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?
Friday, August 29, 2008
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.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
There were too many ladies
QBar, the hostel we are staying in, is the place to be in Dar on a Friday night. After a 6 hour afternoon nap, Cristiano and I ventured down to see what the fuss was all about. We were somewhat surprised by the number of beautiful, scantily-clad African women that were doing their thing on the dance floor with ex-pats of all shapes and sizes. As I watched a long-haired ex-pat on the dance floor rub his head against his companion’s stomach, I started to wonder about the nature of their relationship…
QBar is described by Lonely Planet as:
one of the few budget places on the Msasani Peninsula and is very popular…The bar downstairs is a good place to meet travellers and expats [and loads of prostitutes]
Okay, I took some liberties with Lonely Planet’s description because they omitted the fact about the prozzies. Funnily enough, we meet some Irish girls on Saturday and their guidebook was far blunter about what goes on at the various bars in Dar and confirmed our suspicions about QBar (as did the taxi drivers, the people working at the Italian embassy and our housing agents). Suddenly, the receptionist’s comment on Saturday morning of there being “too many ladies” the night before took on a slightly different meaning.
On the topic of food, all the food we have eaten so far has ranged from good to great. There are two restaurants that are particularly noteworthy and, luckily for us, within walking distance of QBar. The first is Jan – Trattoria (Msasani Peninsula, off Kimweri Ave, btwn Kobil Garage and Lilylike Chinese) that is tucked away on a small, dirt street that didn’t make it into our guidebooks. It took about a half an hour of purposeful walking in various directions before we spotted a dimly lit sign announcing the presence of Jan’s, an Italian restaurant. The food is unbelievable with a menu abounding in thin crust pizza, gnocchi and succulent, marinated meat. I missed my chance to try lobster while in Halifax, but apparently I can make up for this by trying the lobster at Jan’s. This restaurant definitely meets Sarah’s and Lee’s standards of indulging champagne tastes on a traveller’s budget, albeit a somewhat well-heeled traveller. While at Jan’s, we got talking to an Indian couple sitting next to us who recommended that we also try a restaurant called Barbeque Village (Msasani Peninsula, off Kimweri Ave, north of Lillylike Chinese). I have to admit I didn’t fully appreciate BBQ Village, as our dinner trip interrupted my daily 6 hour nap and I felt seriously groggy. Cristiano and I thought the no jet lag pills cured our jetlag, but I’m not so sure. Essentially, we have a whole night’s sleep in the afternoon and then a nap at night. On the plus side, we have seen a lot of sunrises and are awake to hear the call to prayer at 4:30 a.m. Despite my otherworldly state, I appreciated the awesome Indian food available at BBQ Village.
I’ve realised since I got here how privileged we are as pedestrians in Vancouver. Walking around Dar requires your full attention, as trucks, taxis, motorcycles and heavily laden bicycles sweep by you in a cacophony of horns as you pick your way along well-trodden verges scattered with orange peels and discarded slip-slops. A moment of inattention results in screeching brakes and blaring horns. The joke “why did the chicken cross the road” would get little airtime in Dar, as the chicken would never get across the road. As Vancouverites, Cristiano and I haven’t quite developed the assess-and-dash skills necessary to cross major intersections so we rely on moving with the pack, which has worked somewhat successfully so far.
As a total aside, the image that sticks in my mind from this weekend is a very serious, young, black man carrying a glass, house-shaped fish tank, complete with stones, plants, fish and water, on his head as he walked through traffic. It was priceless.
Check out the writing on the water bottle on the picture. You'll note that Cool Blue, the type of water, can also be used to satisfy your body's water requirements.
Into the wormhole
After 32 hours of taxis, planes and airports, we magically popped out into the morning sun and humidity of Dar es Salaam. Ironically, Cristiano and I were the first people to leave for our placements, but not the first people to reach the country of our placement.
Full of kicks and giggles, Cristiano and I took on the first leg of our journey from Vancouver to London – a short 8/9 hour flight. The plane was old school with taped up armrests et al and Red October playing in the background. A classic moment was when Cristiano’s headrest came off his seat while he was adjusting it. Cristiano’s attempts to reinstate the headrest were met with some amusement from the older Indian ladies sitting behind Cristiano, as every push or pull of the headrest caused their trays to enthusiastically pop open.
Heathrow was Heathrow. It was also a great opportunity to hang out with Lindsay and catch up on the last couple of years. The highlight was eating strawberries and cream, and drinking champagne with Lindsay on a bench in the departures lounge. A quintessential English experience in a quintessential English location.
Onwards and upwards to leg two of journey from London to Nairobi. This stage is a bit of a blur, as I was completely knackered and spent most of the flight trying to get into a position in which I could sleep. Originally, I had an aisle seat but got somewhat conned into switching seats with an older Indian woman who had the middle seat. She said she was ill, but I think she really just wanted an aisle seat. I became somewhat unimpressed with our switch, as I realized that the in-flight entertainment on her seat was non-operational and that it was impossible to get out of my seat without clambering over her sleeping body. Nairobi was a quick stopover with just enough time to think about brushing my teeth and marvel at the $16 bags of chocolate.
In Vancouver, Cristiano and I started a strict regime of taking a herbal no-jetlag medication. Every two hours, we dutifully swallowed a little pill and waited for our circadian rhythms to reset (we realized about half way through that we should have been chewing the pills). I think there may be something to the pills, as I felt somewhat awake and alert when we arrived in Dar. Being awake and somewhat alert helped, as we tried to track down our MIA luggage. Lucky for us, our luggage took a relatively short sojourn
in Nairobi before joining us in Dar later the same day. It did give me pause for thought, as I wondered how one pair of jeans and two tops were going to take me through 6 months and whether I should have ticked the luggage insurance option on my travel insurance. The picture is of Cristiano and I celebrating our arrival in Dar.
At the start of the journey, I also started taking my malaria medication. I opted for doxycyclin, as Malarone costs an arm and a leg. Aside from the obvious benefits of not getting malaria, doxcyclin will also ensure I have no acne problems for the next 6 months. On the downside, if I get pregnant while taking doxy, I’ve been advised to have an abortion immediately as the base chemical causes deformities in the foetus. It makes me wonder what it’ll do to my body after 6 months of continuous use. Cristiano and I are each experiencing a side effect of our malaria medication – I have 30 minutes of nausea and he has a rash (not even Malarone is perfect).
After all that, we are heading off to the city centre today to get some maps and more information about accommodation. Monty Python had the holy grail, we have the quest for affordable, safe accommodation. As of yet, I don’t really have an impression of what Dar is like, but I’m sure that’ll change in the next couple of weeks.
Full of kicks and giggles, Cristiano and I took on the first leg of our journey from Vancouver to London – a short 8/9 hour flight. The plane was old school with taped up armrests et al and Red October playing in the background. A classic moment was when Cristiano’s headrest came off his seat while he was adjusting it. Cristiano’s attempts to reinstate the headrest were met with some amusement from the older Indian ladies sitting behind Cristiano, as every push or pull of the headrest caused their trays to enthusiastically pop open.
Heathrow was Heathrow. It was also a great opportunity to hang out with Lindsay and catch up on the last couple of years. The highlight was eating strawberries and cream, and drinking champagne with Lindsay on a bench in the departures lounge. A quintessential English experience in a quintessential English location.
Onwards and upwards to leg two of journey from London to Nairobi. This stage is a bit of a blur, as I was completely knackered and spent most of the flight trying to get into a position in which I could sleep. Originally, I had an aisle seat but got somewhat conned into switching seats with an older Indian woman who had the middle seat. She said she was ill, but I think she really just wanted an aisle seat. I became somewhat unimpressed with our switch, as I realized that the in-flight entertainment on her seat was non-operational and that it was impossible to get out of my seat without clambering over her sleeping body. Nairobi was a quick stopover with just enough time to think about brushing my teeth and marvel at the $16 bags of chocolate.
In Vancouver, Cristiano and I started a strict regime of taking a herbal no-jetlag medication. Every two hours, we dutifully swallowed a little pill and waited for our circadian rhythms to reset (we realized about half way through that we should have been chewing the pills). I think there may be something to the pills, as I felt somewhat awake and alert when we arrived in Dar. Being awake and somewhat alert helped, as we tried to track down our MIA luggage. Lucky for us, our luggage took a relatively short sojourn
in Nairobi before joining us in Dar later the same day. It did give me pause for thought, as I wondered how one pair of jeans and two tops were going to take me through 6 months and whether I should have ticked the luggage insurance option on my travel insurance. The picture is of Cristiano and I celebrating our arrival in Dar.
At the start of the journey, I also started taking my malaria medication. I opted for doxycyclin, as Malarone costs an arm and a leg. Aside from the obvious benefits of not getting malaria, doxcyclin will also ensure I have no acne problems for the next 6 months. On the downside, if I get pregnant while taking doxy, I’ve been advised to have an abortion immediately as the base chemical causes deformities in the foetus. It makes me wonder what it’ll do to my body after 6 months of continuous use. Cristiano and I are each experiencing a side effect of our malaria medication – I have 30 minutes of nausea and he has a rash (not even Malarone is perfect).
After all that, we are heading off to the city centre today to get some maps and more information about accommodation. Monty Python had the holy grail, we have the quest for affordable, safe accommodation. As of yet, I don’t really have an impression of what Dar is like, but I’m sure that’ll change in the next couple of weeks.
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