Arrival in Tanzania

The Agency had selected me for the lofty position of Environmental Co-ordinator, to work for Big E's NGO he and his team called Hifadhi (literally: preserve, conserve). My wife Mags, had the equally lofty title of Unassigned Spouse!

The Agency arranged our travel plans, gave us a sound briefing, paid for all our inoculations, and were to pay us a modest living allowance during the period of my two year assignment. Our time in Tanzania actually blew out to seven years, but all that was unknown to us at the time.

Our unaccompanied luggage allowance was just 25kg, which compared to a Lutheran Pastor we met there, who took a shipping container full of stuff he probably never used! Another couple even took their grand piano with them! For us the 25kg allowance was perfectly sufficient because it is possible to purchase most things in Arusha, and doing so helps the local economy, as well as going towards dispelling the ‘wealthy colonialist’ image.

Tanzania is a long way from little old New Zealand and we took the roundabout route because back then the only international carrier flying into the poorly maintained Kilimanjaro airport was KLM, flying out of Amsterdam. The actual total flying time was around thirty six hours, which is a long time to be sitting on your bum!

Departing Auckland was less than auspicious because our connecting flight from Christchurch had been delayed, and the airport computer system said we were booked on the return flight to Christchurch! The airport staff were in a dither and had to refer to the computer manual to correct the mistake, so we had a guided run through the airport to the waiting aircraft!

We were not much impressed with LA Airport, or the service there, but it just was a stopover of four hours and something to forget – or not, there were two people I’m not likely to forget!

We did enjoy our couple of nights in Amsterdam. Our budget accommodation had been double booked so we were bundled off to another hotel within their franchise, which was over-the-top accommodation and altogether too posh for us! The hoot was that we were not allowed to breakfast with the posh! Anyway who wants to wear a tie to breakfast!

The eight hour flight down to Kilimanjaro was awesome for me because I could plainly see the Mediterranean and a little later the vastness of the Sahara. I once had the ambition to revegetate the Sahara but somehow leftie logic prevailed and I did not pursue the matter!

On the flight tracking monitor, we could see that we had begun to circle around Arusha and I noticed the engine pitch was fluctuating between power and throttling off. I was a little puzzled but did not want to say anything because Mags is not too keen on flying at the best of times! Soon there was an announcement.

"There is a power cut at Kilimanjaro Airport and there are no landing lights, we are circling, waiting for them to start the generators."

Beads of sweat appeared on Mags’ upper lip.

"It's ok," a hostess assured someone, "we have enough fuel to reach Johannesburg!"

Once we had touched down and were taxiing to the terminal, I could see that many of the runway lights were not glowing at all, it looked like half the bulbs had blown and not been replaced!

During subsequent events we came to know that the airport was in a sorry state, and in need of an upgrade but these days an appropriate standard is maintained and many airlines land there.

As I stepped onto the tarmac, the warm tropical air was my first tangible hint that we had arrived!

The generators did not feed electricity into the terminal building and the only light inside was those old fashioned kerosene storm lanterns. I was reminded of government building of the fifties by the drab polished plywood linings of the immigration area. But the lack of adequate made it a doddle to pass through immigration and customs. Our briefing had warned us about these guys, so we were perhaps overly cautious and apprehensive of them.

From Amsterdam we had travelled with our Agency’s field reps, who became good friends and we were met by other Agency people already located in the Arusha environs. We squeezed into two vehicles and drove through the dark along roads that later I was to know very well. I peered through the window trying to see something of the life outside, spotting from time to time little shops with either candles or storm lanterns making pinholes of light in the dark. The power cut did not affect them, they were not connected.

The road was dusty and in the headlights I could see banana 'trees' grey with a thick layer the stuff. It wafted through the vehicle with ease. The road was in the process of being remade and village people built speed bumps during the night to slow the traffic down. The dust invaded their homes, coating food and clothing; it was just awful for people living there and a dangerous health risk!

I had used my old trick to be last into the vehicle, which gave me a window seat but still, in the dark I could not really see where we were going but I felt the change of direction when turned up the Ilboru road.

Soon we reached our field reps’ house where we had a meal by the light of the Tilly lamp. Conversation did not flow because the combination of food, beer and exhaustion lulled us to sleep, despite the adrenaline coursing through our veins.

Our stay at Mo and Jo's house was prolonged because Big E did not fulfil his responsibilities to have our accommodation ready for us. Nor my assignment for that matter, but more of that another time! The lack of action gave us the time to settle in a little and to become familiar with our new surroundings. Mama Alfred was the first African village person I met; she was Mo and Jo’s housegirl. I sort of associated Housegirl as a colonialist term, just a step up from slavery, but in this case I had the kacky-end of the stick! Mama Alfred did some house cleaning and made tea or coffee or prepared a meal, but it was her only chance for employment and to provide extra things for her family. Mo and Jo didn’t need a housegirl and usually she went home early because there was nothing else for her to do. Nevertheless, I was not wrong, there is plenty of evidence that housegirls are treated badly!

During the down time I accompanied Mo to negotiate with customs over the importation of our unaccompanied luggage. This experience reinforced in me the need for patience and diplomacy if I was to make my assignment work successfully. We also meet and had a few lessons from our Swahili teacher, Mr Kimaro. We had a miserly allowance of forty hours tuition.

Big E had a good, if misguided, reputation with the Agency stemming from something I won't go into here, but Mo and Jo had found that he was slow at keeping his promises, and was economical with the truth. They obviously did not completely trust him.

For my assignment he had been funded to the tune of $US25 000 and had been sold an ex Agency Suzuki at a very cheap purchase price, which was supposed to be used to support me in my work. Hifadhi had also been given a second-hand computer by the Agency, again to support my assignment but I never ever used it. Big E had used some of the funding to build an office, which the High Commissioner had officially opened, he was also in the process of building a small flat which was supposed to become our accommodation. The flat was within his own house complex.

Each time we went there to check, no progress had been made, but I did notice his attention was more focused on building something else down the Sanawari road. It turned out to be a Bar-cum-restaurant and guess how he was funding it?

Mo and Jo had other visitors at their house, and because I wanted to get on with my assignment, I offered to help to finish off the flat, but no, Big E told us that at a family meeting, they had decided to move out of their house and into the unfinished flat! We were to move into their house! I objected because our role was certainly not to tip people out of their home, but he assured me that it was all his wife, Mama Baraka’s idea! Remember what I said about economical with the truth? He told us that we could do some painting to freshen the house and that his sons, Baraka and Heri would help. The next weekend saw us carrying out the painting work and we moved in on the following Monday.

First though, to ‘officially’ welcome us, we were to have a meal with the family on the Sunday afternoon! Mama Baraka welcomed us as tradition demands, but her body language told a very different story!  Big E kept coming and going and would not settle down, so his welcome was less than warm as well!

A table was set outside under a big Norfolk Island Pine, but I eyed this big fat dog turd right beside the table so I warned Mags not to step on it! I took the opportunity when Big E next passed by to indicate that the turd was not a welcome condiment! He got the message and had Heri remove it with something resembling a shovel.

Mama Baraka had prepared a pork chop for each of us with vegetables and rice, but we ate alone! I asked her to join us but she simply indicated that she was coming, but she never did! Big E finally arrived with a bottle of wine and he sat with us until it was empty. There was not much conversation and I made the excuse that we needed to go back to our painting, which brought the meal to an overly hasty conclusion.

The air seemed thick, and Big E's attempt to be open and friendly did not really come off. It was plain Mama Baraka was not too happy.

And that was our introduction to life in Africa!

Celebration to honor Big E's mother.

Big E was the director of the NGO I was working for during the first two years of my assignment. There is a need to be a bit vague here because in fact the guy's name was not Big E and it turned out that the man was not quite as straight as he might have been. His wife Mama B was however one of God's great gifts to this Earth and later there will be more about them all. (haven't figured out what to name them yet - maybe after trees!)
For the record The Agency placed us with the organisation and we remain very happy with The Agency.

We lived in the same house as Big E and his family, with just a dividing wall so we became close to the family, and while there became huge issues between Big E and I, we remain to this day, good friends.

Big E's mother attained the age of 70 years, and to honor that occasion, he invited me to partake in his ritual celebration of the event. Now I am not sure about the tradition of this - more like it was Big E's take on the tradition.

A large ram was slaughtered; the fatty tail and the neck piece were given to Big E's mother - what she did with it, I do not know but probably it was made to a stew like makonde. Mama B was given some of the innards, but not what we call the 'offal'.

The rest of the carcase was was cooked slowly over embers, watched over by a young man (kijana) who I did not know. While the meat cooked, Big E, his brother Big J and I slowly drank beer and talked.
As the 'honored' guest, I was the first to sample one of the choice cuts - a rib. The kijana had cut it off and handed it to me, the others watching until I had eaten all the meat off it and even stripped of the thin skin that had protected the inside of the rib cage.
Once I had eaten the rib, each person was given a rib until they were all consumed - the banes were thrown into a pile beside the fire embers.
The kijana cut a piece of meat off - a mouthful at a time and fed us one by one using a fork. Slowly the three of us devoured the carcase, washing it down with beer; sips for me, gulps for the others.

Then the heart was divided in the same way and fed to us, one by one. And again the kidneys and liver. Now I am a bit partial to tripe - for the uninitiated, this is the stomach lining, which is usually cleaned thoroughly, often with a weak solution of sulphuric acid. This had been washed in water - once I think! We were fed our portions, roughly cut into squares and the only taste was of semi decomposed grass. However, I kept up with the others with little difficulty. The lungs did not seem to be well cooked and seemed tasteless but it was like biting into warm polystyrene!
Finally came the testicles! They had been lying there beside the fire, not cooked, and every now and then I eyed them willing them to disappear! After all else had been devoured, the kijana picked up the testicles and tossed them onto the embers. They swelled slightly and morbidly I watched and suddenly -poof, they burst just like popcorn! All white and creamy! A fork-full of the stuff appeared before my nose, and I just couldn't! I put may finger to my lips and said, "Asante, nimeshiba!" Thank you I am satisfied!
They seemed to think none the less of me and finished up their delicacy.
I was astounded, it took us most of the day but the three of us, with some help from the kijana, had eated a whole, huge ram!

I recall, I did not need my evening meal!

With the Maasai

During my first assignment in Tanzania, I was working with Maasai and Arusha people in rural villages, mostly but not always with school kids.  Both are proud, traditional tribes and it was a privilege to work among them.

Tanzania is not so well known, and many people struggle to locate it easily on a map. Here in New Zealand, because we have a sporting association with South Africa, people assume that’s where we worked. Tanzania is actually part of East Africa, the country south of Kenya, and with Lake Victoria to the north. Across the lake is Uganda, better known for Idi Amin as well as its gorilla population, and to the northwest is Rwanda famous for gorillas and infamous for the genocide and Burundi as infamous for genocide.  

History is important so will indulge in some: Tanzania gained Independence (Uhuru - meaning freedom) from the British in 1964 and became Tanzania by the joining of Tanganyika and Zanzibar. Julius Nyerere, the first president remembered reverently as The Father of the Nation, made some changes post Britain that he deemed were necessary.

Under his villagisation program the nomadic way of life was to cease and people were grouped into newly formed village areas where there was to be schooling, health services and churches. In some cases, soldiers forced people to settle and again sometimes the villages were not situated in the best environment. The only building materials these new village people had available came from the local vegetation, and so environmental degradation was accelerated.

It was natural the tribal peoples joined with their kin in these villages, and while today there is intermingling of tribes within villages, very often there may be only the one tribe. This is especially so within the more remote rural villages.

It is perhaps confusing to the uninitiated that ‘our’ main city was Arusha and there is tribe that is ‘Arusha’. The names were not made for the convenience of English speakers, in Swahili the plural suffix for people is Wa, so the tribes people are WaMaasai and WaArusha. [Even now I’m not sure that the second capital letter should be used, but for me it is a mark of respect.]

Around Arusha and beyond the Maasai have grouped mainly in the less arable land, for after all the Maasai were not traditionally arable farmers - though many are today. Thus as herders they lived in the drier areas.

The Maasai culture is much more traditional compared to most of the other tribes and the Arusha tribe is less so but in many respects they are similar. Other tribes see them as backward, because they keep to their tradition rather than accepting modernity, but that is perhaps intertribal banter. As far as clever, wise and forward thinking goes, the Maasai and the Arusha people are no different to any other people on this planet.

They simply love their culture and thrive within their traditions. I knew kids from my work in a primary school and on a later visit to bomas, I would meet the same kids who could not wait to take off their school uniform to don their traditional dress.

Close to the village of Kisongo, we picked up a young woman, dressed up in her traditional regalia, she had a shaved head, circular burns on her cheeks and was nothing short of beautiful! She spoke perfect English and had studied in Germany. She was back to marry a Maasai and live in a boma because, in her words, ‘It is a much better way of life!’

My co-worker for two years was a young Maasai fellow who had trained in forestry and this was his first forestry-related job. His training had been excellent and his knowledge was extensive. Joshia and I had planned that our first village visit would be to the village of Likamba, but first we would have to meet the village chairman, the Mtendaje (village executive officer), and the village elders. Joshia told me that the elders would be the toughest nuts to crack and final approval, or not, would come from them!

I had hatched a plan, but I needed to practice some Swahili to put it across, so I asked my host family to help.

One of the key environmental problems is erosion caused by wind and rain. The Swahili word for erosion is mmomonyoko, a word that rolls off the tongue!

At the meeting we all introduced ourselves and after each name an 'oyay' was called out by all! Put me in mind of an old-time union meeting!  Josiah whispered to me that they has decided to use only Swahili, so I would know what was said – Maasai have their own tribal language that  they enjoy using. I picked up some and asked Josiah to translate what I thought was important. I could tell all was not going too well and some complained that the trees attracted birds and other wildlife, which caused damage to the wheat crops grown there.

Josiah was asked to speak and he received respect and was listened to, but obviously he had not won the majority of them over. He took his seat and the chairman asked me to speak.

I had not warned Josiah what I intended to do, so I stood up, greeted them all and told them that all living things were part of nature and to remove one part out may jeopardize another. My advice was to respect the birds and other wildlife. I reminded them that the road into Likamba was damaged by erosion and that dust that choked them and blew across their land was fertility disappearing forever. Erosion was also those channels the rains gouged, so deeply that if a cow fell in there, it would be last.

I called one of the elders to join me at the front, and asked him his name. After he told me, I said that his name was now soil, a part of a farm. He laughed, embarrassed. The meeting was hushed. I told him that a farmer had cultivated him (the soil) for sowing and went to town for some special, expensive seed.

Next I asked him if he knew my name, but he could not remember, which embarrassed him in front of his fellows. I told him that my name was wind, and all there laughed, probably thinking I had muffed my Swahili!  I told him that the wind’s job was play gently and I pushed him lightly. He smiled back at me, not too sure about the manhandling. Then I said that the wind can become strong (the Swahili word is the same as angry) and I gave him a firm push! Surprised, he nearly fell over, taking some quick steps to right himself making his fellows laugh, nudging each other. I told him this was erosion and all their good top soil (fertility) was blowing away to Kenya!

I then called three more of the elders up and introduced each as the name of a tree and told them that their hands and arms were the roots of the trees. I asked them to hold firmly to the 'soil'. They gripped the man. Again I was the wind and of course they held the man firmly when I pushed gently. When I pushed hard, putting effort into my face without actually using it, the tree roots held the soil firmly. They did not want to show any weakness, Maasai don’t have any!

In the face of strong wind, the 'soil' held firm and I said that the trees had done their job protecting the soil and the farm from erosion.

There was back-slapping and handshakes, as well as laughter, the players had become heroes! The elders embraced our project and offered us their support.

News travels swiftly and the surrounding villages soon heard about the role play. We had instant access even to areas we had not expected to go.

Later I used this role play in all the villages and schools, especially the schools because the kids love to perform. It was one of those small things that worked well and was always fun to do.

Except for one remote village where I had chosen a little girl as the 'soil'. Always I picked boys, because I did not like the idea of pushing girls around. I chose this girl by mistake, and her teacher later told me she had a slight mental disability.

Anyway, the role play started well, but when I said 'the wind became strong' the literal translation is and then I become angry - the poor girl thought I was for real and took fright, running off to hide.

Of course the other kids laughed at her misfortune, but it embarrassed me! On the brighter side of this experience, I was able to console her to some extent with a tee-shirt that I was carrying as a prize for best tree planting.