Goodbye Tanzania

Back in Moshi, and things have got a lot wetter here; the rainy season has begun. Walking to get the milk I am amazed at the size of the bean plants – they have grown from nothing overnight. The downside is that there really is mud now. Thick, sticky, dark, red mud. By the time I get to vaulting across the drain my sandals have a 3 inch mud-wedge – this makes me taller, but not well balanced for jumping. And I could swear that the gap has doubled since I last came. Still, no time to prevaricate, I see the milk van is already there (how come? everything here is late, and today the van is early. Not fair!) I leap and run, spreading mud randomly across the pathway as I go. On the way back I notice that the beans have grown some more. The place is literally growing before my eyes.

Did I tell you about my trip back from Zanzibar? The airline is a small one, using a 16-seater plane that stops in various places on the way if anyone wants. I don’t think you ring a bell to let the pilot know you want the next stop, but it is almost like catching a bus. Anyway, when we flew out to Zanzibar, we made one stop in a pineapple field. Honestly! it was just a grass strip surrounded by pineapples, with a little banana leaf shelter for the one man who wished to board. No toilet of course, so someone wishing to go had to scamper off into the undergrowth, providing on board entertainment for the rest of us.

Well, the journey back was even better - I had my own personal jet. Well perhaps not a jet, there was a propeller on the front, but it was certainly all just for me! Somehow – and I cannot really tell you how – on Sunday, the rather nice chap in the Airline office managed to arrange my flight back on the Monday. When I turned up at the airport, the check-in fellow told me that they had chartered a Private Plane for me – ha ha, I chortled, until I found myself walking (alone) across the tarmac.

So, it was just me and the pilot. We chatted a bit, he opened my water bottle, he checked his emails on his phone (many times – are they really allowed to do this?) and all the while the plane seemed to fly itself. At one point we were both taking snaps of Kilimanjaro above the clouds. It was a bit surreal. When we landed he turned round and flew back again.

There are things I won’t miss – like having to iron all clothes; even underwear! Now this is not because of some nit-piccy dress-code, but because of mango flies. It seems that mango flies lay their eggs in the seams of clothes and if you then wear them they can burrow into your skin and... well I need not go on. All this heartache and trauma is saved if you iron the seams of your clothes. So my clothes are crumpled, but with immaculately pressed edges.

Mangoes... Sigh!... I will really miss them.

And the place, and the people. For the past few evenings I have taken to walking around the dusty ways of Shanty town and beyond, whilst the sun disappears behind the trees; seeing how people live, how children play and now, how they farm every available, tiny space . People offer friendly greetings and I have discovered Salama (peace) which seems an appropriate thing to say as night approaches.

So Salama Tanzania and Asante!

Relentless Patience

Life continues to be interesting here. I have been trying to change my flight back to the mainland (call me unsophisticated, but once I have seen one grain of sand I feel I know the whole beach) however it has been challenging. It seems that the whole internet has been down for Tanzania/ East Africa; so much so that it made national news. [Perhaps I am being picky here, but I had always understood that the whole point of the internet was that if part of it went down - euphemism for being attacked by baddies - there would be many thousands of alternative routes that the information could take.]

Anyhow, the result was that I have had to really brush-up on my patience and acceptance skills. (OK, they're not really skills yet, perhaps they're more like intentions). Fortunately I was already prepared for this by my brother who advised me that I would need to practice Relentless Patience whilst I am here – he knows a thing or two.

So this morning, after sweating more than a few litres in the Cathedral at the Palm Sunday service (real palms, none of your dried stuff here!) I finally managed to change the flight.

One thing of interest (to me, that is – you may not be so taken with it) has been discovering a simile for the African Attitude. I cannot pretend that I fully understand the culture, but I have been faced with the differences so many times that I have thought about it a lot. Today I asked someone the way to the Airline Office and he pointed across the road and said to go straight down the alley. I gaily crossed the street and set off, passing the various crumbling houses, half built houses and really rather nice places until I came to a turning. Following a dog-leg I continued straight then came to a T-junction before deciding to go right then immediate left as this was the closest to ‘straight-on’ that I could find. And so it continued...

And the point of this? Well, in the UK I would put in all the details of lefts/ rights/ turns etc. but here, just giving the general direction is assumed to be enough. A far more simple approach, thus easier to understand, but one that leaves room for error and therefore problems. In Tanzania I have found many people to be pretty laid back, taking a simple approach to life, however things often go wrong. The difference being that they don’t get all wound-up about it – Hakuna matata (which is used here in Zanzibar to mean no problem, but also no rush).

So it seems to me that it’s 

Africa = laid back but things can, and will, go wrong 

or 

The West = precision (and stress) but less chance of problems. 

Hmmmm..... Is there a third choice?

Zanzibar

Well, here I am; hot and sweaty. Very sweaty. 

It seems that I have hit the start of the rainy season, and the air is a billion percent humid (am I perhaps exaggerating somewhat? well my washing is struggling to dry, and I have a distinctly moist look about me). Nevertheless, this is a break and I feel very good for the rest.

So it's good bye clinic toilets, where I have to squat over a hole, flapping my hands and hopping about avoiding mosquitoes whilst rummaging through my bag for toilet paper.

And it's hello holiday toilets where I can sit whilst flapping my hands, then struggle with the power shower they offer instead of loo roll. Now call me old fashioned, but I think I prefer the Asian big urn of water with a plastic bowl floating in it that you pour on your hands and wash with. OK, so there is a bit of splashing about but not the massive jet of cold water which, in my hands, is completely uncontrollable and merely results in water everywhere. [Perhaps I mentioned that nothing dries in this humidity? yes, I thought so]

But look, the sand here is white, the sea is blue, and I went for my first ever snorkel yesterday where I saw all kinds of fish and spiky sea-urchins. It was wonderful.

We are staying in a place on the beach, whilst just behind is the village. Interestingly enough it is almost exactly the same as the villages we have been working in. That is; very young children playing at the road sides, school children milling about, very small shops with just a few items for sale, abandoned houses, houses that are almost shacks and so on. The only difference is that here it is white sand, and there it was orange dust, that gets everywhere.

I love the ingenuity of the place. Before, I saw a tiny child sitting in a 5 litre plastic oil container that had been cut lengthways. A piece of old cloth had been tied around the handle so that they could be dragged along. It looked like they loved it! Here I have seen a child with a long stick pushing a flat piece of wood along the ground, or another running along with an old bicycle tyre. The kids all say hello (jambo, here) and seem very happy. 

The people are also very nice. It is now low season for tourists, so perhaps we get more attention, but the more Swahili I use the more they seem to want to teach me. The man in the post office (and please, this is a post office in name only, just a concrete room, with some washing items, some vegetables & fruit, perhaps biscuits and a fridge with home-made yoghurt in it - yum!) spent a good while this morning teaching me how to say how many yoghurts I wanted and if I wanted them cold. 

Also, a young Massai lad on the beach - selling beads -was teaching me how to say I come from England (everyone seems to want to know where you come from) before telling me about his plans for the future. Like all Massai, he is saving to buy a big herd of cows, and he told me that they only cost a few thousand TZ shillings. I think I must have got my translation wrong there, that's under a fiver...

Thoughts on Life here

I have to start by saying that I feel quite exposed now – somehow the working and the stress of all the car problems, not speaking the language, not really understanding the culture and so on, have all been getting to me slowly. This means that I can be affected by things that I have previously been impervious to, and it also means that it is time that I had a break.

Yesterday, the man who was helping move chairs at the clinic was wearing a shirt that had a check pattern – the weave of the cotton went across and up & down in squares. When I looked at his shirt I realised that he had worn through the up & down red stripes and you could now only see the sideways blue stripes. How interesting, I thought. Then it dawned on me that I have never seen that in the UK – we would have thrown the shirt away at the first fray on the collar – this was major wear and tear – and still he was still wearing it. It was all I could do to hold back the tears.

It is the same in so many areas; we see, people with so little, and often with many problems, yet they continue without making a fuss. I feel very humble.

I have also experienced more of the wonderful support that people offer you when you’re in trouble. In the car we must have hit a stone and when we dropped Lorraine off a man came up to the car telling us “madam, you have a problem”. It seemed that the fuel tank was leaking petrol. Immediately one of his friends got down in the dust and tried to stem the flow with his fingers – which he did fairly well. But of course this was not a long term solution! then another man came, mixing some glue, and tried to fix the hole!! This is an astoundingly resourceful country.

Unfortunately his attempt was only partially successful so we had to speed off to the garage before we ran out of fuel, each one of us fearing the massive expense of fixing the problem. [This is a 4x4 vehicle and fuel tanks come expensive!] The man in the garage now knows us well now, you could almost say that we are family. So, once again, we bowled up with a car in trouble and explained the problem, emphasising that we are only volunteers with limited finances. He must have seen the anxiety in our every feature and leaned back, smiling, before telling us not to worry as we questioned him about price. Can you believe that he fixed it in a couple of hours and only charged £16!!!!

I came home early and again tried to get a bus, but without luck. However once more an Angel bus stopped and picked me up – that is, one that turns up when I need it, offers me a lift and has Jesus Saves, or similar on the front. Again, the driver did not expect or want any money for this.

So, to sum up, there have been amazing experiences here, both good and challenging, but it has been worth it. Very, very worth it.

As I said in the last homeopathy posting, we have had to stop working, and have decided to go to Zanzibar. However Zanzibar is part of Tanzania, so I plan to continue to write odd snippets - hopefully in a less stressed manner - in case you're interested.

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Homoeopathy at an End

It seems that this is to be the last homoeopathy posting. Thursday night we learned that the rules have been changed for visas and what was OK before is no longer OK, so we cannot work. For me, this means stopping over a week before I have planned, which is a shock, but it doesn’t take away what I have learned. [For people after us, this should not be a problem though.]

This meant that Friday was our final clinic and it was good to see a massai man (arriving on a bicycle) who had a bowed knee from childhood. He had various head pains, high blood pressure and knee pain.

He found that the remedy helped him enormously – his smile was lovely when he said this – particularly with the HBP. Hopefully, longer term it will also help his legs as at his first appointment he described how he felt that the second knee was beginning to deform.

There have been some wonderful improvements to note, not least the seriously ill home visit I made to an AIDS patient, who looked to be at the end, on a drip with oxygen and not responding ton anything. On Wednesday I saw him and he had eaten two cups of porridge and been talking a little in the morning; he was barely conscious that afternoon, but he moved his head and raised his eyebrows when I went – perhaps he recognised me?

 

With all the difficulties I had at the start, I have finally got into the swing of things; seeing many people in one day, taking cases, and searching for remedies, whilst still being able to pick up visual and other clues. I have got it and then it’s time to leave. Humph! but there it is.

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A Balance of Power

One of the hot topics of news here is the recent elections in next door Kenya. As predicted, there was trouble and many people died, but after a couple of days the results were announced and the “good guy” got in. I have to own to being incredibly ignorant here, but our Kenyan translators have been educating me and even the taxi driver yesterday was telling us what a good thing this is. As usual, the foundation of the conflict there was power and tribalism or – it’s not what-you-know but who-you-know.

Power also seems to be the theme in our small Homoeopathy for Health in Africa community. First the translators’ electricity went down, then the Sherrs’ electricity, including the generator (I know that you are now well aware of out random power provision here, but this was just individual houses). Then the translators’ electricity returned but the cleaner blew up the gas cooker (I didn’t like to ask). Finally – and most tragically – after hours of cutting, marinating & preparing our meal last night, the gas cylinder ran out before we had a chance to produce a gastronomic delight. As I say tragedy. But this was as nothing when, in the morning, it dawned on each one of us individually – no boiling water! For us Brits that means no tea (and words cannot convey the enormity of this loss) and for Cynthia this resulted in no coffee (which quite frankly is the Argentinian equivalent catastrophe). We are all pretty easy-going here and no cooked food, cold showers or torch-light reading can all be borne with equal grace. But no tea in the morning?

It was at that point that I seriously began to consider putting the iron in a mug to heat some water (OK not seriously). However salvation was on its way in the form of Joseph, our caretaker; he came back and we were able to go and get a new gas cylinder. (Of course, as you would expect, this then called for the Gas Happy Dance).

I am beginning to realise that, despite our comparatively simple existence (that’s compared to the UK not to Tanzania) there are still so many things we rely on. Let’s face it, during our desperation phase we considered – but did not act on – the idea of going out to Joseph’s place and using the wood fire they use to cook on. So we weren't desperate enough to do what they do every day....

More about Life in Moshi

On Monday I woke up to a strange smell – damp ground, for lo! it had been raining in the night. I cannot tell you what good news this was as it meant no dust – or at least less dust. The same happened on Tuesday night, but this time, driving to clinic, I found that no dust turns into more mud. Hey ho, swings and roundabouts. 

Coming back from town I decided that it was time I got a bus (dalla-dalla). Not as simple as you might think; to the untrained eye – that means mine – there is no clear system of numbering or identification. The result is that the surest way to get the right bus is to walk until there are very few options to get the wrong bus i.e. walk to the edge of town and wait at the end of the main road to Shanty town (home).

There is a lovely shady spot there and some people were already waiting so I joined them. A few minibussy things drove past, with the accompanying raised heads from us... followed by dropped heads as they sped past - they were not dalla-dallas. Then one did stop and we all raced to it. Some discussion ensued but then a dalla-dalla, loaded to the limits, pulled up and everyone left and ran towards that instead. However, in the first bus I had heard the word ‘International’, and knowing that our road is near the International school I asked if they were going that way. Apparently not, but there were going to Lima road – the main road here – so I took my chance. I realised that it was a private bus, but private vehicles do seem to pick people up, here, in fact the motor bikes are forever tooting to see if you want a lift – I assumed that they get a petrol contribution and everyone is happy. With this in mind, when we reached my road we stopped and I offered the dalla-dalla fare, but was generously told no problem. As it drove off I saw that it was a gospel bus, and so thanked the angel that had sent it.

In the evening I slathered on the Avon skin soft, to test the theory that it is a fantastic mosquito repellent and have decided that it is just a myth – the mosquitoes love the stuff and I watched one gobble my skin soft-drenched hand. Humph!

Later on that night, the rain theme continued, resulting in a spectacular thunderstorm. Not a lot of rain, but truly stunning lightning. Lorraine and I grabbed chairs and set them up facing the mountain and sat there gazing upwards. It was like a firework display with the occasional ooh! and aah! from us as the sky lit up dramatically and a sporadic forked hand spread across the heavens. Who needs TV?