to everybody. And almost all of them are happy to have a conversation. Tanzania may be one of the world’s poorest countries, but the locals certainly don’t show it.

In many ways Tanzanian culture has fulfilled my expectations. Just like they do in the movies, women carry enormous baskets on their heads as they walk, gardeners hack fields of long grass with machetes, security guards protect local businesses with rifles and market vendors aggressively plead you to buy their produce. Moreover, chorus singing is contagious, dala-dalas (minibuses) are claustrophobic and the dirt roads are catastrophic. (I counted 26 people in the dala-dala the other day, ridiculous when you consider they are only slightly bigger than a large car).

There have of course been some notable exceptions. Before arriving I naively believed that elephants, giraffes and zebras would parade around the countryside. Instead all I have seen are herds of cows, goats, dogs (who dangerously lurk around in packs during the night) and chickens (who naturally wake you up in the morning). Speedy geckos that scamper almost everywhere have been the most exotic animals I have come across, with apologies to that one snake that slithered past my feet one morning.

With this in mind, coming in contact with Africa’s most dangerous creature is a regular activity. No, I don’t refer to hippos, lions or tigers (Africa doesn’t even have any tigers, silly!); I am of course referring to mosquitoes. Avoiding bites and killing these pesky insects often causes reason for celebration. With the exception of one night – where I slept without a mosquito net or insect repellent and subsequently paid the price – I have thankfully remained mostly bite-free.

One undeniable characteristic of Tanzanians is the amount of noise the locals tend to make, which of course has its pros and cons. At university soccer matches the chants of supporters resemble music in comparison to the rabble of Australian fans. Meanwhile one church service I visited was as loud as a rock concert and had uncanny similarities to a high school talent show. If it weren’t for the occasional English yells of “Praise the Lord” I could have easily believed this was a local karaoke contest.

Being a Swahili-speaking country there are of course obstacles to effective communication. I have subconsciously adopted a faux-Tanzanian accent to make matters easier; only now have I discovered my very strong Aussie enunciation. Nevertheless, language barriers can be broken. Smiles, handshakes, waves and nods thankfully do not carry with them unwanted connotations in African culture… or at least, I hope not. Furthermore, I found out firsthand that the best way to communicate without opening one’s mouth is with a camera…

My first experience at a village church was one I will never forget. Gospel singers moved simultaneously and offered irresistible harmonies to the accompaniment of electric guitars, drum machines and squashed packets of vegetables (forming square maracas). I was merely a visitor, but this community treated me like royalty. I was granted an exclusive guest breakfast, a personal introduction during the service and a seat alongside the church big-shots. However, by far the most valuable treat was being able to interact with the locals.

Without being afraid of making a complete fool of myself I joined in with the tribal dances before taking some photos of the local children. At first the kids remained wary and confused: ‘What is this albino doing here and why is he holding a little black box?’ However, once I began to show them the photos their emotions dramatically converted from frightened to enthralled. The crowd of kids around me grew tenfold and within minutes I was buried underneath an army of enthusiastic village children, each trying to view their own portrait on a small LCD screen.

Since that day I have visited two other village churches, as part of my accidental involvement with Carpenter Kids – a charity dedicated to helping poor orphans in the Dodoma region. When I say ‘involvement’ what I really mean is that I tagged along to the organisation’s interaction with the villages, however in the eyes of the village people (not the band) I was a hero; they applauded my volunteering efforts and my vain efforts to speak some basic Swahili. Their generosity was accentuated through the joyful introductions offered to us. As our land cruiser reluctantly made its way over the uneven dirt tracks a collection of energetic women and children sang, danced and stalked our vehicle with anticipation. No words could describe the moment; hopefully the video footage I took can somewhat replicate the raw liveliness I was witnessing.

You may be wondering what has brought me to Dodoma of all places. Tanzania is a nation of unbelievable natural beauty, so what am I doing in an isolated and tourist-free city?

The reason why I am here is because of Neville and Elspeth Carr. These CMS missionaries, along with an Australian-hating American keen on conceiving a cult, have become my part-time family. As a full-time volunteer I have been working and living at St John’s University – a Christian based college – in order to ease the workload of the Carrs. Going straight from studying in secondary school to becoming a staff member at a university has been an interesting transformation indeed.

Both Neville and Elspeth are teachers here, while Neville is also the Dean of the Humanities and Education faculty. Their workload and subsequent levels of stress regularly reach unprecedented levels. My personal role here is to complete all kinds of odd jobs that most people would prefer to bypass or delegate. Huge loads of stapling, photocopier runs, word processing, database manipulation, library stamping jobs, heavy box carrying… the list goes on. And then there are home duties…

Such a busy lifestyle has let me sample more than dozen occupations (and add heaps to my CV), but often it can be challenging. Volunteering is certainly not for the faint hearted. It can be difficult, frustrating and unrewarding at times, and it certainly doesn’t pay. However if I was after cushiness and wages I wouldn’t have left Melbourne. I’m here because I greatly respect and admire the work of the Carrs and missionaries in general.

Cynical individuals perceive missionaries as bible-bashers who have decided to take their craft to a more naïve culture. Such an assessment is unjustifiably cruel and ignorant. From my front seat perspective I have witnessed missionaries and volunteer groups alike bring a most valuable commodity to the citizens of Tanzania: hope. In African society hope is what gets people through each day. It is for this reason that the people of Dodoma treat Western visitors like me with such appreciation. My work here may make me tired and unmotivated on occasion, but these people see through more optimistic eyes.

For every one of my dull moments, there has been an amusing antithesis. I have been on unsuccessful scorpion hunts, joined a (mostly) black gospel choir and become addicted to peanut butter jelly and Pride and Prejudice. But by far the funniest story of my travels to date was an encounter I had with a travelling salesman.

On my way home from the city I struck up a conversation with a man on a bicycle. He introduced himself and was curious as to who I was and what had brought me to Dodoma. As I had predicted there was a second agenda to his warm manner; he was interested in selling me some of his homemade crafts. Despite not having any money on me I decided to look at what he had to offer. Sure enough his handiwork was impressive and I informed him of my interest. However, obviously without money I couldn’t make a purchase today. When we parted ways I assumed our conversation had concluded, but this man evidently didn’t want to miss out on a sales opportunity. This was Dodoma after all and tourists aren’t exactly commonplace.

As if he had instantly thought of a grand idea he came rushing back to me.
“I could follow you to your house so that you can get some money… or maybe is there anything that you would like to trade to me for these?”
I pondered his request and looked at what I had with me. Choosing to trust my instinct I offered him the only thing on me of any worth – a digital watch. When I say ‘worth’ it was actually bought for about $2, but how was he to know? I was unsure what to feel about my act of barter. Had I ripped him off or did he win in this negotiation?

Precisely a week later the same man appeared again, this time in front of my house’s front gate. Before I could ask myself ‘How on earth did that guy find where I live?’ he was trying to sell me more goodies. My attempts at trading more useless items of miscellanea were unsuccessful; this time around he was after money. Keen to reward his effort and persistence I bought 15,000 shillings worth of small souvenirs for 10,000. However, satisfaction came not from my purchases, but from the sight of his clad left wrist.

With this volunteering stint out of the way I am eagerly anticipating what I assume will be the climax of my African adventures – a 45 day safari from Kampala, Uganda to Victoria Falls in Zambia. This expedition may be costing me a fortune, but judging by what I have seen and done over the past 30 days I highly doubt the money will be wasted. If the cheap parts of Africa are unbelievable I can only imagine how breathtaking the expensive bits are…

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