Wes and I are off tomorrow on our cross-country train journey from Tanzania to Zambia. We are not sure what to expect, but no matter what I'm sure it'll be an interesting experience. We may also have a train safari moment, as the train goes through Selous, one of the largest game reserves in Tanzania. Before we set off, I wanted to wish everyone and their families a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. I hope you all take full advantage of the holiday season.
In other news, the person who has my computer inadvertently logged into my MSN messenger. This lead to a rather amusing three-way conversation between my sister who was actually on MSN, the person with my computer and myself, as I communicated by phone with my sister. We tried to negotiate the return of my computer, or at least the information on it. However, after a lengthy MSN exchange, our friend with the computer backed out. Afterall, they had purchased the computer and therefore have a right to keep it. Yip, I'm still bitter about it.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
Not a drop to be found
We are going through a waterless phase. Last Thursday, the water pressure in our taps dropped dramatically and finally trickled off to nothing on Friday morning. Much to our surprise, we were told that no water had been supplied to certain suburbs in Dar since Wednesday morning. We live in one of those suburbs without water, but we hadn't noticed the cut in the supply immediatly because of the reserves in the water tanks on the roof of our apartment building. We were told the water would come back on Saturday evening, but there was nary a drop to be seen. Apparently, it will be back this evening. In the meantime, we discovered a "water man". The water man has a rough, push cart brimming with bright yellow jerry cans, which sweat in the heat and slop water unevenly down their sides. All the containers in our apartment have been roped in to receive the litres of slightly brown water that the water man has to offer. These litres are carefully used for washing dishes and bodies. In the 40 degree heat, there is no question about the need to have a shower on a daily basis.
Dal Law Reunion
Me, Sarah and MoiraThis month, we have a steady stream of visitors coming to stay with us. We started December with a bang, as two friends of mine from Dalhousie Law School, Moira and Sarah, came to explore the wonders of Tanzania. Moira made the long trek from New Brunswick to Dar, while Sarah hopped up to Dar from Johannesburg. It was great to spend time with old friends and to have a little slice of Canada in Tanzania. Later that same week, Wes, my boyfriend, touched down in Dar for a month long hiatus.
Moira, Sarah, Wes and I headed over to Zanzibar to celebrate our informal Dal Law Reunion. For scheduling reasons, Moira and Sarah went ahead to Stone town on Friday while Wes and I caught the early morning ferry the next day. It was a crowded 30 minute shuffle from the customs office onto the ferry, which was bulging at the seams with televisions, people and leafy, green vegtables. We burbled out of port about 45 minutes behind schedule only to stop 10 minutes into the trip for the crew to fix the ferry's engine. It was not a confidence inspiring move. Thankfully, we made it to Stone Town in one piece. After rejoining forces with Moira and Sarah, we were on our way to the beautiful and secluded beaches of the east coast of Zanzibar. As always, the beach was amazing and we had a very chill 24 hours, which were spent enjoying the sand, the sun and a couple of drinks. Unfortunately, I was feeling a bit under the weather, as I experienced my first rumblings of the equivalent of Dehli belly. Thankfully, it came and went fairly fast.
After a flying visit, Sarah and Moira headed back to Cape Town to explore the winelands and give shark diving a try. Wes and I stayed on in Stone Town for a couple more days to explore the attractions that we did not have a chance to see on our previous visit. The extra days gave us the opportunity to go snorkelling. As long as you can swim, you can snorkel. However, it doesn't necessarily mean you can snorkel well. I spent the first 15 minutes of snorkelling trying to figure out how to stop inhaling sea water. Eventually, I decided on a whale-like manuver of puffing all the water out of the tube every 5 minutes or so. When I had my face mask in the water, it felt like I had stepped into an episode of National Geographic, as I watched schools of fish dance by and a lone angel fish hoover the sea floor. As we were having a wildlife-themed day, Wes and I also went to feed the giant tortoises that make their home on Prison Island. The tortoises were a gift to the British in the 1900's and have been breeding on Prison Island ever since. It was fascinating to watch their wrinkly necks unwrinkle as they extended them to snap at the greens in our hands. There is definitely no chewing going on here.
Later this month, Wes and I will be changing places with a couple of the other CBA interns, Roanna and Prasanna. We will be heading down to South Africa, while Roanna and Prasanna will be heading to Dar from Grahamstown in South Africa and Addis Abba in Ethiopia respectively to spend their Christmas breaks with Cristiano. Wes and I are taking a slighter longer route to South Africa. We are taking the train from Dar to Lusaka in Zambia before catching a flight to Johannesburg. It promises to be an interesting journey. 
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Getting into the News
Our whole climbing Kili experience was documented by an enthusiastic camera crew who also took the opportunity to act as news reporters. One member of the camera crew submitted a report regarding the climb using his mobile phone to http://www.africanews.com/site/list_messages/21907 I'm not sure what the report says because my computer doesn't allow me to open multimedia. If it has something incriminating on it, let me know.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
This is Africa
I have had a spat with Dar. A couple of weeks ago, I couldn’t get enough of Dar. However, at the moment, I am looking forward to getting out of Dar over Christmas and recharging my batteries.
While we were hiking Kili, my friend’s apartment was broken into. My friend lives in the same apartment building as I do and his apartment is one floor above mine. The break-in was unfortunate for him because the perpetrator made off with stacks of his stuff. It was unfortunate for me because my friend had borrowed my laptop while I was away and it was one of the items that walked out of his apartment. My laptop had all my pictures, music and documents for the past 4 years. Needless to day, I was a bit upset by it all. For a variety of reasons, we think our security guards are responsible for the break-in. However, our landlord refuses to do anything about the security company and I think the possibility of the police retrieving my laptop is zero. It is a frustrating situation that is unlikely to have any positive resolution.
I also had a small work issue. My supervisor forgot to tell me that there was a November deadline for submitting the first draft of the human rights report. I first heard about the deadline when people started questioning me about the status of the report. It was rather awkward, as I tried to figure out what they were talking about. After a couple of conversations with my supervisor and the executive director, I think we have sorted it out. However, I was not impressed at being put in that situation.
While we were hiking Kili, my friend’s apartment was broken into. My friend lives in the same apartment building as I do and his apartment is one floor above mine. The break-in was unfortunate for him because the perpetrator made off with stacks of his stuff. It was unfortunate for me because my friend had borrowed my laptop while I was away and it was one of the items that walked out of his apartment. My laptop had all my pictures, music and documents for the past 4 years. Needless to day, I was a bit upset by it all. For a variety of reasons, we think our security guards are responsible for the break-in. However, our landlord refuses to do anything about the security company and I think the possibility of the police retrieving my laptop is zero. It is a frustrating situation that is unlikely to have any positive resolution.
I also had a small work issue. My supervisor forgot to tell me that there was a November deadline for submitting the first draft of the human rights report. I first heard about the deadline when people started questioning me about the status of the report. It was rather awkward, as I tried to figure out what they were talking about. After a couple of conversations with my supervisor and the executive director, I think we have sorted it out. However, I was not impressed at being put in that situation.
Raising the Roof
At Gilman's PointI’ve split this post into two sections because goodness knows that I dislike reading posts that are 5 pages long. The first section is all about the final ascent to the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro, while the second section is the other 4.5 days of hiking to get to the final ascent and back down. Somehow, it is sexier to talk about the final ascent first. Pictures from Kili can be accessed through the link in the Pictures sidebar.
On Tuesday, we did a heart-pounding, rapid-breathing, eight hour hike from Horombo (the second hut on Kili) to Kibo (the hut at the base of the final ascent). We hiked through a lunar landscape, carefully placing our dusty footprints in the beaten down line winding its way up the mountain. It was pretty much all uphill, all the time. This stretch took me ages to do because I was helping one of my co-workers who was more than a little under the weather and we were going “pole pole” (slowly, slowly). On reaching Kibo, we had a light dinner as altitude sickness had quashed our appetites and it was off to bed at the late hour of 6pm. As they say, early to bed, early to rise. In our case, we had to get up at 11pm to make our final preparations before setting off for the final ascent at midnight.
The final ascent is a 5 km hike up an almost vertical hillside that typically takes between 5 to 7 hours to complete. During the hike, you gain almost a 1,000m in altitude. Of the 21 people in our group who started Kili, 16 set off for the final ascent. During the hike, my focus narrowed down to the dim pool of light that spilled from my headlamp onto the feet of the person in front of me. I blindly followed the feet up switchback after switchback, as I concentrated on bending my leg, taking a step and then breathing. Breathing was a bit of an issue due to the altitude. At one point, I had to sit down on a rock for a few minutes in an effort to calm my steam train breathing. This brief break gave me an opportunity to admire the parade of lights steadily bobbing their way up the hillside.
After my break, things were peachy for about an hour or two. I joined forces with the Executive Director of the LHRC and one of our guides, Alex, and we inched our way up the mountain together. Unfortunately, I was getting colder and colder by the minute and starting to feel the effects of altitude sickness (a pounding headache and constant nausea). I had a bit of a morale breakdown at 4:30 am when I sat on a rock and cried. My guide was having none of it. He stood me up and vigorously rubbed my arms, back and hands to warm me up. I felt like I was a toddler. He then issued a firm “we go” and we went. We continued to go until we reached Gilman’s Point. Gilman’s Point is 5685m above sea level and it is on the crater rim of Kili. The summit, Uhuru Peak, is about an hour or two hike from Gilman’s Point. I didn’t make the summit, as I was done and done by the time we reached Gilman’s. Instead, I enjoyed watching a hard-earned sunrise and listened to three guides randomly break into a song about Kili. It was awesome.
After a 15 minute rest at Gilman’s, we embarked on a slipping, sliding descent. After 8 hours of hard hiking, we arrived back at Kibo hut and our sleeping bags. An hour long nap and a bowl of soup, and we were on our way back to Horombo. I was somewhat dazed on the hike back to Horombo, as I was exhausted. It became a matter of moving my feet and hoping they hit the right spot.
All in all, six people from our party made it to the summit, where they placed a copy of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, and two people made it to Gilman’s Point. It was an amazing experience to stand at Gilman’s Point and look out over the world. However, I think it will be a once in a lifetime experience for me, as I’m not overly keen to give it another go.
If anyone is thinking about doing Kili, I met a couple of great guides who are keen to go up Kili as many times as possible and can arrange everything for you. If you are interested in contacting them, send an email to:
Zephania Mbwambo zephaniambwambo@yahoo.com
Dida didassm@yahoo.com
On Tuesday, we did a heart-pounding, rapid-breathing, eight hour hike from Horombo (the second hut on Kili) to Kibo (the hut at the base of the final ascent). We hiked through a lunar landscape, carefully placing our dusty footprints in the beaten down line winding its way up the mountain. It was pretty much all uphill, all the time. This stretch took me ages to do because I was helping one of my co-workers who was more than a little under the weather and we were going “pole pole” (slowly, slowly). On reaching Kibo, we had a light dinner as altitude sickness had quashed our appetites and it was off to bed at the late hour of 6pm. As they say, early to bed, early to rise. In our case, we had to get up at 11pm to make our final preparations before setting off for the final ascent at midnight.
The final ascent is a 5 km hike up an almost vertical hillside that typically takes between 5 to 7 hours to complete. During the hike, you gain almost a 1,000m in altitude. Of the 21 people in our group who started Kili, 16 set off for the final ascent. During the hike, my focus narrowed down to the dim pool of light that spilled from my headlamp onto the feet of the person in front of me. I blindly followed the feet up switchback after switchback, as I concentrated on bending my leg, taking a step and then breathing. Breathing was a bit of an issue due to the altitude. At one point, I had to sit down on a rock for a few minutes in an effort to calm my steam train breathing. This brief break gave me an opportunity to admire the parade of lights steadily bobbing their way up the hillside.
After my break, things were peachy for about an hour or two. I joined forces with the Executive Director of the LHRC and one of our guides, Alex, and we inched our way up the mountain together. Unfortunately, I was getting colder and colder by the minute and starting to feel the effects of altitude sickness (a pounding headache and constant nausea). I had a bit of a morale breakdown at 4:30 am when I sat on a rock and cried. My guide was having none of it. He stood me up and vigorously rubbed my arms, back and hands to warm me up. I felt like I was a toddler. He then issued a firm “we go” and we went. We continued to go until we reached Gilman’s Point. Gilman’s Point is 5685m above sea level and it is on the crater rim of Kili. The summit, Uhuru Peak, is about an hour or two hike from Gilman’s Point. I didn’t make the summit, as I was done and done by the time we reached Gilman’s. Instead, I enjoyed watching a hard-earned sunrise and listened to three guides randomly break into a song about Kili. It was awesome.
After a 15 minute rest at Gilman’s, we embarked on a slipping, sliding descent. After 8 hours of hard hiking, we arrived back at Kibo hut and our sleeping bags. An hour long nap and a bowl of soup, and we were on our way back to Horombo. I was somewhat dazed on the hike back to Horombo, as I was exhausted. It became a matter of moving my feet and hoping they hit the right spot.
All in all, six people from our party made it to the summit, where they placed a copy of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, and two people made it to Gilman’s Point. It was an amazing experience to stand at Gilman’s Point and look out over the world. However, I think it will be a once in a lifetime experience for me, as I’m not overly keen to give it another go.
If anyone is thinking about doing Kili, I met a couple of great guides who are keen to go up Kili as many times as possible and can arrange everything for you. If you are interested in contacting them, send an email to:
Zephania Mbwambo zephaniambwambo@yahoo.com
Dida didassm@yahoo.com
Step by Step
Before heading to Kili on Saturday, we started the day with a march around Moshi to draw attention to the anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and the campaign against gender-based violence. I loved that our march was headed by a brass band in full gear, which trumpeted our arrival at every corner. After the march and speeches by various dignitaries, we headed back to the hotel to collect our hiking party and start our journey. However, our take off was slightly delayed by the arrest of one of party members for littering. Apparently, it is illegal to litter in Moshi and this provision is strictly enforced.
The hike from Marangu Gate, one of the gates into the Kili National Park, to Mandara, the first hut, takes place on a relatively gentle path that breaks its way through the forest. On our hike to Mandara, we briefly flirted with a jumbled rock road that is used by emergency vehicles to take people off the mountain. This road ends before Mandara. If you get ill or injured on Kili, you have to either walk yourself down to this road or be carried down the mountain on a stretcher by two porters. Kili is not a good place to be ill or injured.
Day one and two of hiking up Kili on the Coca-Cola route were pretty easy going and we didn’t hit any altitude problems until we reached Horombo, the second hut. Don’t get me wrong, it was still pretty hard work, as both days involved 6 to 8 hours of hiking uphill while carrying a 5-6 kg pack. I know it’s only 5-6 kgs, but I have not been working out enough for that to be a comfortable weight. Luckily for us, we had porters who were carrying our main bags, which were significantly heavier than our daypacks.
The working conditions of the porters are a contentious issue. Legally, a porter is supposed to carry a maximum of 20 kgs. However, if some money gets slipped into the left pocket, a porter may end up carrying upwards of 25kgs. Being a human rights organization, we did a very informal fact finding while we were hiking up Kili, which revealed other issues regarding porter’s rights, such as: poor sleeping facilities, inadequate food, poor pay and a lack of health or life insurance. The LHRC intends to arrange for a formal fact finding to occur so that the specifics of these issues can be nailed down.
Day three of our trip was an acclimatization day so we spent an extra day at Horombo and visited a place called Zebra Rocks. Our hike up to Zebra Rocks was the first time that I became conscious of the altitude change and the thinness of the air. I also started to appreciate my bite-sized chocolates, which were giving me bite-sized amounts of energy. If I were to do Kili again, I would pack double the amount of chocolate. Days four and five were spent getting to the final ascent and back down to Horombo.
Day six was a 4 am wake-up call so that we could hike from Horombo to Marangu Gate for a press conference at noon. We all made it to Marangu Gate at noon for our 15 minutes of fame in our sweating, unbathed glory.
The hike from Marangu Gate, one of the gates into the Kili National Park, to Mandara, the first hut, takes place on a relatively gentle path that breaks its way through the forest. On our hike to Mandara, we briefly flirted with a jumbled rock road that is used by emergency vehicles to take people off the mountain. This road ends before Mandara. If you get ill or injured on Kili, you have to either walk yourself down to this road or be carried down the mountain on a stretcher by two porters. Kili is not a good place to be ill or injured.
Day one and two of hiking up Kili on the Coca-Cola route were pretty easy going and we didn’t hit any altitude problems until we reached Horombo, the second hut. Don’t get me wrong, it was still pretty hard work, as both days involved 6 to 8 hours of hiking uphill while carrying a 5-6 kg pack. I know it’s only 5-6 kgs, but I have not been working out enough for that to be a comfortable weight. Luckily for us, we had porters who were carrying our main bags, which were significantly heavier than our daypacks.
The working conditions of the porters are a contentious issue. Legally, a porter is supposed to carry a maximum of 20 kgs. However, if some money gets slipped into the left pocket, a porter may end up carrying upwards of 25kgs. Being a human rights organization, we did a very informal fact finding while we were hiking up Kili, which revealed other issues regarding porter’s rights, such as: poor sleeping facilities, inadequate food, poor pay and a lack of health or life insurance. The LHRC intends to arrange for a formal fact finding to occur so that the specifics of these issues can be nailed down.
Day three of our trip was an acclimatization day so we spent an extra day at Horombo and visited a place called Zebra Rocks. Our hike up to Zebra Rocks was the first time that I became conscious of the altitude change and the thinness of the air. I also started to appreciate my bite-sized chocolates, which were giving me bite-sized amounts of energy. If I were to do Kili again, I would pack double the amount of chocolate. Days four and five were spent getting to the final ascent and back down to Horombo.
Day six was a 4 am wake-up call so that we could hike from Horombo to Marangu Gate for a press conference at noon. We all made it to Marangu Gate at noon for our 15 minutes of fame in our sweating, unbathed glory.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
To the top of the world Africa-style
This week, the LHRC is travelling to Moshi in Northern Tanzania for a three day retreat. At the retreat, the LHRC will assess its performance for 2008 and develop its work plans for 2009. As all the lectures and planning are in Swahili, my participation in the retreat will be limited to the social activities and continuing to write the Human Rights Report.
After the retreat, the LHRC has arranged for its employees and members of other civil society organisations to climb Mount Kilimanjaro to celebrate the 60th anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and to support a campaign against gender-based violence. At this point, I think there are 30 people climbing. We are starting the climb this Saturday and winding our way up the mountain on the so-called Coca-Cola route. There was a fair amount of back and forth as to whether the climb was going to happen, so I left my preparations for the climb to the last minute. Basically, this means that I spent last night knocking on my neighbours' doors to see whether they had any Kili-appropriate gear and I'll be making a quick trip today to Mr. Price to buy an extra pair of pants. Thank goodness, I brought some of the important stuff with me, like long johns, a toque and altitude sickness pills. Everything I can't find, we will rent when we get to the mountain.
In about ten days, I will be able to tell you whether I saw the top of Africa or if I just got a really good idea of what the top of Africa may look like. Wish me luck.
After the retreat, the LHRC has arranged for its employees and members of other civil society organisations to climb Mount Kilimanjaro to celebrate the 60th anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and to support a campaign against gender-based violence. At this point, I think there are 30 people climbing. We are starting the climb this Saturday and winding our way up the mountain on the so-called Coca-Cola route. There was a fair amount of back and forth as to whether the climb was going to happen, so I left my preparations for the climb to the last minute. Basically, this means that I spent last night knocking on my neighbours' doors to see whether they had any Kili-appropriate gear and I'll be making a quick trip today to Mr. Price to buy an extra pair of pants. Thank goodness, I brought some of the important stuff with me, like long johns, a toque and altitude sickness pills. Everything I can't find, we will rent when we get to the mountain.
In about ten days, I will be able to tell you whether I saw the top of Africa or if I just got a really good idea of what the top of Africa may look like. Wish me luck.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Teacher for a day (or two)
In the time I’ve been in Tanzania, innumerable, young, black children have walked past me and thrown a very polite “Good Morning, Teacher” my way. Their politeness and their assumption that I am a teacher always make me smile. This week, I almost deserved that greeting, as I became a teacher of sorts.Roughly six weeks ago, I was meant to travel to Stone Town to give a two-day course to the Zanzibar Legal Services Centre (the “ZLSC”) on how to write the human rights report. For some reason or another, the training date fell through. After a fair amount of to-ing and fro-ing, it was decided on Wednesday that I would spend this weekend doing the training in Pemba.
Zanzibar is made up of a number of islands located off the coast of Tanzania. The largest inhabited island (and most popular) is Unguja, which is home to Stone Town. The next biggest island is Pemba. Pemba is fairly underdeveloped, its economy is dominated by agriculture and its power goes out on a regular basis. I stayed in its capital city, Chake Chake. Chake Chake is a one cow town and the cow is in pretty bad shape. Rumour has it that the Zanzibarian government funnels very little money to Pemba because it is a stronghold of the opposition party, the Civic United Front. The ruling party and the CUF are still arguing about whether the 2005 general elections were free and fair. You could say there was some animosity between the parties.
There are two ways to get Pemba: (1) take the once-daily 12-seater plane, or (2) hitch a ride on the somewhat random fishing boats going from Unguja to Pemba. I took the flight option. The flight gives you a bird eye’s view of beautiful beaches and underwater islands reaching for the sun. On my arrival in Pemba, I was greeted by a quick “Miss Sela” and whisked away by an eager taxi driver who the ZLSC had sent to pick me up. I was pretty glad that the ZLSC had arranged transportation for me, as there wasn’t another taxi in sight and, according to my guide book, it was unlikely that one would come along.
On Saturday morning, I looked around at a table of eight serious faces and we started our two day session of unpacking the process for writing the Human Rights Report. For the past three years, the ZLSC has researched and written the Zanzibar portion of the Human Rights Report. However, their portion of the report has been heavily criticized for a variety of reasons. The purpose of this training was to assist the ZLSC in getting a handle on different research methods, how to organize material, the importance of citing sources, what type of information should be included in the Human Rights Report, and the basic principles of good report writing. We also did a fairly exhaustive brain storming session on what information should be included in this year’s report specifically. Hopefully, the training and the “guide” I wrote will help build the ZLSC’s capacity to write this year’s report and future reports. There was a fair amount of discussion and Q&A throughout the training, which I think is a good sign. I enjoyed facilitating the training, although I found it somewhat tiring. I am not used to being on the other side of the teacher-student fence and the Pemba heat was intense. In Grade Six, I was told by a teacher that girls don’t sweat, they glow. She had obviously never been to Pemba when it was 37 degrees with 85% humidity. It was hot and the fan was fighting an uphill battle.
I really enjoyed meeting the lawyers of the ZLSC and the ZLSC did an awesome job of hosting me. They arranged my accommodation for me and one of the ZLSC lawyers, Aziz, had me over to his house for dinner just about every night. These dinners gave me the opportunity to try authentic Zanzibarian food, like dagaar (sp?)(1-2 cm fish, deep fried and eaten whole), chicken and coconut stew, and haluu (a gelatinous substance flavoured with spices, like cinnamon and cloves). I have to admit, my portion of dagaar was accompanied by big swallows of water. It was a little fishy for my taste. Aziz also took me out for a night on the town, which in Pemba means hitting up the local army mess where you can eat meat kebabs and dance under the starlit sky. As 95% of the Pemba population is Muslim, the army mess is also one of the very few places in Chake Chake where you can get a beer. It was a great place to spend a Saturday night.
I've added some pics that can accessed through the link "Pemba in Pictures".
The Tourist-side of Life
The folks from ZLSC and IAs the LHRC was given rather late notice of the date and place of the ZLSC training, we could only book flights for Pemba that left one day early and returned one day later than was necessary for the ZLSC training. On the upside, the delay gave me a chance to see the sights and sounds of Pemba. On the downside, it meant spending two extra days in Chake Chake where a whole lot of nothing goes on.
One of my side trips while I was on Pembe was to Kideke Forest to see a colony of flying foxes. Flying foxes are one of the largest species of fruit bats and they are endemic to Pemba. When I was a kid, I had read various Durrell stories where the author had collected flying foxes. I was intrigued. Kideke Forest turned out to be a small stand of native forest that was hemmed in on all sides by cassava fields. Our guides were small boys ranging in age from five to twelvish who energetically clapped their hands to make the bats fly. Not exactly conservation-friendly. Literally hundreds of dark-winged, tawny-bodied bats hung from the trees, their twittering and wing beats filling the air when they burst into flight. They were a sight to behold.
On Monday, my colleagues from the ZLSC took me on a lightening quick trip of the sights and sounds of Pemba. As all good lawyers do, we started with a quick jaunt to the court house in Chake Chake. A few quick facts about the judicial system in Pemba: (1) there is only one lawyer on Pemba so if you don’t hire him first, you are out of luck and you have to import a lawyer from Unguja or the Mainland; (2) the High Court (which would be like our provincial Supreme Court) only sits once every 6 months or more, depending on their travel allowance; and (3) the Land Tribunal, which was established in 2004, has yet to render a decision. There a few issues with the judicial system. It got a bit more exciting after that, as we headed to the north of the island to visit Vumawimbi Beach, the lighthouse and the Manta Reef Hotel. Vumawimbi was deserted and we were warned by the locals not to walk on the beach, as robbers were believed to be hiding in the forest that is adjacent to the beach. Apparently, due to Pemba’s proximity to Mombasa, there is a fair amount of smuggling that goes on and the smugglers bring in bad elements from Mombasa. Our next stop was a 100 year old lighthouse, of which the most notable feature was the amazing view from the top of the northern tip of Pemba and Kenya. I really appreciated the time my colleagues took to show me around Pemba and the effort they made to ensure I took it all in. Pemba is still a bit off the beaten track, but I am glad I got a couple of days to explore what it was all about.
One of my side trips while I was on Pembe was to Kideke Forest to see a colony of flying foxes. Flying foxes are one of the largest species of fruit bats and they are endemic to Pemba. When I was a kid, I had read various Durrell stories where the author had collected flying foxes. I was intrigued. Kideke Forest turned out to be a small stand of native forest that was hemmed in on all sides by cassava fields. Our guides were small boys ranging in age from five to twelvish who energetically clapped their hands to make the bats fly. Not exactly conservation-friendly. Literally hundreds of dark-winged, tawny-bodied bats hung from the trees, their twittering and wing beats filling the air when they burst into flight. They were a sight to behold.
On Monday, my colleagues from the ZLSC took me on a lightening quick trip of the sights and sounds of Pemba. As all good lawyers do, we started with a quick jaunt to the court house in Chake Chake. A few quick facts about the judicial system in Pemba: (1) there is only one lawyer on Pemba so if you don’t hire him first, you are out of luck and you have to import a lawyer from Unguja or the Mainland; (2) the High Court (which would be like our provincial Supreme Court) only sits once every 6 months or more, depending on their travel allowance; and (3) the Land Tribunal, which was established in 2004, has yet to render a decision. There a few issues with the judicial system. It got a bit more exciting after that, as we headed to the north of the island to visit Vumawimbi Beach, the lighthouse and the Manta Reef Hotel. Vumawimbi was deserted and we were warned by the locals not to walk on the beach, as robbers were believed to be hiding in the forest that is adjacent to the beach. Apparently, due to Pemba’s proximity to Mombasa, there is a fair amount of smuggling that goes on and the smugglers bring in bad elements from Mombasa. Our next stop was a 100 year old lighthouse, of which the most notable feature was the amazing view from the top of the northern tip of Pemba and Kenya. I really appreciated the time my colleagues took to show me around Pemba and the effort they made to ensure I took it all in. Pemba is still a bit off the beaten track, but I am glad I got a couple of days to explore what it was all about.
Octupus hanging out to dry
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
On a different note
Two years ago, I spent a few months working in Northern Uganda. It was an eye opening experience. Northern Uganda has been wracked by a long running civil war, the hallmark of which has been the abduction of children by the Lord's Resistance Army. These abducted children become child solidiers, porters or sex objects. An article in Saturday's Globe & Mail (www.theglobeandmail.com/servlet/story/RTGAM.20081024.wongwen1024/BNStory/International/home) examines how international law deals with people who were abducted by the LRA and who commited crimes during the course of the civil war while they were still legally considered to be children and after they crossed the legal threshold into adulthood. It makes for an interesting read.
If you are interested in supporting the children of Northern Uganda, donations can be made through the Gulu Walk website at http://guluwalk.com/
If you are interested in supporting the children of Northern Uganda, donations can be made through the Gulu Walk website at http://guluwalk.com/
Monday, October 27, 2008
These are the days of my life
It has been a quiet couple of weeks in Dar, as we have started to fall into routines and established something of a social network. There is a crowd of young expats that live in or around our apartment building, which makes socialising very easy. We have fallen into the habit of having dinner together once or twice a week. This week, it was our turn and crepes were the order of the day. Thankfully, Cristiano had packed a little Canadiana in the form of souvenir bottles of maple syrup. The maple syrup definitely added a little something to our dinner.
We have also taken advantage of the European film festival that has been running for the past 2 weeks. Its big selling point is that it is FREE and that it has great movies. My favourite so far was “The Lives of Others”. It is a German movie about East Germany when it was behind the iron curtain and the role of its secret service, the Stasi. I would highly recommend seeing it, if you haven’t already.
Other than that, we continue to take Swahili lessons and, on my part at least, experience marginal improvements in my ability to communicate in Swahili (Cristiano has fast-tracked his Swahili with a three week intensive course). When our Swahili teacher arrived at our apartment on Monday night, she asked if she could put her chicken somewhere. I offered to put it in the fridge so it would stay cold. She laughed at me and opened the plastic bag to reveal a little, white chicken peering out at me. It was a very African moment.
I wasn’t thrilled when I first found out I was going to Dar. I had gone through Dar a couple of years previously and my impression was of a dirty, chaotic city teeming with somewhat unfriendly people. It is still a dirty and chaotic city, but I have had a change of heart. As I did my aerobics class yesterday morning to the beat of African bongo and the enthusiastic yips of a little Indian woman in front of me, I realised I really like living in Dar. I like the energy, the good natured joshing on the dalla dalla in the mornings, the generally helpful people and just about everything else. There are moments when I wish I was elsewhere like when the dalla dalla is stampeded or the power goes out for several hours. However, all in all, I heart Dar (or at least for the moment I do).
We have also taken advantage of the European film festival that has been running for the past 2 weeks. Its big selling point is that it is FREE and that it has great movies. My favourite so far was “The Lives of Others”. It is a German movie about East Germany when it was behind the iron curtain and the role of its secret service, the Stasi. I would highly recommend seeing it, if you haven’t already.
Other than that, we continue to take Swahili lessons and, on my part at least, experience marginal improvements in my ability to communicate in Swahili (Cristiano has fast-tracked his Swahili with a three week intensive course). When our Swahili teacher arrived at our apartment on Monday night, she asked if she could put her chicken somewhere. I offered to put it in the fridge so it would stay cold. She laughed at me and opened the plastic bag to reveal a little, white chicken peering out at me. It was a very African moment.
I wasn’t thrilled when I first found out I was going to Dar. I had gone through Dar a couple of years previously and my impression was of a dirty, chaotic city teeming with somewhat unfriendly people. It is still a dirty and chaotic city, but I have had a change of heart. As I did my aerobics class yesterday morning to the beat of African bongo and the enthusiastic yips of a little Indian woman in front of me, I realised I really like living in Dar. I like the energy, the good natured joshing on the dalla dalla in the mornings, the generally helpful people and just about everything else. There are moments when I wish I was elsewhere like when the dalla dalla is stampeded or the power goes out for several hours. However, all in all, I heart Dar (or at least for the moment I do).
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Hitting the Trail
In a quest to explore more of Tanzania, I headed to the Usambara Mountains for the weekend. The U Mountains are in northern Tanzania, approximately a 7 hour bus ride from Dar. Unfortunately for me, it turned out to be a 12 hour bus ride. There is one main road connecting the coastal region with northern Tanzania and a semi-trailer had jack-knifed on one of the bridges on this road, completely blocking it off. It took 4 hours for the semi to be moved. In the meantime, the traffic backed up the hill and into the horizon, passengers lounged under trees, and enterprising local villagers stopped by to hawk boiled eggs, cashew nuts and drinks. There was an audible sigh of relief when we crossed the bridge. An hour later, the bus grated to a stop in the middle of nowhere. It had run out of oil and the nearest garage was more than an hour away. After admiring the horizon for a while and watching other buses steam by, it became apparent that there were local dalladallas going to Lushoto, my ultimate destination. With the aid of a fellow passenger, I flagged one down and continued on my way.In Lushoto, I stayed at a church-run hostel, Tumaini. I highly recommend it. It is cheap, comes with all the good stuff (power, mozzie nets & hot water) and has a great restaurant attached to it. While eating dinner, I met an American couple and we decided to sally forth the next day on a 2 day hike. Little did I realise that we would be hiking 16kms a day; I would have ditched my guidebook. The hiking was amazing. We went from subsistence farming plots to rain forest to rugged hillsides. Over the two days, we went through numerous little villages where “hellos, hellos” rained down on us from the hillsides and little feet shyly followed us. In front of us, beautifully erect women put Eliza Dolittle to shame as they walked up the hill with perfectly balanced hoes/rocks/baskets on their heads. From the villages we walked through, I got the impression that the income level is fairly low and the women work incredibly hard.
The highlights of my visit to the U Mountains were tromping through the rainforest while it poured and the frogs commented full throatily on the state of the world; and then, we stayed at a convent. There were a score of young, black nuns who seemed delighted to see us and even happier to fill us up with fresh bread and hot tea. Both of which were welcome after our hour long soaking. The convent was beautiful and extremely quiet. Hiking through the mountains was an amazing way to see what rural Tanzania is all about and to enjoy being outside. However, by the end of the 2 days, I was more than happy to put my pack down and curl into bed for a long sleep.
Day 3 started bright and early, as we had a 4 am bus to catch. We had spent the night in a town called Mtae. There is no power in Mtae and there is only one bus a day, which leaves at 4 am. If you miss that bus, you have a long walk ahead of you, as there aren't any private vehicles and you would be hard pressed to find someone who would lend you their bike. A quick bus change over in Lushoto and several hours later, and I was back in the heat of Dar.
You may have noticed, I'm not gifted with posting multiple pics directly into my blog. However, I've added a new link to my the pics from the Usambara Mountains in the side bar.
Death to the Death Penalty
Tanzania is one of 25 countries that retain the death penalty. In Tanzania, the offence of murder carries a mandatory death sentence, while a person may be sentenced to death for committing various treasonous offences. It has been 14 years or so since the last person was hung, but the death penalty continues to be on the books and death row continues to fill up.October 10th is the world day against the death penalty. The LHRC marked this occasion by organising an early morning march from the suburbs of Dar to downtown Dar. The march ended on a large field where a band of actors depicted the less savoury side of the death penalty and activists gave impassioned speeches calling for the end of the death penalty. The government has rather infamously stated that it will abolish the death penalty, if the public makes it clear to the government that they want it to be abolished. This stance was adopted by the Court of Appeal in a 1995 decision in which it quashed a trial judge’s finding that the death penalty was inhumane and thus unconstitutional. Until last week, the use of the death penalty remained unchallenged. On October 10th, the LHRC, the Tanganyika Law Society and a regional NGO filed a petition challenging the constitutionality of the death penalty. It will be interesting to see how the government addresses this petition. There is increasing international pressure for Tanzania to abolish the death penalty and a study done by the Law Reform Commission of Tanzania recommends the same, despite its finding that the public still support the use of the death penalty.
I have all these fun facts about the death penalty because I’ve just drafted the subsection of the Human Rights Report that deals with the death penalty. After 2 months of solid research, it seemed like an appropriate time to start writing the report. Besides, if I let the research material pile any higher, it will irrevocably swamp my desk and I would never find my keyboard. The next few weeks will be a big push to get a skeleton version of the report drafted before the heady days of late November hit. November is going to be a busy month, as I am meant to be travelling to Zanzibar to train the Zanzibar Legal Services Centre on how to write the human rights report; the LHRC is having its annual retreat to assess its performance this year; and, LHRC employees (at least those who choose to) are going to climb Mt Kili to mark the 60th anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and to promote women’s rights in Tanzania.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
To be or not to be a public holiday
On mainland Tanzania, approximately half the population is Muslim and the other half is Christian. These percentages change when you get to Zanzibar where there are approximately 90% Muslim and 10% Christian. For the past month, the Muslim population has been celebrating Ramadan. The outwardly signs of Ramadan are that the evening call to prayer is extended from about 10 minutes to 30 minutes (there are 5 calls to prayer per day) and several restaurants close, as there is a sharp reduction in business because the Muslim population is fasting. The fast lasts from 4 a.m. until 6:30 p.m. when the sun sets. The end of Ramadan is marked by Eid al Fitr, a two day holiday. As Eid occurs at the first sighting of the new moon, it is a little difficult to predict when exactly Eid is going to fall. It is not enough that a calendar says there should be a new moon; the new moon has to be sighted by a specially appointed person. On Tuesday evening, we eagerly awaited text messages confirming that Eid started on Wednesday. The moon was sighted and the holiday was on. It all worked out rather well for me, as it gave Wes and I a chance to hang out on Wednesday before he left on a jet plane to the UK.
As Eid fell on Wednesday and Thursday (and not Thursday and Friday as hoped), plans to get out of Dar for the long weekend were scrapped. Instead, Cristiano and I took off on a dalla dalla to visit a village called Gezolole that, according to our guidebooks, had a budding local arts scene. After bumping down a dirt road, the dalla dalla stopped and we were gently told that we had reached Gezolole. My first impression was that there was not a lot to Gezolole, other than a few scattered buildings and some extremely healthy looking chickens. We quickly found out that the budding arts scene had died on the vine. However, Gezolole does have a beautiful beach that is populated by groups of young children harvesting molluscs from the low tide pools. Lost in Translation
After a couple of weeks of Swahili lessons and several hours exploring the wonders of the Rosetta Stone, I have a few more Swahili words at my disposal. My ability to greet people has increased ten-fold, as I can now enquire about a person’s house, job and children. There are small victories, such as being able to bargain in Swahili or partly understand directions. However, there are also moments of sheer incomprehension. These moments tend to occur when the conversation strays away from certain basic topics and words are flying through the air at a rapid rate. For instance, I was not aware that the LHRC was holding a party to celebrate its 16th anniversary until the morning of the party when something about an anniversary slipped out in English in the morning meeting.And then, there are the lost in translation moments. In one of my first Swahili lessons, my teacher, Mama Jengo, and I rambled our way through eight or nine different greetings. The most common greeting is “Mambo” to which there are a number of responses including “poa”, “fresh”, “sufi” and “kuku”. I expressed a bit of doubt about “kuku” being an appropriate response. “Kuku” means chicken. I was assured that all the cool kids were using “kuku” these days. Determined to be a cool kid (and show off my new acquired Swahili), I used “kuku” the next time one of the co-workers greeted me with a “mambo”. My co-worker looked at me with astonishment and then started to laugh. She laughed so hard tears rolled down her cheeks. This process was repeated about 10 times, as the “kuku” story spread through the office. Needless to say, I am a bit of a trendsetter.
In a similar vein, when Wes and I were on Zanzibar, we ate at Fordhani Gardens a few times. During the day, Fordhani Gardens is an alleyway. At night, it transforms itself into a bustling food court. Tables of all shapes and sizes line the alleyway, each piled high with either seafood kebabs or Zanzibarian pizzas and manned by an enthusiastic tout. Tucked between these tables are the more reserved drink stalls with their sodas, cane juice and chai masala. After sampling a fair amount of seafood, Wes and I headed off to the chai masala stall. My Swahili was going strong, until the man asked how many guards I would like in my tea. I was a little taken a back, until it became clear he was asking how much sugar I wanted in my tea. The word for guards, “askari”, to my ear is very close to the word for sugar, “sukari”. It is definitely a learning process and I have a fair bit of learning to go.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Mwezi, Mwezi!
Over the past couple of weeks, Wes has been steadily exploring every inch of downtown Dar. To the extent that he is now more conversant with the nooks and crannies of Dar than either Cristiano or I. On Saturday, Wes gave me an orientation to downtown Dar with an emphasis on Indian restuarants, the best place to get ice cream and traversing Kariakoo, a bustling part of town where goods of all shapes and sizes are sold. Kariakoo on a Saturday is similar to a disturbed bee hive with hundreds of people walking shoulder to shoulder in all directions. It was very alive.
While meandering around, we took a walk down the jewellery street. In Dar, like many other cities, shops that sell the same type of goods tend to line up together on the same street. For instance, there will be a stretch of hardware stores with brooms, plungers and mousetraps cheek by jowl for 500m and then there won't be another hardware store to be found anywhere else in the city. As we were walking down the street, this guy grabbed the bottom of my pants and started going off in Swahili. Naturally, I turned my body towards him to try to figure out what was going on. At the time, I was standing in front of a generator that was busily puffing out heat and gasoline fumes so I thought perhaps something from the generator had splashed onto my pants. As I turned, I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. It was buddy's partner's hand snaking towards my pant's pocket. A quick yell and our "friends" quickly merged into the crowd. As it turns out, they tried to pickpocket Wes at exactly the same time. Talk about strength in numbers. At the end of the day, they were totally unsuccessful but it gave us a little adrenalin rush. It would have been rather amusing if the guy had got his hand in my pocket and made off with the large wad of forest green....toilet paper, an essential for every female traveller. Cristiano had a similar experience about a month ago, which was also unsuccessful. Both Wes and Cristiano have a well-developed "slap my hands on my pant pockets" instinct.
I am told that mzungus are frequent targets of pickpockets. My colleagues have advised me to keep my money in my bra in future. The theory is that even the most brazen thief is not going to feel you up to get your money. They have also advised me to shout "Mwezi, mwezi!", which means thief, thief. This time, I didn't have the presence of mind to shout anything, other than "No". Very useful hey. I have little doubt that people would come to our assistance if we shouted thief. However, I would be a little concerned as to the form that the assistance may take. For the Human Rights report, I have literally read hundreds of newspaper articles on various topics that are relevant to the report. One of these topics is mob violence. There have been a number of instances this year where a thief has been caught by a crowd and beaten or killed for his alleged crime (it is almost always a man). It is my understanding that people sometimes take matters into their own hands because they are frustrated with and have little confidence in the judicial system. I can understand their position, as the judicial system seems to leak like a sieve and it can take years for a person to be prosecuted. However, I'm a bit of a traditionalist and prefer doing it the good old way, which starts with a person's arrest.
While meandering around, we took a walk down the jewellery street. In Dar, like many other cities, shops that sell the same type of goods tend to line up together on the same street. For instance, there will be a stretch of hardware stores with brooms, plungers and mousetraps cheek by jowl for 500m and then there won't be another hardware store to be found anywhere else in the city. As we were walking down the street, this guy grabbed the bottom of my pants and started going off in Swahili. Naturally, I turned my body towards him to try to figure out what was going on. At the time, I was standing in front of a generator that was busily puffing out heat and gasoline fumes so I thought perhaps something from the generator had splashed onto my pants. As I turned, I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. It was buddy's partner's hand snaking towards my pant's pocket. A quick yell and our "friends" quickly merged into the crowd. As it turns out, they tried to pickpocket Wes at exactly the same time. Talk about strength in numbers. At the end of the day, they were totally unsuccessful but it gave us a little adrenalin rush. It would have been rather amusing if the guy had got his hand in my pocket and made off with the large wad of forest green....toilet paper, an essential for every female traveller. Cristiano had a similar experience about a month ago, which was also unsuccessful. Both Wes and Cristiano have a well-developed "slap my hands on my pant pockets" instinct.
I am told that mzungus are frequent targets of pickpockets. My colleagues have advised me to keep my money in my bra in future. The theory is that even the most brazen thief is not going to feel you up to get your money. They have also advised me to shout "Mwezi, mwezi!", which means thief, thief. This time, I didn't have the presence of mind to shout anything, other than "No". Very useful hey. I have little doubt that people would come to our assistance if we shouted thief. However, I would be a little concerned as to the form that the assistance may take. For the Human Rights report, I have literally read hundreds of newspaper articles on various topics that are relevant to the report. One of these topics is mob violence. There have been a number of instances this year where a thief has been caught by a crowd and beaten or killed for his alleged crime (it is almost always a man). It is my understanding that people sometimes take matters into their own hands because they are frustrated with and have little confidence in the judicial system. I can understand their position, as the judicial system seems to leak like a sieve and it can take years for a person to be prosecuted. However, I'm a bit of a traditionalist and prefer doing it the good old way, which starts with a person's arrest.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Exploring Zanzibar
Stone townWes and I had an awesome time wandering around Stone Town and sunning ourselves on the white, white beaches of Zanzibar. I've posted some pics on facebook, which can be accessed by clicking the "Zanzibar" link under Pictures. And that's all she wrote (for now) because I've got some catching up to do at work.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Eating Dirt (aka Geophagy)
Eveline, our downstairs' neighbour, trying out the soil cigarOn my way home, I stopped to pick up a couple of potatoes from a roadside stall. As I tested out my newly acquired Swahili, the proprietor placed a blue, plastic shopping bag in front of me. Intrigued, I peered into the bag to see what looked like some sort of exotic root vegetable. My initial guess at the contents of the bag was wrong, it was actually 40 or so tightly compacted, cigar-shaped pieces of soil. The first thought that crossed my mind was why would someone want to sell me pieces of soil, which is exactly what I asked the proprietor. Obviously, I was wearing a very unflattering outfit that day, as the guy thought I was pregnant and wanted to sell me soil to eat. Good, old google indicates that the practice of pregnant women eating soil for its mineral content is somewhat widespread in Sub-Saharan Africa. It’s kind of like taking a supplement. There is a theory that the dirt helps boost a pregnant woman’s immune system. This is also not just any old soil, it has to be a certain type of soil and it comes from locations that are known for their high quality soil. At Tsh50 a pop, I bought one cigar of soil and was on my way. Cristiano, Wes and I each took a nibble of the cigar later that night, only to find that it tasted distinctly of dirt. I’m not sure why we were surprised.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Stepping into Africa
Cristiano and Wes in Sno-CreamFriday afternoon is invariably hot and slow. Its slowness was exacerbated for me because I was waiting for 8 p.m. to roll around and for Wes, my boyfriend, to enter onto the African stage. Wes will be hanging out with me in Dar for the next three weeks. It is his first African experience, but I suspect he’ll get into the swing of things fairly quickly as he spent several months in India.
Wes was keen to explore the chaotic downtown core and sample the local, or not so local, fare. High up on the list of edibles to find were samosas and chai masala. Before I came to Dar, I was told that you could get chai everywhere. Of course, at the time, I didn’t appreciate that chai meant tea in Swahili and not chai Indian-style. It is fairly easy to land your hands on a chai, which is inevitably a huge mug of tea that is a triple triple of unrefined sugar and milk powder. It is a little harder, or has been for me, to find chai masala. After a couple of hours of exploring downtown where we delved deeper and deeper into the Indian area and success. We found a tiny, hole-in-the-wall restaurant serving small cups of spicy chai masala and an assortment of fried goodies. Of the fried goodies, the egg chop deserves a mention. It is a boiled egg that is coated in a .5 inch of mince meat and deep fried. It tastes amazing and is a heart attack waiting to happen. We also found an ice cream parlor, Sno-Cream, that is slated to be THE place to get ice cream in Dar. The picture, above, is Wes and Cristiano signing the Sno-Cream’s guest book. I’m not sure why Sno-Cream has a guest book, but it does. As you may be able to tell, I’m enjoying seeing what Dar has to offer in terms of food.
A fairly long walk around town and we landed up at the ferry to the southern beaches. The ferry costs Tsh 100 for approximately a 7 minute journey. The ferry is blue, rusted and somewhat rickety. Nonetheless, several cars and a few hundred people later, it made a quick exit from the landing slip and powered off to the unknown. We made it to the other side, but not to the southern beaches, as we were running a little short of oompha after our downtown explorations. Instead, we settled for a cold soda in the shade of a tin roof before heading back to Dar.
Once we were back on the Dar side, we took a quick side trip to the fish market. The fish market is row after row of concrete tables alive with quick hands and neatly arranged fish. You can get everything at the fish market from red snapper to tuna to lobster to stingrays. We were intrigued by the stingrays because it is not immediately apparent what you would do with a stingray. They were being dragged by their tails from the back of a pick-up to a low-slung, concrete table where they were quickly sold to a member of the eagerly waiting crowd. None the wiser as to how you prepare a stingray, we skipped over to the “land market” to sniff the spices and watch great quantities of fish being fried in vats of oil. The whole scene was a little medieval, as black smoke billowed out from industrial size woks and black men scooped out schools of fried fish.
After a bit of googling, I found out what you can do with stingray. It is edible. Step 1 is removing the barb on the stingray's tail and then you make a fillet from the wings by detaching them from the stingray's body and removing the skin. Apparently, you can punch out rounds from the stingray fillets to make "scallops" or you can BBQ the fillet. Interesting as it all sounds, I don't think this is something I am going to try anytime in the near future.
Wes and I are journeying to Zanzibar next weekend to explore Stone Town and the northern beaches. The trip to Zanzibar will be my first trip outside Dar’s city limits and I’m looking forward to it.
The ferry from the southern beaches back to Dar.
Monday, September 8, 2008
M is for Maasi
A morning journey on the dalla dalla is enlivened by the presence of a beautiful and somewhat exotic maasi man. There are a number of maasi men in Dar, most of who seem to work as security guards. According to a newspaper article, the maasi come to Dar to make their fortune and, potentially, meet a white woman. After all, white women “perceive [maasi warriors] to be erotic that is why women pensioners from Europe come to look at them”. My dalla dalla maasi had a chequered, rich red fabric draped around his body and a white bead sheath encircling each calf. His hair was shaved into a triangle with the point contacting to the crown of his head where it met finely rolled skeins of hair that draped down his back. I spent the entire dalla dalla trip taking side long glances at the maasi, drinking in his attire. I felt like one of the little kids that peep at me through their eyelashes as I walk down the street. My knowledge about the maasi could fit into a thimble. What I do know is that the maasi come from northern Tanzania, almost a 100% of their women undergo female genital mutilation (like or not), and the Swahili plural for maasi is wamaasi.I learnt the plural of maasi during my first Swahili lesson. I decided that the ad hoc process of learning Swahili from my colleagues was not cutting it so I’ve started taking Swahili lessons twice a week. My teacher is an incredibly petite and vivacious woman who delights in testing our Swahili vocab, which is non-existent. We have been told numerous times that Swahili is an easy language to learn and, relatively speaking, it is easy. There are few irregular verbs, words don’t have genders and sentence construction is straight forward. However, Swahili has few, if any, commonalities with either the Romance or Germanic languages. I think learning Swahili is going to be a feat of memorization, which will no doubt be helped by our almost total immersion. I’m looking forward to surprising my co-workers with a well-placed Swahili phrase or even a whole sentence.
This week, a virus ate the 90 page document I was working on, leaving nothing more than a trail of Ys in its wake. I almost cried. The efforts of the IT guy and my implementation of various web-based solutions resulted in the recovery of about 55 pages of the document, much to my relief. In the circumstances, it was a good result. I was later told that the server, upon which all the documents are stored, often gets viruses. I was advised to keep a back up copy of any documents I was working on either on my desktop or on a USB key. This piece of advice felt a little like closing the barn door after the horse had escaped.
Playing Twenty Questions
Tanzanian interactions are characterised by a somewhat extended greeting process that starts with “how are you” and swiftly moves to questions about your family, your health and your home life. Being a somewhat unknown entity, many of my interactions with Tanzanians swiftly move from enquires as to my well being to the following three questions:1. Are you married? My negative answer often leads to look of puzzlement and a quick glance at my ring finger to check the veracity of my answer. Occasionally, a follow-up question is asked about my age, which often leads to a deepening of the puzzled look.
2. Do you have any children? A swift “no” results in some concern being evinced about my health and advice about the appropriate age for motherhood.
3. With almost all hope gone, the final question is what religion I practice. Telling people that I am a practicing atheist doesn’t seem to carry the same weight, as if I told them I was a practising Christian or Muslim. 90% of the time, my answer leads to a discussion about different religions and the choices people make about spirituality. The other 10% of the time, I get invited to attend church.
My impression is that, by Tanzanian standards, I’m not terribly successful. I briefly considered becoming a born again Christian so I would have at least one positive answer to give, but I’ve put that plan on hold until I have a chance to figure out exactly what that would entail.
The other topic that has come up for discussion on a number of occasions is weight and, more specifically, my weight. This discussion normally occurs, as my colleagues encourage me to eat every grain of the 2 cups of rice that are served with lunch. In Tanzania, the perfect shape for a woman is a well-rounded 8 with an emphasis on the bottom half. This perception of beauty is revealed in the clothes that are tightly stretched over hangers that are suspended from sidewalk trees, dancing in the wind in an effort to catch your attention. The top half of every pair of pants or skirt noticeably balloons out before gradually narrowing. I’ve decided to take my colleagues’ encouragement to eat more with a grain of salt and sweat-drenched visits to the gym.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Weekend Warriors
And the power is back on after a 12 hour hiatus. I was a little concerned I was going to venture into the dark hours with only a candle to light my way and without a cool breeze in sight. It was noticeably hotter in Dar this week and a functioning a/c is creeping up my list of essentials.My friend, Maggie, came down from Arusha this weekend to explore the metropolis of Dar. Maggie and I met in PLTC 2 years ago and instantly bonded, as she had recently returned from working at the International Criminal Tribunal of Rwanda in Arusha (where she is currently doing round 2) and I had come back from Gulu in Northern Uganda. I think we were both a little startled to find ourselves back in Vancouver in the midst of a bar admission’s course.
Maggie and I became weekend warriors and packed in as much as possible into 48 hours. Friday night was an exploration of Dar’s, or more accurately, the Msasani Peninsula’s night life. It was my first real night out on the town. Maggie and I made our way to a club called Garden Bistro (which made me think of the Bread Garden) at 11 p.m., only to find that we were several hours ahead of the curve. My impression is that the Garden Bistro is the last stop on the club tour, as it stays open until the sunrise hours. After a few hours of dancing, a couple of local beers and a closely avoided altercation with a prostitute, we were ready to go home. It was just about as much excitement as we could handle in one night.
Saturday morning saw a bleary-eyed trip to Bongoyo Island. Bongoyo is a beautiful marine reserve with sparkling, aquamarine water and fine, white sand. It is a cliché I’m willing to buy into, complete with the coconuts. The swimming is amazing at Bongoyo, although getting in and out of the sea got a little more complicated as the tide changed and well-rounded waves started to roll onto the beach. I had one or two teakettle moments when the waves swept my feet from underneath me. The waves became a bit more of an issue when the small fishing boat, which would take us to the big fishing boat for the trip back to Dar, came to retrieve us. When Cristiano and I went to Bongoyo a couple of weeks ago, it was a matter of taking off your slip slops and taking a lady-like step into the small fishing boat. It was all very calm and orderly. However, this time, it was a finely timed operation that required a quick dash down the beach into thigh-high water to scramble into the boat while it was in the trough between two waves. The whole process was set to the urgent “faster, faster” of the black men holding the boat in place. It was a no-holds barred operation as people were physically lifted into the boat and those on board leaned this way and that to keep the boat on an even keel. A little shot of adrenalin to end the day.
Sunday started with a quest to find Dar es Salaam’s oldest graveyard. The graveyard is Arabic and is said to date back to the 17th century. We quickly found that, despite its age, the graveyard is still very much operational. It is a little unclear where the path ends and the graves begin, as the majority of the headstones are diamond-shape markers loosely held by the sand and scattered in a seemingly random pattern. The headstones are occasionally interspersed with what we assume to be mausoleums, each gently crumbling into the sand. It is my understanding that the mausoleums were constructed using blocks of coral cemented together with and then covered in mud. The crust of the mausoleums has shed over time to reveal the underlying coral skeletons. The graveyard contains some of the biggest baobab trees I’ve ever seen. The baobab has green-suede, cylindrical fruit that is the size of a 1L container. I had the opportunity to try the fruit the other day, the inside of which is white and crumbly. I’m not sure how to describe the flavour, other than saying that it leaves a lingering, slightly sour taste. Some people grind the contents of the fruit to a powder and use it to make a starchy, somewhat stiff mixture (similar to pap) that is eaten with stew.
Onwards and upwards to a quick tour of the famous buildings of downtown Dar – the Askari monument built to honour those that fought in WWI, the Court of Appeal, the High Court and the State House. We were shooed away from the State House by a military man who was not amused by us peering through the State House’s gate. In typical Louw fashion, we also trooped off to the National Museum where we engaged in a quick round of bargaining on the entry fee. The National Museum was surprisingly interesting with a basic, pictorial rendition of Tanzania’s history and some interesting footnotes on Tanzanian culture. It also has a coelacanth floating in a bath of formaldehyde and a concrete impression of the footsteps discovered by Dr. Leakey in Olduvai Gorge. The footsteps indicated that man was an upright being much earlier than had been previously thought.
On a side bar, I officially became a TZ resident this week. I got my permit after multiple trips to the Dept of Immigration to photocopy my entire passport, photocopy my application (again) and provide them with more passport pictures. The major perk of the resident permit is that I can stay here for the next 6 months. The minor perk is that the ferry tickets to Zanzibar are $20 cheaper for residents.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Different strokes for different folks
As I wind my way through random bits of Tanzanian legislation, I occasionally come across something that is oceans apart from Canadian law and makes me stop and think. For instance, the Witchcraft Act, which makes the practice of the occult, enchantment and related acts an offence. A close runner up to the Witchcraft Act is the Corporal Punishment Act, which provides for the corporal punishment of individuals who have been found guilty of certain offences, such as rape and robbery. Any sentence of corporal punishment is in addition to a term of imprisonment. Pursuant to the provisions of the Act, a court can order that an individual receive no more than 24 strokes with an instrument of the court's choice. The corporal punishment cannot occur in installments, unless it is a specified type of offence, and must not be carried out in public. As you can see, the use of corporal punishment is fairly prescribed. Nonetheless, I wonder what our very liberal Supreme Court would make of it.
Other than the acts mentioned above, the Tanzanian legislation that I've read so far is quite similar in many respects to its Canadian counterparts. Of course, there are some subtle differences. For instance, the Tanzanian counterpart to the Divorce Act provides for polygamous marriages. My eyebrows shot up the first time I read the provision stating that a Muslim marriage was presumed to be polygamous, unless the parties explicitly stated otherwise. When I discussed the issue of polygamy with a co-worker later that day, his eyebrows shot up in turn when I told him polygamy was illegal in Canada (ignoring the whole Bountiful situation). The similarity in our reactions was highly amusing.
One of the other things that has struck me about the Tanzanian legal system is the lack of reported decisions. Tanzania, like Canada, is a common law jurisdiction, which means the law is partly based on court decisions. The last time decisions were reported in Tanzania was in 1997. It is my understanding that since then, Tanzanian lawyers have relied on each other to circulate decisions of the cases in which they are involved. Alternatively, if you need a decision that you don't have, you start calling your lawyer friends to see if anyone else has it. It makes for a close knit legal community. On the topic of being a lawyer, it was reported in the paper that 50 lawyers graduate from the judiciary college a year. Yes, that is only 50 new lawyers a year. Who said there were too many lawyers in the world?
Other than the acts mentioned above, the Tanzanian legislation that I've read so far is quite similar in many respects to its Canadian counterparts. Of course, there are some subtle differences. For instance, the Tanzanian counterpart to the Divorce Act provides for polygamous marriages. My eyebrows shot up the first time I read the provision stating that a Muslim marriage was presumed to be polygamous, unless the parties explicitly stated otherwise. When I discussed the issue of polygamy with a co-worker later that day, his eyebrows shot up in turn when I told him polygamy was illegal in Canada (ignoring the whole Bountiful situation). The similarity in our reactions was highly amusing.
One of the other things that has struck me about the Tanzanian legal system is the lack of reported decisions. Tanzania, like Canada, is a common law jurisdiction, which means the law is partly based on court decisions. The last time decisions were reported in Tanzania was in 1997. It is my understanding that since then, Tanzanian lawyers have relied on each other to circulate decisions of the cases in which they are involved. Alternatively, if you need a decision that you don't have, you start calling your lawyer friends to see if anyone else has it. It makes for a close knit legal community. On the topic of being a lawyer, it was reported in the paper that 50 lawyers graduate from the judiciary college a year. Yes, that is only 50 new lawyers a year. Who said there were too many lawyers in the world?
Monday, August 25, 2008
Ready, set, goat
On Saturday, Cristiano and I dusted off our fancy clothes and made our way to the Ascot of Dar, also known as The Dar es Salaam Charity Goat Races. I have never seen a goat race before and was having a rather hard time conceptualising how it would all work. Would the goats be each running in their own lane? Would they be following a bale of hay a la dog racing? How would I know which goat I’d bet on? So many questions. Prior to the goat races, I talked to the lady who runs the gym I go to (Fitness Centre, near the Irish Pub, cheapish, no a/c), as she is a goat owner. Here’s the DL on the goats: They are purchased in March and undergo a strict regime of exercise combined with a specialised diet so that they are in top form for the races. Mind you, there’s no doping allowed. Having got the skinny on the goats, we were keen to see them in action so off we went to the races. For each race, 10 goats are carried into an enclosed track by 10 black men who pop the goats onto the ground and hold onto their horns until the signal sounds. Booop and the goats are off.....at a slow trot and bunched together. They are followed by the black men who encourage the goats to move forward at a semi-constant pace with a padded yellow bar that extends the width of the track. Two laps of the track and it was all over. It wasn’t exactly a fast-paced race, despite the overhead commentary that suggested otherwise. It was a rather amusing way to spend a hot afternoon, especially as cold beers were plentiful. By the way, we did see some fancy hats at the race track. My favourite was a very stylish black and red creation that would have looked in place at the real Ascot. If you would like to see more pictures from the goat races and of Tanzania in general, I’ve posted them on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=142434&l=7149a&id=676510693
One last thought about food. We have been on the hunt for a good butchery. We tried one called The Farmhouse, which caters to ex-pats and has amazing meat, including the best boerewors I’ve ever tasted, but it’s a little expensive. Our next stop was Namanga. Several people recommended that we try the local butcheries situated in Namanga, which is an area that is located relatively close to our apartment. There is a whole herd of butcheries in Namanga, each with a side of beef glistening in the window. I have to admit, I was a little put off by the fact that the meat does not come in a Styrofoam plate covered in plastic. In addition, my knowledge of the parts of a cow is extremely limited. I do not know where fillet comes from or a roast or anything else as a matter of fact, which is a bit of a hindrance when figuring out what to order. My first impression on entering one of the local butcheries was of an axe. More precisely, an axe being enthusiastically swung into a side of beef draped over a large block of wood. At every swing, small pieces of beef jettisoned off to meet the white wall and the butcher’s white coat. I stood there in bemusement, until I had to turn my attention to actually getting some meat. After some nonsensical back and forth, I got a kilo of stewing beef, which has subsequently turned itself into a very nice stew. I am definitely going to give Namanga another try. In the meantime, I’m going to study up on the anatomy of the cow.
One last thought about food. We have been on the hunt for a good butchery. We tried one called The Farmhouse, which caters to ex-pats and has amazing meat, including the best boerewors I’ve ever tasted, but it’s a little expensive. Our next stop was Namanga. Several people recommended that we try the local butcheries situated in Namanga, which is an area that is located relatively close to our apartment. There is a whole herd of butcheries in Namanga, each with a side of beef glistening in the window. I have to admit, I was a little put off by the fact that the meat does not come in a Styrofoam plate covered in plastic. In addition, my knowledge of the parts of a cow is extremely limited. I do not know where fillet comes from or a roast or anything else as a matter of fact, which is a bit of a hindrance when figuring out what to order. My first impression on entering one of the local butcheries was of an axe. More precisely, an axe being enthusiastically swung into a side of beef draped over a large block of wood. At every swing, small pieces of beef jettisoned off to meet the white wall and the butcher’s white coat. I stood there in bemusement, until I had to turn my attention to actually getting some meat. After some nonsensical back and forth, I got a kilo of stewing beef, which has subsequently turned itself into a very nice stew. I am definitely going to give Namanga another try. In the meantime, I’m going to study up on the anatomy of the cow.
Home Improvements 101
This week, I walked on water. When I came home from work on Tuesday, I found that an intermittent drip from the toilet’s cistern had morphed at some stage during the day into a fast, constant leak. A stream of water had meandered its way through the bathroom and gently waterfalled over the bathroom step to form a great lake in the living room. Out came my non-absorbent mop, as I tried to capture several litres of water. A bit of jimmy rigging of the toilet with our ever helpful electrical tape (it’s duct tape’s little brother) and the leak was temporarily sorted out. Our landlord promised to send a qualified plumber the next day to sort it all out. The plumber came. He clinked and clanged in the bathroom for half an hour before leaving with a wave and assurances that all was well. 6 hours later and several more litres of water on the floor later and I had lost confidence in the plumber. Round two with the plumber was a little more successful, as we have had a non-leaking toilet for 3 days and counting. After the plumber, came the handyman. He outfitted my room with a fan and put up a mirror in my bathroom, both of which were welcome additions to the apartment. In the wee hours of that same day, I was woken up by a large crash. As I swam my way out of sleep, I tried to determine if the noise was a product of my mind or reality. Sadly, it was reality. The mirror fell off the wall. It answered the age old question of if a mirror falls off the wall when no one is there, does the shattering of the mirror make a sound. There was nothing we could really do it about, other than laugh at this rather fitting end to our household improvements.
Along with all our household fix-it woes, I had a wave of culture shock this week. Symptom one was the unreasonable anger I felt people’s inability to enter/exit a dalladalla in a proper fashion. Proper being waiting in a line until everyone gets off the dalladalla before trying to get on, rather then just going for it the moment the dalladalla stops thereby causing a log jam at the door. I found it very frustrating that when I held back in a very Canadian fashion to let people exit the dalladalla, people would push and bump their way past me in an attempt to get in. My dalladalla anger quickly transmorphed into a general annoyance with the world at large, which was heightened by the “mzungu, mzungu” calls of the toktok drivers stationed near the apartment. Toktoks are small, three-wheeled vehicles, each painted a primary colour. A toktok can hold a driver and two passengers and, generally, it is hired for a short trip. Mzungu, of course, means white person. An extended phone call home to vent in my sister’s sympathetic ear, a quick run on a bumpy treadmill and the annoyance started to abate. I’ll wager that I’ll experience a few more swells of cultural shock while I am here, but for now all is back to normal.
Along with all our household fix-it woes, I had a wave of culture shock this week. Symptom one was the unreasonable anger I felt people’s inability to enter/exit a dalladalla in a proper fashion. Proper being waiting in a line until everyone gets off the dalladalla before trying to get on, rather then just going for it the moment the dalladalla stops thereby causing a log jam at the door. I found it very frustrating that when I held back in a very Canadian fashion to let people exit the dalladalla, people would push and bump their way past me in an attempt to get in. My dalladalla anger quickly transmorphed into a general annoyance with the world at large, which was heightened by the “mzungu, mzungu” calls of the toktok drivers stationed near the apartment. Toktoks are small, three-wheeled vehicles, each painted a primary colour. A toktok can hold a driver and two passengers and, generally, it is hired for a short trip. Mzungu, of course, means white person. An extended phone call home to vent in my sister’s sympathetic ear, a quick run on a bumpy treadmill and the annoyance started to abate. I’ll wager that I’ll experience a few more swells of cultural shock while I am here, but for now all is back to normal.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Hakuna Matata
While Cristiano went road tripping to Dodoma this weekend, I went to Bagomoyo. OK, Cristiano wasn’t really on a road trip. The Tanganyika Law Society had its semi-annual meeting in Dodoma this weekend and Cristiano was unexpectedly put onto the speaker’s list. In fact, he gets kudos for turning around a speech on effective legal writing skills, with power point no less, in a day and a half. Like I said, it was rather an unexpected honour for Cristiano to be speaking at the meeting. As part of the TLS’ meeting, Cristiano had the opportunity to watch TZ’s parliament, which is located in Dodoma. Dodoma is officially the capital of TZ and is said to be smack dab in the centre of TZ.
Bagomoyo on the other hand is a small seaside town an hour or two outside of Dar (take a dalladalla from Mwenge to Bagomoyo for Tsh 1800). Bogomoyo used to be one of the most important dhow posts along the East African coast and it was the terminus of the trade caravan route (and the slave trade). It has passed through the hands of the Arabs, Germans and British. Today, the town is quiet and somewhat run down. The buildings erected by the Germans at the turn of the last century are still standing, but most are in bad repair. The picture above is a castle located in Bagomoyo that was built by the Germans and later used as a administrative HQ of the British. I learnt all of this today from my Rastafarian tour guide, who greeted me with a “good vibrations” and a handshake. It was a little surreal, but in the interest of learning a little history I followed along. I later learnt that in addition to being an informal tourist guide, he is also the local drug dealer ….ignorance is bliss. I think our brief conversation on my views on smoking pot took me out of his clientele.
Getting down to the nuts and bolts
As I sat in my office, I wondered if I had malaria. I felt achy, had a headache and a fever. I checked the internet, I had most of the symptoms, which instantly made me feel worse. I wondered whether it was worth going to a doctor and, more importantly, whether I would be able to find a doctor. After an hour or two of contemplating my navel and a short nap, I felt loads better. Ultimately, I think my self-diagnosed case of malaria was the result of my idle back muscles being unexpectedly relied on to keep me in an upright position in the dalladalla and a system that is still accommodating itself to the Tanzanian diet.
After that hypochondriac moment in the office, I was ready to get back to work. I’ve officially been working at the Legal and Human Rights Centre for nine days. It was off to a slow start at LHRC, as my supervisor was away on vacation and there was nary an office or computer to be found. As a result, I spent a good portion of the first week reading any and all LHRC publications. I was also taken on a field trip to the LHRC’s two legal aid clinics located in Dar, which are also the only legal aid clinics in Dar. At each clinic, there was a patient line of clients snaking their way out the door and the clinic itself was awash with files and ringing phones. I think organised chaos would be an appropriate way to describe the clinics. Part of my mandate while at the LHRC will be to analyse the client base of the legal aid clinics and, more specifically, assess the services they provide to women. Women are of particular concern, as some of the Tanzanian laws (and customary practices) are somewhat outdated in their conception of women’s rights and the issue of equality looms large. By the by, my office, computer and supervisor were all accounted for by Thursday of my first week.
The work day starts bright and early at 8 a.m. and we get off to a flying start with a morning meeting of all the LHRC staff. At the meeting, each individual has the opportunity to tell everyone else what he or she intends to do that day. I have to admit, the morning meeting goes against my Farris-trained instincts of getting into the office and going to it right away. The meeting is also in Swahili, which can be a tad frustrating. On the upside, I’m picking up some words in Swahili and I’m becoming intimately familiar with the pictorial depiction of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights that appears on the table at which I sit. After the meeting, we move onto what is arguably my favourite time of the day, tea and chapattis. My colleagues have been incredibly gracious and generous in sharing their chapattis with me and making me feel included in this morning ritual. My colleagues are also my Swahili teachers, dropping by my office with a word or a phrase during the day and using every conversation as a teaching opportunity. So far, my favourite Swahili words are “kuku” (which I may have spelt incorrectly), which means chicken, and “pilipili”, which means chilli. A little food orientated, I know. I learnt both these words at a memorable lunch at a local restaurant where we identified the food on my plate. After some taste tests, I’m staying away from the pilipili; it’s a little hot for my taste. Working on the basis of tasting everything at least once, I also had what must be a unique TZ dish, a chip omelette. It is what it sounds like, an omelette with chips in it. You can have your chip omelette with chips on the side. I love it. I’ve vowed to limit myself to one chip dish per week, otherwise I’ll be a couple of hundred pounds by the time I return to Canada. On a total aside, the deep fryers here are large, black woks filled with oil that are well-balanced over smouldering fires waiting to be stoked into action. It’s incredible to watch the woks boil.
Food aside, I’ve started work on the LHRC’s 2008 Human Rights Report for TZ. While at the LHRC, my primary task is the researching and writing of this report. Initially, I felt a little overwhelmed at the notion of putting the entire report together. However, after drafting a work plan, creating some folders and having the opportunity to look at the previous intern’s methodology for organising her research, I feel a bit more in control of the whole process. I think working on the report is going to require a lot of initiative and an ability to work independently. Step one is to research and summarise the applicable human rights law at an international, regional and national level. I have to admit that after typing up fourteen or fifteen summaries of various legal instruments, I started to miss my assistant, Doreen, and my Dictaphone. Thank goodness, I developed lightening typing skills at law school. I’ll keep you posted as to how the report progresses.
After that hypochondriac moment in the office, I was ready to get back to work. I’ve officially been working at the Legal and Human Rights Centre for nine days. It was off to a slow start at LHRC, as my supervisor was away on vacation and there was nary an office or computer to be found. As a result, I spent a good portion of the first week reading any and all LHRC publications. I was also taken on a field trip to the LHRC’s two legal aid clinics located in Dar, which are also the only legal aid clinics in Dar. At each clinic, there was a patient line of clients snaking their way out the door and the clinic itself was awash with files and ringing phones. I think organised chaos would be an appropriate way to describe the clinics. Part of my mandate while at the LHRC will be to analyse the client base of the legal aid clinics and, more specifically, assess the services they provide to women. Women are of particular concern, as some of the Tanzanian laws (and customary practices) are somewhat outdated in their conception of women’s rights and the issue of equality looms large. By the by, my office, computer and supervisor were all accounted for by Thursday of my first week.
The work day starts bright and early at 8 a.m. and we get off to a flying start with a morning meeting of all the LHRC staff. At the meeting, each individual has the opportunity to tell everyone else what he or she intends to do that day. I have to admit, the morning meeting goes against my Farris-trained instincts of getting into the office and going to it right away. The meeting is also in Swahili, which can be a tad frustrating. On the upside, I’m picking up some words in Swahili and I’m becoming intimately familiar with the pictorial depiction of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights that appears on the table at which I sit. After the meeting, we move onto what is arguably my favourite time of the day, tea and chapattis. My colleagues have been incredibly gracious and generous in sharing their chapattis with me and making me feel included in this morning ritual. My colleagues are also my Swahili teachers, dropping by my office with a word or a phrase during the day and using every conversation as a teaching opportunity. So far, my favourite Swahili words are “kuku” (which I may have spelt incorrectly), which means chicken, and “pilipili”, which means chilli. A little food orientated, I know. I learnt both these words at a memorable lunch at a local restaurant where we identified the food on my plate. After some taste tests, I’m staying away from the pilipili; it’s a little hot for my taste. Working on the basis of tasting everything at least once, I also had what must be a unique TZ dish, a chip omelette. It is what it sounds like, an omelette with chips in it. You can have your chip omelette with chips on the side. I love it. I’ve vowed to limit myself to one chip dish per week, otherwise I’ll be a couple of hundred pounds by the time I return to Canada. On a total aside, the deep fryers here are large, black woks filled with oil that are well-balanced over smouldering fires waiting to be stoked into action. It’s incredible to watch the woks boil.
Food aside, I’ve started work on the LHRC’s 2008 Human Rights Report for TZ. While at the LHRC, my primary task is the researching and writing of this report. Initially, I felt a little overwhelmed at the notion of putting the entire report together. However, after drafting a work plan, creating some folders and having the opportunity to look at the previous intern’s methodology for organising her research, I feel a bit more in control of the whole process. I think working on the report is going to require a lot of initiative and an ability to work independently. Step one is to research and summarise the applicable human rights law at an international, regional and national level. I have to admit that after typing up fourteen or fifteen summaries of various legal instruments, I started to miss my assistant, Doreen, and my Dictaphone. Thank goodness, I developed lightening typing skills at law school. I’ll keep you posted as to how the report progresses.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Dilly dallying on dalladallas
This city teems with dalladallas, which are heavily modified school buses in various states of disrepair, each manned by a fearless driver and a vocally well-endowed conductor. Dalladallas are the public transportation of choice as they cost $300 TZ shillings (approximately $0.30) for each trip and they regularly ply certain routes. Initially, I couldn’t make head or tail of the dalladalla system. Instead, I relied on the congregation of taxis stationed on every other corner to get me around.
Taking a taxi starts with a nod/shrug/wave, moves to a vigorous bargaining session and often ends with a concentrated effort of the driver and myself to find my destination. The latter has been particularly true on my trips to work. There are few street names in Dar so the taxi drivers rely on the passenger knowing the name of the building to which the passenger is going and the taxi driver knowing the location of that building. This system breaks down somewhat if the building is not well known and you have no idea where you are going. My first day of work started with an extensive discussion between my taxi driver and the QBar receptionist to determine how to get to the office and a rather scenic tour of Kijitonamia, the suburb in which my office is located. On day two, I was a bit more helpful to my taxi driver as I realized that the turnoff to my office is marked by a large billboard with a picture of a white woman lying on a carpet with a silhouette of a horse woven into it - random, but distinctive.
In the morning, the traffic on the main roads is almost bumper to bumper and proceeds on a start-stop basis at the direction of a very formal police officer. There are traffic lights, but scant attention is paid to them. On Tuesday, while waiting for the appropriate direction from the police officer, a policeman got into my taxi. He was very polite, greeting both the taxi driver and I in turn before getting down to business in Swahili. The transaction ended with the taxi ferrying the policeman across the intersection and the taxi driver surrendering his license with a promise to return after dropping me off. I have no idea what happened, but I can guess. Apparently, my taxi driver had a powerful incentive to return to the policeman, as it is extremely complicated to get a new license and the process to get a new license starts at the police station.
After my cushy taxi rides, I was determined to figure out how to get to work by dalladalla. Each dalladalla has the name of its start and end point stencilled onto the front of the bus and each start or end point has a specific colour. For instance, I have to take the Msasani-Ubongo dalladalla, which is purple and green. The colour coding makes it reasonably easy to figure out which dalladalla to take, although I had to figure out which direction I should be going, which resulted in one or two extended trips.
Before embarking on my dalladalla adventure, I consulted the ever-helpful receptionist at QBar who gave me very specific instructions on how to get from the apartment to work. He also imparted some important Swahili phrases to me, namely: “shusha _____”, which means “I want to get off at_____”, and “naomba msaada _____”, which means “please help me get to _______”. My impression is that the second phrase is more along the lines of “I have no idea where I’m going so I’m relying on you to tell me when we get to my stop”. I have liberally employed the second phrase with the conductors and my fellow passengers alike.
The morning trip to work is hectic, as every man and his dog have to be at the office by 8 a.m. and the dalladallas over flow with passengers. Funnily enough, there is always enough room for one more person. Movement inside the dalladalla is a carefully synchronised wave of arms, legs and torsos, as tightly packed bodies meld further to allow passengers in and out. I suspect the morning journey will get increasingly interesting, as the temperature rises.
The picture has nothing to do with this post, but I wanted to share the sunshine and beauty of Bongoyo Island, a small island that is approximately 30 - 60 minutes by boat from Dar (the boat leaves from Slipway and the trip costs $18,000 Tz shillings). Cristiano and I spent Sunday exploring Bongoyo, soaking in the sun and eating fresh, grilled prawns. I expect my freckles will unite in the near future to form a tan.
Taking a taxi starts with a nod/shrug/wave, moves to a vigorous bargaining session and often ends with a concentrated effort of the driver and myself to find my destination. The latter has been particularly true on my trips to work. There are few street names in Dar so the taxi drivers rely on the passenger knowing the name of the building to which the passenger is going and the taxi driver knowing the location of that building. This system breaks down somewhat if the building is not well known and you have no idea where you are going. My first day of work started with an extensive discussion between my taxi driver and the QBar receptionist to determine how to get to the office and a rather scenic tour of Kijitonamia, the suburb in which my office is located. On day two, I was a bit more helpful to my taxi driver as I realized that the turnoff to my office is marked by a large billboard with a picture of a white woman lying on a carpet with a silhouette of a horse woven into it - random, but distinctive.
In the morning, the traffic on the main roads is almost bumper to bumper and proceeds on a start-stop basis at the direction of a very formal police officer. There are traffic lights, but scant attention is paid to them. On Tuesday, while waiting for the appropriate direction from the police officer, a policeman got into my taxi. He was very polite, greeting both the taxi driver and I in turn before getting down to business in Swahili. The transaction ended with the taxi ferrying the policeman across the intersection and the taxi driver surrendering his license with a promise to return after dropping me off. I have no idea what happened, but I can guess. Apparently, my taxi driver had a powerful incentive to return to the policeman, as it is extremely complicated to get a new license and the process to get a new license starts at the police station.
After my cushy taxi rides, I was determined to figure out how to get to work by dalladalla. Each dalladalla has the name of its start and end point stencilled onto the front of the bus and each start or end point has a specific colour. For instance, I have to take the Msasani-Ubongo dalladalla, which is purple and green. The colour coding makes it reasonably easy to figure out which dalladalla to take, although I had to figure out which direction I should be going, which resulted in one or two extended trips.
Before embarking on my dalladalla adventure, I consulted the ever-helpful receptionist at QBar who gave me very specific instructions on how to get from the apartment to work. He also imparted some important Swahili phrases to me, namely: “shusha _____”, which means “I want to get off at_____”, and “naomba msaada _____”, which means “please help me get to _______”. My impression is that the second phrase is more along the lines of “I have no idea where I’m going so I’m relying on you to tell me when we get to my stop”. I have liberally employed the second phrase with the conductors and my fellow passengers alike.
The morning trip to work is hectic, as every man and his dog have to be at the office by 8 a.m. and the dalladallas over flow with passengers. Funnily enough, there is always enough room for one more person. Movement inside the dalladalla is a carefully synchronised wave of arms, legs and torsos, as tightly packed bodies meld further to allow passengers in and out. I suspect the morning journey will get increasingly interesting, as the temperature rises.
The picture has nothing to do with this post, but I wanted to share the sunshine and beauty of Bongoyo Island, a small island that is approximately 30 - 60 minutes by boat from Dar (the boat leaves from Slipway and the trip costs $18,000 Tz shillings). Cristiano and I spent Sunday exploring Bongoyo, soaking in the sun and eating fresh, grilled prawns. I expect my freckles will unite in the near future to form a tan.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Found: Our Holy Grail
We have an apartment- YAY. The idea was to start looking as soon as we got to Dar, but we got somewhat waylaid by jetlag and an inability to find the bibles of accommodation (aka Advertising in Dar and What's happening in Dar). We spent most of Saturday wandering around the maze of downtown Dar in search of the August edition of both these pamphlets. We started our search in the obvious places, that is major hotels and the tourism office, all of which were a bit of a bust. Eventually, we found What's happening in Dar in a travel agent's office (we were told we could also get these pamphlets at a shopping mall called Shoppers). After much walking and some close encounters of the traffic kind, we returned to QBar to find that the up-to-date editions had been delivered to the QBar reception in our absence. How ironic.
Our eyes lit up as we read the To Let ads, which advertised 2 bedroom apartments in Oyster Bay for $800 (USD). Ah ha, cheap accomodation in a good area. However, we swiftly realised that most of the ads are a bit of a ruse and their purpose is to lure you into calling the equivalent of a rental agent. Very few ads are posted by the owners of rental accommodation. We called various rental agents, explained our parameters and we were off, bouncing our way down dirt roads with earnest rental agents. Ultimately, the rental agents were a bit of a Godsend, as they provided us with transportation to the various places and gave us a pretty good idea of what was out there. During our journeys, we learnt that the rental market in Dar is small, quite expensive and all the rental agents draw on the same stock. All in all, I think we saw 6 or 7 places of varying descriptions. When I say we, I mean Cristiano, as I had already started work and was not much help on the house hunting side. In retrospect, I should have given myself a week in Dar to get my house in order, literally, before starting work.
Ultimately, we rented the first apartment we saw. It is a 3 bedroom, furnished apartment with guaranteed hot water, a balcony with a view of the sea and cable television. I think we lucked out. The rent is a little more dear than expected but the folks at the Italian embassy (Cristiano has good contacts) assured us it was a good deal. In terms of rent, the general practice here is that you pay the full amount of rent for the entire rental period in advance. Again, we were assured by the folks at the Italian embasyy that this was normal. The landlord thought it was highly amusing when I asked him who was responsible for power - we are. It's type of a pay as you go system. We have to get something called a LUKU card, load it with money and then stick it in a "ticket box" on the balcony. I suspect we may have a couple of candlelit dinners in the future, as we are not sure how to check how much money is left on the card.
After we moved in last night, Cristiano and I got to work on trying to obtain some basic necessities, such as food, towels, sheets and about a gizillion other bits and bobs. We had quite a lot of luck on the food side, as we found an informal grocery store close to the house that has an impressive array of fruit, veggies and condiments. Then, it was off to Shoprite. Shoprite had very limited stock, aside from some extremely expensive towels at $17 a piece (after shopping around, Cristiano tells me this is the going rate for towels). Back to our informal grocery store, taking a left at the mosque and a right at the baobab tree, for more supplies. The baobab tree is of the grand dame variety with a trunk that is several metres in diameter. The baobab looked incredible against the backdrop of the purple evening sky and a foreground filled with shadow people and a dancing fire. Ultimately, we didn't find sheets or towels or mosquito nets last night, but more is nog n dag (tomorrow is another day). Instead, I fumigated our rooms with Doom, pulled on a pair of jeans and a fleece, and climbed onto my bare mattress. It was like camping. Cristiano is on the hunt today for all the things we couldn't find last night. Have I said how glad I am that Cristiano is not working yet. The pics at the top are of our kitchen, living room and my bedroom... and then there is Cristiano killing bugs in the kitchen. The bug spray is lethal and I suspect it is extremely bad to inhale it. You are welcome to stay with us, if you happen to be in this neck of the woods.
Our eyes lit up as we read the To Let ads, which advertised 2 bedroom apartments in Oyster Bay for $800 (USD). Ah ha, cheap accomodation in a good area. However, we swiftly realised that most of the ads are a bit of a ruse and their purpose is to lure you into calling the equivalent of a rental agent. Very few ads are posted by the owners of rental accommodation. We called various rental agents, explained our parameters and we were off, bouncing our way down dirt roads with earnest rental agents. Ultimately, the rental agents were a bit of a Godsend, as they provided us with transportation to the various places and gave us a pretty good idea of what was out there. During our journeys, we learnt that the rental market in Dar is small, quite expensive and all the rental agents draw on the same stock. All in all, I think we saw 6 or 7 places of varying descriptions. When I say we, I mean Cristiano, as I had already started work and was not much help on the house hunting side. In retrospect, I should have given myself a week in Dar to get my house in order, literally, before starting work.
Ultimately, we rented the first apartment we saw. It is a 3 bedroom, furnished apartment with guaranteed hot water, a balcony with a view of the sea and cable television. I think we lucked out. The rent is a little more dear than expected but the folks at the Italian embassy (Cristiano has good contacts) assured us it was a good deal. In terms of rent, the general practice here is that you pay the full amount of rent for the entire rental period in advance. Again, we were assured by the folks at the Italian embasyy that this was normal. The landlord thought it was highly amusing when I asked him who was responsible for power - we are. It's type of a pay as you go system. We have to get something called a LUKU card, load it with money and then stick it in a "ticket box" on the balcony. I suspect we may have a couple of candlelit dinners in the future, as we are not sure how to check how much money is left on the card.
After we moved in last night, Cristiano and I got to work on trying to obtain some basic necessities, such as food, towels, sheets and about a gizillion other bits and bobs. We had quite a lot of luck on the food side, as we found an informal grocery store close to the house that has an impressive array of fruit, veggies and condiments. Then, it was off to Shoprite. Shoprite had very limited stock, aside from some extremely expensive towels at $17 a piece (after shopping around, Cristiano tells me this is the going rate for towels). Back to our informal grocery store, taking a left at the mosque and a right at the baobab tree, for more supplies. The baobab tree is of the grand dame variety with a trunk that is several metres in diameter. The baobab looked incredible against the backdrop of the purple evening sky and a foreground filled with shadow people and a dancing fire. Ultimately, we didn't find sheets or towels or mosquito nets last night, but more is nog n dag (tomorrow is another day). Instead, I fumigated our rooms with Doom, pulled on a pair of jeans and a fleece, and climbed onto my bare mattress. It was like camping. Cristiano is on the hunt today for all the things we couldn't find last night. Have I said how glad I am that Cristiano is not working yet. The pics at the top are of our kitchen, living room and my bedroom... and then there is Cristiano killing bugs in the kitchen. The bug spray is lethal and I suspect it is extremely bad to inhale it. You are welcome to stay with us, if you happen to be in this neck of the woods.
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