I wrote too much again...
I’m back home now, after two weeks’ travel around the country. I wrote this post on my laptop again, not wanting to forget anything, just as with Rwanda. Again, I am too long-winded.
My first stop was Zanzibar, revisiting the spice island after roughly a year. A large group of us volunteers converges each year, to celebrate the New Year’s coming. I had hoped to see more of the island, so I was a little disappointed to find that we would be staying at the same beach that I’d stayed at last year (but to be honest, it’s a gorgeous beach and my disappointment was fleeting). Once again, I flew from Bukoba to Dar Es Salaam. This time, I had a grueling ten-hour layover in Mwanza which resulted in me arriving quite late into Dar, missing that night’s party. The next day I met up with everyone at the Dar-Zanzibar ferry terminal, finding the group to be in high spirits. Last year, I’d sat inside and felt nauseous for the entirety of the crossing, so before getting aboard I was a little nervous. However, the fears were misplaced. We all sat on the deck and enjoyed a smooth, peaceful trip to the Stone Town port. I was so happy to be engaged with some of my best friends in the Corps, I hardly noticed the two hours go by.
Again, Stone Town took my breath away. It’s a different world, Zanzibar. I wandered the cramped, writhing alleyways with a friend, getting lost once again. The buildings were tall enough, and those alleys were narrow enough that unless the sun was directly overhead, we enjoyed some measure of shade during our explorations. While we walked, we discussed our relative feelings about Tanzania, its people, its customs, after being here for over a year. It was a bit surprising how drastically local environment and situation affects one’s perception of the entire country. Unfortunately, our time in Stone Town was short, and we had to abort our conversation to go meet the rest of the group. A wonderfully friendly shop owner must have noticed us pass by his shop more than once, and asked us if we were lost, as we were walking in circles. In foreign countries, especially with places as labyrinthine as Stone Town, men can admit to being lost without any shame, as we then did.
After getting even more lost following this pleasant fellow (who said it was his duty to help out travelers, to show how good the people of Zanzibar are), we stumbled into the rest of the group and caught some buses up to the beach. I’m pretty sure that within three minutes of arriving at our hotels, we all had put on our swim gear and were frolicking in the Indian Ocean, underneath the furious Zanzibar sun. Seriously, the sun here in Bukoba is like the 90-pound weakling getting sand kicked in his face by the Charles Atlas beefmaster sun there on Zanzibar. There is no comparison, and I even managed to get sunburned while laying in the shade. Cheers for being white! (Kent, you can give me a half-cheers).
I’d brought a deck of cards, and the nearest bar had a happy hour. These two facts merged with a large group of thirsty people to form what I will call “perfect fusion”. By the end of the happy hour, we’d run the gamut of drinking games (except Sevens, that game is just too much), and everyone was quite lively. We’d ordered food at the bar, and it took so long to come, we all got easily drunk on empty stomachs. Our food came, we ate (I had calamari). After waiting half an hour, as responsible adults are wont to do, we went for a pleasant nighttime swim, and then off to bed.
I’ve had occasions to bless my adjustment to various aspects of this country, and when I awoke the next day, I blessed my adjustment to the malignant bacteria which sometimes come with the foods here. My stomach was a rock. I could not make that same claim for roughly 10 people in our group, who all had become violently ill from food poisoning in the middle of the night. One guy said he had never, ever felt worse in his life. In the meantime, I went swimming.
That evening, massive celebrations were planned (it was New Year’s Eve), so we toned it down a bit, not wanting to miss anything. The resort I was at had this whole entertainment package lined up, which included fire dancing, a big white lion costume that pranced around, and the worst marionette show I will ever see. It was all fun to witness, if a bit over the top. Sometime before midnight all the resorts along the beach started blasting either techno or hip-hop, and the night transformed into a big beach rave, with hundreds or even thousands of people dancing everywhere. In typical Tanzanian fashion, when midnight approached, the countdown was reversed- “One...two...three...Happy New Year!” Counting up to three didn’t seem like the most impressive way to bring in 2007, but it was funny to hear. The dance party lasted most of the night; even Morpheus would have been jealous.
Our final day on the beach we spent relaxing, talking and reminiscing. I went with a small group to get dinner at one of the more expensive restaurants. My plan when going to new places to eat is to order the most expensive, and therefore best, food on the menu. This was the seafood platter, and when it came out I knew my plan had worked. Being an island, Zanzibar is privy to some awesome fresh seafood, and I think they gave me most of it on my seafood platter- squid, tuna, snapper, a few prawns, and some lobster-type creature. All of it was delicious. If you’ve never had fresh squid, you should try it. The texture is smooth, dense, and slightly chewy, and the taste is mild yet pleasing. I wish we had squid in Lake Victoria.
My room was so hot that night, I sweated profusely for about two hours before going on a walk (I saw later the fan blades had been put on upside-down; I’m sure the ceiling was nice and cool). Earlier in the day, while I was playing beach volleyball with a German in a tiger print Speedo, some local dog pack had torn past the court, chasing some terrified little kids. I ran out and clapped my hands a few times to confuse the dogs, after which they went on their merry way. That night, while on my walk on the placid, empty beach, the dogs returned. There were four of them, several of which I recalled from earlier. Apparently I’d entered their territory, because they got ferocious very quickly, barking and snapping at me. I clapped my hands again, but it didn’t have the effect I was hoping for, and they kept attacking. I’ve heard that dogs can sense fear (is this true?), so I slowly backed away, clapping at them but trying to get away. I noticed a pile of boards and sticks and made my way towards it as they continued to lunge at me, growling and biting. Reaching around the woodpile in desperate hope while keeping my eyes glued to these mongrels, I stumbled across a nice, baseball bat-sized stick. The tables had turned. While never a massive slugger, I’ve played enough ball to know how to swing. As the next dog thrust his jaws at me, I met those jaws with the business end of my stick. You know when you get a good, solid hit in baseball, and the bat doesn’t vibrate or hurt your hands at all- a clean hit? Yeah, I gave that dog a clean hit. That dog ran so quickly away from me and my stick, it shot a plume of sand in its wake like a jet flying low over the water. The others followed it, and I returned to bed to sleep the sleep of the just.
I had no serious plans for the next few days, so a friend (Brendan) in Moshi invited me to come and hang out, to see his place for a bit. If you recall, Moshi is near the base of Mount Kilimanjaro, and is considered to be one of the most beautiful areas in Tanzania. I stayed at Brendan’s place for about two days, and I think our conversation didn’t have a lull that whole time. We discussed everything under the sun, from books (we agree- The Razor’s Edge is fantastic) to college football to whatever else came up. Brendan cooked some tasty fried broccoli the first night, and I tried making a Tanzanian dish called “makande” the second. Unfortunately, I forgot that the beans and corn which go in it take roughly 800 hours to cook, so it wasn’t as delicious as it might’ve been. Seriously, why do dried beans take so long to cook? It’s a crime.
Brendan’s site was pleasant and far enough removed from major roads to feel tranquil and secluded. It is possible to see Kili’s main peak from his place, if the mountain isn’t shrouded in clouds (as it was the whole time I was there). The whole mountainside is green, covered in trees, and those of us from the Pacific NW can enjoy that. We played a lot of catch (he had two mitts!) in Brendan’s backyard, under the shadow of Kili. I miss baseball.
I left Brendan’s and met up with Dale (another volunteer living around Moshi). He had three friends from university visiting him, and we all hung around Moshi that evening, with the plan to visit Arusha the next day. The night was uneventful but for the sheer amount of cheap red wine we drank, and for the fact that the chicken wings at Indoitaliano Restaurant have apparently fallen off. The next morning, the clouds cleared off of Kili, and we were rewarded with a beautiful view of the peak carpeted with fresh snow. Clay (yep, another Moshi volunteer; they’re like a Viking horde) met up with us and we caught a bus to Arusha.
Immediately, I was put off by Arusha. In Bukoba, there is little tourism and thus, few people make their livings based on scamming tourists or convincing them to take your companies bus/tour/hotel/anything package. Arusha is near the Serengeti, Kilimanjaro, and an international airport. Besides Zanzibar, it is the major tourist destination for all of Tanzania, and this manifests itself in manifold ways, the most noticeable being the sheer amount of attention white travelers get. Clay and I had volunteered to hunt down return tickets to Dar. When we neared the ticket offices for the various companies, we were swarmed by overzealous men grabbing our arms, telling us how great their companies are, and trying to drag us in five different directions. We knew which bus line to take, and told them all that, to which several responded by telling us that our chosen line was already sold out. Naturally, I assumed they were just saying that to get us to buy tickets from their line, so I told these fellows that we would go look ourselves. This is where things got uncomfortable. While I asked one fellow for directions to the office of the line we’d chosen, one of the others who’d told me that line was sold out was starting to rant and rage in Swahili. When I noticed this and listened to him a bit, I found out he was in the middle of saying that he hated both Clay and I, and all Americans. He hated us because we killed Saddam. This was the major selling point in his rant, and several other men joined him in voicing their outrage over “the Americans killing Saddam”. All of them were bigger than us, so we both bit our tongues and walked away. As we left, the guy started yelling the only English swear word he knew- bitch. It was kind of funny, even though it pissed me off that he was such a prick, the way he said his curse word. His pronunciation caused him to sound like he was yelling “beach!” over and over. (Sadly, this wasn’t the only time during my trip where anger over the hanging of Saddam Hussein was displayed towards me as an American. A taxicab driver in Dar told me point blank that he was going to overcharge me because I killed Saddam. The man wasn’t Muslim, and had no reason to be bitter about Saddam’s death except that he read that he should be so in one of the local papers. People believe what you tell them...)
After another half an hour of finding out that not only our first choice of bus lines was sold out, but also our second and third, we had to return to the angry men and their lines. Luckily, we quickly found one company’s office around the corner from those guys and, after Clay got irked that they tried drastically overcharging us, we acquired our tickets. This was all within the first hour of entering Arusha, and we both decided a cold beer was in order. Clay knew of a place with couches and a relaxing atmosphere, so we went there, and enjoyed our beers highly. Then, Arusha redeemed itself. An elderly man who spoke decent English sat near us and asked if he could buy us both a beer to welcome us to his country and his town. It was a great gesture, and when we asked to reciprocate by buying him one, he laughed and said not to worry. Rarely do we as foreigners receive such unequivocal generosity, and I was touched.
That night, we went to the main disco in Arusha. I have discovered that, while lacking style, I do enjoy dancing. Cathartic, isn’t it? The club wasn’t so packed the day we went, but there was a large group of Indian men tearing the dance floor apart nonetheless. If you have yet to witness the spectacle of Indian men dancing, I pity you. From what I saw, these men, while being much, much worse dancers than the typical American man, give it such gusto that you can’t help but be impressed. The best example is when one of their favorite songs comes on- they all lock arms over each other’s shoulders and begin to form a big circle. This circle then begins to hop up and down together as its members chant “Oi! Oi!” repeatedly and without any rhythm at all. Dale and I enjoyed this so much that we managed to actually initiate these hopping circles a few times when Madonna or something else great came on.
We arose early the next morning bleary-eyed after a few hours’ sleep to catch our bus to Dar. Most of the ten or eleven hour trip was spent in a quest to find a comfortable position to sleep. I failed miserably in this quest, and was jealous of Dale’s seeming ability to be comfortable in any position. Tall men without that ability do not belong on cheap buses in developing countries. I do not belong on cheap buses in developing countries.
The seminar lasted only a day, and was really more of a forum for us to pass on teaching strategies and to ask any burning questions. The best part of the day was lunch. It was the first time in awhile I’ve had the chance to eat a cheeseburger, a hot dog, Hawaiian-style pizza, and use ranch as a sauce. I need to find out which caterer was in charge of this delicious feast and see if they can do one-person lunches in Bukoba. When the seminar was over, our entire training group (now 34, I believe) had our first opportunity in six months to socialize in its entirety. One major difference I noted was how quickly people dispersed into smaller groups this time. In the past, we tended to tool around town as a massive unit, but now volunteers were fractioning into groups largely based on their regions. As a result, I didn’t get to see some people as much as I’d hoped, but on the up side, it was way easier to find places to eat.
Sometime after dinner, I learned that the bowl game (Ohio State versus Florida) would be shown live at four in the morning on the Armed Forces Network, and that a marine had invited us to watch it at the embassy. All I had to do the next day was go to a dentist appointment, so I was down. Also, Brendan’s alma mater is Ohio State, so we knew it would be fun to watch him get amped up during the game. At around midnight, we arrived at the embassy and were escorted by an armed marine to this room with a full sound system and wall projector. Pretty awesome way to watch the game, right? We rooted around the room a bit, and found a VCR (yes, we still use both tapes in Tanzania- both for music and for movies) and possibly the greatest movie ever made- Braveheart. The convenience of this is undeniable: it was midnight, the pre-game started at three, and Braveheart was three hours long. Let me tell you something. As good as watching a bowl game on a projector screen might be, it cannot compare to watching Braveheart on a projector screen. I now know how true it is that “not every man truly lives”.
The game was cool, although we were all fighting to stay awake by that point, even Brendan. Personally, I thought the game went downhill after the first quarter. Brendan was quite pleased when Ohio State returned the kickoff for a touchdown, and then his face slowly dropped bit by bit with each Florida touchdown in response. I have to say, all those ESPN pre-game guys really didn’t Florida’s offense enough credit. Talk about weapons… I would write more, but if Brando or Davis read this, their superior football knowledge will make me look ridiculous.
It was a bit awkward as the game was wrapping up in the morning. Around seven or so, many people, politicians and whatnot, began arriving for their day’s work. All of them had to pass the room in which we had the game on, loud and proud. We probably looked like hell after being up all night, and got more than a few curious stares. But what is an embassy for, if not for Americans to watch some football at all hours of the night?
After my appointment the next day (no cavities!), I went to an area of Dar called Kariakoo, which is known to be a haven of cheap deals and tourist robberies. I went with Clay, and both of us really liked Kariakoo, feeling perfectly safe the entire time. Knowing Swahili allowed us to be warm and friendly to everyone we passed (well, not every single person; Kariakoo is crowded like Shinjuku/Times Square) and thus we were taken care of and helped out a lot. We found a used clothing section of Kariakoo that had giant piles of old shirts for six hundred shillings apiece (fifty cents). Clay and I made a deal to buy drinking shirts for each other (a drinking shirt is an ugly shirt that you tear the sleeves off of and make a headband out of; thanks, Jesse) and commenced to look for the most hideous clothes possible. During our searching, we both found some actually awesome clothes, stuff that would make my brother more jealous than Cameron Diaz in Vanilla Sky. Finally, I found Clay some horrid, evil shirt probably designed by Helen Keller. I bought it and gave it to him; he was impressed and didn’t think he could outdo it. Then we stumbled upon the windbreaker pile, which is exactly what it sounds like- a giant pile comprised of only windbreakers, mostly from the ‘80s. Before he’d even chosen and bought me my drinking windbreaker, I knew he’d outdone me. I mean, c’mon...
The next night, we were fortunate enough to have the perfect opportunity to wear our drinking shirts- we all went bowling. This might not sound like an awesome time to you, but let me be perfectly clear: it was an Awesome Time. Clay and I looked beyond ridiculous, and many hilarious pictures were taken. I don’t know if I’ve ever had so much fun at a bowling alley. No, that’s not true. I did grow up in southern Oregon, right? (“Roseburg, where bowling is both a sport and a lifestyle”).
For lack of anyone else available to do it, I was volunteered to be the representative on the Volunteer Action Council for my region (I represented a total of four people, including myself). We had a two-day meeting beginning the day after the bowling fiesta, in which I got to hear a lot about the issues which face volunteers in other regions of the country. It was interesting to compare my situation and my relative lack of any serious issues to the impressive amounts of drama that other regions produce. I enjoyed being part of the council, even though I said little. I suppose it made me feel more involved in this organization as a whole, rather than just as a volunteer at my school. I also learned that, being affiliated with Peace Corps and therefore the US Government, we as volunteers are held accountable for all we say and do on multiple levels. Even this post, if it strikes someone in Washington in the wrong way, must be edited or removed. Luckily, I’ve got nothing bad to say.
On my penultimate night in Dar, a large group of us decided to go to the biggest disco. It was massively crowded and a bit claustrophobic. We managed to secure a small section of the dance floor on which we tried shaking it like a Polaroid picture. Eventually, a dance-off circle (not to be confused with an Indian-man jump circle) formed, in which people showed off their moves one by one. One Tanzanian guy did just about the illest C-walk I’ve ever seen, and I followed it with the Charleston, which is now my favorite dance move. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way, I got robbed. I didn’t know this until Clay handed me my passport from across the dance floor. This seemed odd, that Clay should have my passport, until he told me some guy had given it to him. I checked the pocket where the passport had been, and was unsurprised to find all the money missing. Luckily, I kept half of my cash in one pocket, and half in the other, so I wasn’t devastated. Honestly, the fact that the thief was willing to return my passport made me happy enough that I didn’t really care about losing some money. C’est la vie...
Tired from my night at the club and two long weeks of staying up late with friends, I planned to rest on my final day in Dar. Clay had been invited to go swimming at the University of Dar, so a small group of us headed over to relax poolside. The pool was the nicest one I’ve seen here in Tanzania, large enough for doing laps and relatively clean. Also, it was filled with far more Tanzanian swimmers than other pools. Without being too mean, let me just say that most people I’ve seen swimming here...lack basic swimming skills. Poolside, I made the comparison that swimming is to Tanzanians as dancing is to white people. I stand by that.
The following day, I caught the early flight home with Jodi. I got home around three in the afternoon, and immediately went to bed. I woke up to eat a quick dinner and then slept until the morning. How often does one successfully sleep for nearly 16 hours? Not often enough… Since my massive sleep, school has started and my daily routine from two posts ago is back in full effect. To sum up my trip in a word- booyah.
As a bonus for those of you who read the entire post, I have a GRE update. I got my scores back the day after I got back to site. At the risk of self-promotion, let me say that I did really well. I got a perfect score on the quantitative section, and near-perfects on the verbal and essay/argument sections. Looks like all my studying paid off, huh? I’m stoked now that I have these strong scores to back me up in applying to graduate school, hoping that any university I apply to will readily admit me. Another cheers! (Kent...)
My first stop was Zanzibar, revisiting the spice island after roughly a year. A large group of us volunteers converges each year, to celebrate the New Year’s coming. I had hoped to see more of the island, so I was a little disappointed to find that we would be staying at the same beach that I’d stayed at last year (but to be honest, it’s a gorgeous beach and my disappointment was fleeting). Once again, I flew from Bukoba to Dar Es Salaam. This time, I had a grueling ten-hour layover in Mwanza which resulted in me arriving quite late into Dar, missing that night’s party. The next day I met up with everyone at the Dar-Zanzibar ferry terminal, finding the group to be in high spirits. Last year, I’d sat inside and felt nauseous for the entirety of the crossing, so before getting aboard I was a little nervous. However, the fears were misplaced. We all sat on the deck and enjoyed a smooth, peaceful trip to the Stone Town port. I was so happy to be engaged with some of my best friends in the Corps, I hardly noticed the two hours go by.
Again, Stone Town took my breath away. It’s a different world, Zanzibar. I wandered the cramped, writhing alleyways with a friend, getting lost once again. The buildings were tall enough, and those alleys were narrow enough that unless the sun was directly overhead, we enjoyed some measure of shade during our explorations. While we walked, we discussed our relative feelings about Tanzania, its people, its customs, after being here for over a year. It was a bit surprising how drastically local environment and situation affects one’s perception of the entire country. Unfortunately, our time in Stone Town was short, and we had to abort our conversation to go meet the rest of the group. A wonderfully friendly shop owner must have noticed us pass by his shop more than once, and asked us if we were lost, as we were walking in circles. In foreign countries, especially with places as labyrinthine as Stone Town, men can admit to being lost without any shame, as we then did.
After getting even more lost following this pleasant fellow (who said it was his duty to help out travelers, to show how good the people of Zanzibar are), we stumbled into the rest of the group and caught some buses up to the beach. I’m pretty sure that within three minutes of arriving at our hotels, we all had put on our swim gear and were frolicking in the Indian Ocean, underneath the furious Zanzibar sun. Seriously, the sun here in Bukoba is like the 90-pound weakling getting sand kicked in his face by the Charles Atlas beefmaster sun there on Zanzibar. There is no comparison, and I even managed to get sunburned while laying in the shade. Cheers for being white! (Kent, you can give me a half-cheers).
I’d brought a deck of cards, and the nearest bar had a happy hour. These two facts merged with a large group of thirsty people to form what I will call “perfect fusion”. By the end of the happy hour, we’d run the gamut of drinking games (except Sevens, that game is just too much), and everyone was quite lively. We’d ordered food at the bar, and it took so long to come, we all got easily drunk on empty stomachs. Our food came, we ate (I had calamari). After waiting half an hour, as responsible adults are wont to do, we went for a pleasant nighttime swim, and then off to bed.
I’ve had occasions to bless my adjustment to various aspects of this country, and when I awoke the next day, I blessed my adjustment to the malignant bacteria which sometimes come with the foods here. My stomach was a rock. I could not make that same claim for roughly 10 people in our group, who all had become violently ill from food poisoning in the middle of the night. One guy said he had never, ever felt worse in his life. In the meantime, I went swimming.
That evening, massive celebrations were planned (it was New Year’s Eve), so we toned it down a bit, not wanting to miss anything. The resort I was at had this whole entertainment package lined up, which included fire dancing, a big white lion costume that pranced around, and the worst marionette show I will ever see. It was all fun to witness, if a bit over the top. Sometime before midnight all the resorts along the beach started blasting either techno or hip-hop, and the night transformed into a big beach rave, with hundreds or even thousands of people dancing everywhere. In typical Tanzanian fashion, when midnight approached, the countdown was reversed- “One...two...three...Happy New Year!” Counting up to three didn’t seem like the most impressive way to bring in 2007, but it was funny to hear. The dance party lasted most of the night; even Morpheus would have been jealous.
Our final day on the beach we spent relaxing, talking and reminiscing. I went with a small group to get dinner at one of the more expensive restaurants. My plan when going to new places to eat is to order the most expensive, and therefore best, food on the menu. This was the seafood platter, and when it came out I knew my plan had worked. Being an island, Zanzibar is privy to some awesome fresh seafood, and I think they gave me most of it on my seafood platter- squid, tuna, snapper, a few prawns, and some lobster-type creature. All of it was delicious. If you’ve never had fresh squid, you should try it. The texture is smooth, dense, and slightly chewy, and the taste is mild yet pleasing. I wish we had squid in Lake Victoria.
My room was so hot that night, I sweated profusely for about two hours before going on a walk (I saw later the fan blades had been put on upside-down; I’m sure the ceiling was nice and cool). Earlier in the day, while I was playing beach volleyball with a German in a tiger print Speedo, some local dog pack had torn past the court, chasing some terrified little kids. I ran out and clapped my hands a few times to confuse the dogs, after which they went on their merry way. That night, while on my walk on the placid, empty beach, the dogs returned. There were four of them, several of which I recalled from earlier. Apparently I’d entered their territory, because they got ferocious very quickly, barking and snapping at me. I clapped my hands again, but it didn’t have the effect I was hoping for, and they kept attacking. I’ve heard that dogs can sense fear (is this true?), so I slowly backed away, clapping at them but trying to get away. I noticed a pile of boards and sticks and made my way towards it as they continued to lunge at me, growling and biting. Reaching around the woodpile in desperate hope while keeping my eyes glued to these mongrels, I stumbled across a nice, baseball bat-sized stick. The tables had turned. While never a massive slugger, I’ve played enough ball to know how to swing. As the next dog thrust his jaws at me, I met those jaws with the business end of my stick. You know when you get a good, solid hit in baseball, and the bat doesn’t vibrate or hurt your hands at all- a clean hit? Yeah, I gave that dog a clean hit. That dog ran so quickly away from me and my stick, it shot a plume of sand in its wake like a jet flying low over the water. The others followed it, and I returned to bed to sleep the sleep of the just.
I had no serious plans for the next few days, so a friend (Brendan) in Moshi invited me to come and hang out, to see his place for a bit. If you recall, Moshi is near the base of Mount Kilimanjaro, and is considered to be one of the most beautiful areas in Tanzania. I stayed at Brendan’s place for about two days, and I think our conversation didn’t have a lull that whole time. We discussed everything under the sun, from books (we agree- The Razor’s Edge is fantastic) to college football to whatever else came up. Brendan cooked some tasty fried broccoli the first night, and I tried making a Tanzanian dish called “makande” the second. Unfortunately, I forgot that the beans and corn which go in it take roughly 800 hours to cook, so it wasn’t as delicious as it might’ve been. Seriously, why do dried beans take so long to cook? It’s a crime.
Brendan’s site was pleasant and far enough removed from major roads to feel tranquil and secluded. It is possible to see Kili’s main peak from his place, if the mountain isn’t shrouded in clouds (as it was the whole time I was there). The whole mountainside is green, covered in trees, and those of us from the Pacific NW can enjoy that. We played a lot of catch (he had two mitts!) in Brendan’s backyard, under the shadow of Kili. I miss baseball.
I left Brendan’s and met up with Dale (another volunteer living around Moshi). He had three friends from university visiting him, and we all hung around Moshi that evening, with the plan to visit Arusha the next day. The night was uneventful but for the sheer amount of cheap red wine we drank, and for the fact that the chicken wings at Indoitaliano Restaurant have apparently fallen off. The next morning, the clouds cleared off of Kili, and we were rewarded with a beautiful view of the peak carpeted with fresh snow. Clay (yep, another Moshi volunteer; they’re like a Viking horde) met up with us and we caught a bus to Arusha.
Immediately, I was put off by Arusha. In Bukoba, there is little tourism and thus, few people make their livings based on scamming tourists or convincing them to take your companies bus/tour/hotel/anything package. Arusha is near the Serengeti, Kilimanjaro, and an international airport. Besides Zanzibar, it is the major tourist destination for all of Tanzania, and this manifests itself in manifold ways, the most noticeable being the sheer amount of attention white travelers get. Clay and I had volunteered to hunt down return tickets to Dar. When we neared the ticket offices for the various companies, we were swarmed by overzealous men grabbing our arms, telling us how great their companies are, and trying to drag us in five different directions. We knew which bus line to take, and told them all that, to which several responded by telling us that our chosen line was already sold out. Naturally, I assumed they were just saying that to get us to buy tickets from their line, so I told these fellows that we would go look ourselves. This is where things got uncomfortable. While I asked one fellow for directions to the office of the line we’d chosen, one of the others who’d told me that line was sold out was starting to rant and rage in Swahili. When I noticed this and listened to him a bit, I found out he was in the middle of saying that he hated both Clay and I, and all Americans. He hated us because we killed Saddam. This was the major selling point in his rant, and several other men joined him in voicing their outrage over “the Americans killing Saddam”. All of them were bigger than us, so we both bit our tongues and walked away. As we left, the guy started yelling the only English swear word he knew- bitch. It was kind of funny, even though it pissed me off that he was such a prick, the way he said his curse word. His pronunciation caused him to sound like he was yelling “beach!” over and over. (Sadly, this wasn’t the only time during my trip where anger over the hanging of Saddam Hussein was displayed towards me as an American. A taxicab driver in Dar told me point blank that he was going to overcharge me because I killed Saddam. The man wasn’t Muslim, and had no reason to be bitter about Saddam’s death except that he read that he should be so in one of the local papers. People believe what you tell them...)
After another half an hour of finding out that not only our first choice of bus lines was sold out, but also our second and third, we had to return to the angry men and their lines. Luckily, we quickly found one company’s office around the corner from those guys and, after Clay got irked that they tried drastically overcharging us, we acquired our tickets. This was all within the first hour of entering Arusha, and we both decided a cold beer was in order. Clay knew of a place with couches and a relaxing atmosphere, so we went there, and enjoyed our beers highly. Then, Arusha redeemed itself. An elderly man who spoke decent English sat near us and asked if he could buy us both a beer to welcome us to his country and his town. It was a great gesture, and when we asked to reciprocate by buying him one, he laughed and said not to worry. Rarely do we as foreigners receive such unequivocal generosity, and I was touched.
That night, we went to the main disco in Arusha. I have discovered that, while lacking style, I do enjoy dancing. Cathartic, isn’t it? The club wasn’t so packed the day we went, but there was a large group of Indian men tearing the dance floor apart nonetheless. If you have yet to witness the spectacle of Indian men dancing, I pity you. From what I saw, these men, while being much, much worse dancers than the typical American man, give it such gusto that you can’t help but be impressed. The best example is when one of their favorite songs comes on- they all lock arms over each other’s shoulders and begin to form a big circle. This circle then begins to hop up and down together as its members chant “Oi! Oi!” repeatedly and without any rhythm at all. Dale and I enjoyed this so much that we managed to actually initiate these hopping circles a few times when Madonna or something else great came on.
We arose early the next morning bleary-eyed after a few hours’ sleep to catch our bus to Dar. Most of the ten or eleven hour trip was spent in a quest to find a comfortable position to sleep. I failed miserably in this quest, and was jealous of Dale’s seeming ability to be comfortable in any position. Tall men without that ability do not belong on cheap buses in developing countries. I do not belong on cheap buses in developing countries.
The seminar lasted only a day, and was really more of a forum for us to pass on teaching strategies and to ask any burning questions. The best part of the day was lunch. It was the first time in awhile I’ve had the chance to eat a cheeseburger, a hot dog, Hawaiian-style pizza, and use ranch as a sauce. I need to find out which caterer was in charge of this delicious feast and see if they can do one-person lunches in Bukoba. When the seminar was over, our entire training group (now 34, I believe) had our first opportunity in six months to socialize in its entirety. One major difference I noted was how quickly people dispersed into smaller groups this time. In the past, we tended to tool around town as a massive unit, but now volunteers were fractioning into groups largely based on their regions. As a result, I didn’t get to see some people as much as I’d hoped, but on the up side, it was way easier to find places to eat.
Sometime after dinner, I learned that the bowl game (Ohio State versus Florida) would be shown live at four in the morning on the Armed Forces Network, and that a marine had invited us to watch it at the embassy. All I had to do the next day was go to a dentist appointment, so I was down. Also, Brendan’s alma mater is Ohio State, so we knew it would be fun to watch him get amped up during the game. At around midnight, we arrived at the embassy and were escorted by an armed marine to this room with a full sound system and wall projector. Pretty awesome way to watch the game, right? We rooted around the room a bit, and found a VCR (yes, we still use both tapes in Tanzania- both for music and for movies) and possibly the greatest movie ever made- Braveheart. The convenience of this is undeniable: it was midnight, the pre-game started at three, and Braveheart was three hours long. Let me tell you something. As good as watching a bowl game on a projector screen might be, it cannot compare to watching Braveheart on a projector screen. I now know how true it is that “not every man truly lives”.
The game was cool, although we were all fighting to stay awake by that point, even Brendan. Personally, I thought the game went downhill after the first quarter. Brendan was quite pleased when Ohio State returned the kickoff for a touchdown, and then his face slowly dropped bit by bit with each Florida touchdown in response. I have to say, all those ESPN pre-game guys really didn’t Florida’s offense enough credit. Talk about weapons… I would write more, but if Brando or Davis read this, their superior football knowledge will make me look ridiculous.
It was a bit awkward as the game was wrapping up in the morning. Around seven or so, many people, politicians and whatnot, began arriving for their day’s work. All of them had to pass the room in which we had the game on, loud and proud. We probably looked like hell after being up all night, and got more than a few curious stares. But what is an embassy for, if not for Americans to watch some football at all hours of the night?
After my appointment the next day (no cavities!), I went to an area of Dar called Kariakoo, which is known to be a haven of cheap deals and tourist robberies. I went with Clay, and both of us really liked Kariakoo, feeling perfectly safe the entire time. Knowing Swahili allowed us to be warm and friendly to everyone we passed (well, not every single person; Kariakoo is crowded like Shinjuku/Times Square) and thus we were taken care of and helped out a lot. We found a used clothing section of Kariakoo that had giant piles of old shirts for six hundred shillings apiece (fifty cents). Clay and I made a deal to buy drinking shirts for each other (a drinking shirt is an ugly shirt that you tear the sleeves off of and make a headband out of; thanks, Jesse) and commenced to look for the most hideous clothes possible. During our searching, we both found some actually awesome clothes, stuff that would make my brother more jealous than Cameron Diaz in Vanilla Sky. Finally, I found Clay some horrid, evil shirt probably designed by Helen Keller. I bought it and gave it to him; he was impressed and didn’t think he could outdo it. Then we stumbled upon the windbreaker pile, which is exactly what it sounds like- a giant pile comprised of only windbreakers, mostly from the ‘80s. Before he’d even chosen and bought me my drinking windbreaker, I knew he’d outdone me. I mean, c’mon...
The next night, we were fortunate enough to have the perfect opportunity to wear our drinking shirts- we all went bowling. This might not sound like an awesome time to you, but let me be perfectly clear: it was an Awesome Time. Clay and I looked beyond ridiculous, and many hilarious pictures were taken. I don’t know if I’ve ever had so much fun at a bowling alley. No, that’s not true. I did grow up in southern Oregon, right? (“Roseburg, where bowling is both a sport and a lifestyle”).
For lack of anyone else available to do it, I was volunteered to be the representative on the Volunteer Action Council for my region (I represented a total of four people, including myself). We had a two-day meeting beginning the day after the bowling fiesta, in which I got to hear a lot about the issues which face volunteers in other regions of the country. It was interesting to compare my situation and my relative lack of any serious issues to the impressive amounts of drama that other regions produce. I enjoyed being part of the council, even though I said little. I suppose it made me feel more involved in this organization as a whole, rather than just as a volunteer at my school. I also learned that, being affiliated with Peace Corps and therefore the US Government, we as volunteers are held accountable for all we say and do on multiple levels. Even this post, if it strikes someone in Washington in the wrong way, must be edited or removed. Luckily, I’ve got nothing bad to say.
On my penultimate night in Dar, a large group of us decided to go to the biggest disco. It was massively crowded and a bit claustrophobic. We managed to secure a small section of the dance floor on which we tried shaking it like a Polaroid picture. Eventually, a dance-off circle (not to be confused with an Indian-man jump circle) formed, in which people showed off their moves one by one. One Tanzanian guy did just about the illest C-walk I’ve ever seen, and I followed it with the Charleston, which is now my favorite dance move. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way, I got robbed. I didn’t know this until Clay handed me my passport from across the dance floor. This seemed odd, that Clay should have my passport, until he told me some guy had given it to him. I checked the pocket where the passport had been, and was unsurprised to find all the money missing. Luckily, I kept half of my cash in one pocket, and half in the other, so I wasn’t devastated. Honestly, the fact that the thief was willing to return my passport made me happy enough that I didn’t really care about losing some money. C’est la vie...
Tired from my night at the club and two long weeks of staying up late with friends, I planned to rest on my final day in Dar. Clay had been invited to go swimming at the University of Dar, so a small group of us headed over to relax poolside. The pool was the nicest one I’ve seen here in Tanzania, large enough for doing laps and relatively clean. Also, it was filled with far more Tanzanian swimmers than other pools. Without being too mean, let me just say that most people I’ve seen swimming here...lack basic swimming skills. Poolside, I made the comparison that swimming is to Tanzanians as dancing is to white people. I stand by that.
The following day, I caught the early flight home with Jodi. I got home around three in the afternoon, and immediately went to bed. I woke up to eat a quick dinner and then slept until the morning. How often does one successfully sleep for nearly 16 hours? Not often enough… Since my massive sleep, school has started and my daily routine from two posts ago is back in full effect. To sum up my trip in a word- booyah.
As a bonus for those of you who read the entire post, I have a GRE update. I got my scores back the day after I got back to site. At the risk of self-promotion, let me say that I did really well. I got a perfect score on the quantitative section, and near-perfects on the verbal and essay/argument sections. Looks like all my studying paid off, huh? I’m stoked now that I have these strong scores to back me up in applying to graduate school, hoping that any university I apply to will readily admit me. Another cheers! (Kent...)
10 Comments:
At 1/16/2007 11:37 AM, Anonymous said…
Hey Rob,
My name is Kelly. I am a future Peace Corps Volunteer for Tanzania (scheduled departure date is sometime in June). In the course of doing some research on the PC in Tanzania I happened upon your blog; and while reading you blog I noticed that you brought a laptop with you to TZ. I am currently investigating the possibility of bringing one along myself. So I thought I would see if I could bother you for any and all advice you might have on the subject (ie what brand, what type of converters are needed, is it worth it, etc.) I realize that Internet access can be a precious commodity so if you choose not to waste any of it replying to this request, I understand completely. :-)
Cheers and Thanks,
Kelly D. Crist
kellydcrist@gmail.com
P.S. Your blog has been a wonderful insight into PC life in TZ!
At 1/16/2007 8:36 PM, Scott said…
If buying you a drink is all it takes for you to feel "touched" . . . then I should say, prepare yourself for an emotional overload come October.
By the way, start thinking about the ultimate East African Experience tour . . . I`m calling your ass again next time I get drunk. I`ll be expecting a sweet bullet point presentation via a crappy internet phone connect, so be prepared. :)
Also, I know you had mentioned traveling a bit after your time in the core . . . for the record, there is a slew of frat boys hoping you`ll decide to take those travels in South America.
Q: What could be better than Rio?
A: Rio with Robert, Ivan, Harlow, Goldie, and Rubens.
Anyways, great post bro. Talk to you later!
At 1/17/2007 12:06 AM, Anonymous said…
Hey Brodello -
Just curious if you had time to think about our "World Tour of Places We Can Afford 2007" in between beating dogs and swimming.
Also: what in the hell do they have to be mad about in regards to Saddam? I mean, was he a heavy playa in the region, or is it just random, unjustified angry bitching?
Also Also:
"I saw later the fan blades had been put on upside-down; I’m sure the ceiling was nice and cool..."
I'm wondering, Dr. Physics Chewbacca, Ph.D, if the point of that fan wasn't to blow out the hot hot air, which as a nerdlinger, you should know rises. So if the fan was reversed, it would blow the hot air back down on your huge, overheated brain. Just a blue-collar, over-hyphenatin', workin-man's common-two-cents.
And Finally: I don't know if I told you this, but next year for halloween, I'm going as Helen Skellertor, which is basically me in a wheelchair wearing a Skeletor costume while moaning and slapping at people.
P.S. You'll have to tell me all about Mt. Kili and squid and such when I call. Talk to you soon. Don't let me forget to tell you about my screenplay!
At 1/17/2007 12:08 AM, Anonymous said…
Dr. Physics Chewbacca, PhD. is now my new nickname for you, by-the-by....
At 1/17/2007 11:11 PM, Anonymous said…
I laughed so much reading this blog
At 1/17/2007 11:28 PM, Anonymous said…
Congratulations on the great GRE scores.
At 1/18/2007 3:18 AM, Anonymous said…
Q: What could be better than Rio?
A: Rio with Robert, Ivan, Harlow, Goldie, and Rubens.
Real A: Rio with Robert and no sophmores..you guys are so weak...And Robert choose your side.
Toms
At 1/19/2007 5:32 AM, Rob said…
TOMS!!!! Dude. I heard you drive a harley and have another walrus moustache. "Like the Road Warrior, no past and no future..." Hit me up on email sometime.
At 1/19/2007 5:16 PM, Anonymous said…
Chewie,
Since I am neither a "sophmore" or bound to a wheel chair I feel as though I make a good travel companion to said Rio.
PS I'm going to touch you all over... and over and again....
At 2/04/2007 3:49 PM, Anonymous said…
I try to read your blog regularly, but I was well rewarded this time by learning so much about Brendan, my son! Brendan does not share his time with us in detail as you do, so I read your blog and imagine that his experiences are comparable. Thank you for sharing! I also enjoy your sense of humor! I will continue to read and enjoy your blog! Brendan's Mom, Brigitte
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