Welcome to Mwanza!

We are in Mwanza now, and while it is home to Lake Victoria, it is clear that it is not meant to be a tourist destination. It would certainly not make it to the top of my list. I will save further details for the Mwanza City Report.

As soon as we arrived in town, we began searching for accommodations. There are quite a few “hotels” and lodges very close to the APHFTA office, so we decided to begin our search there. As we looked, we found that double rooms were rather hard to come by. Apparently, in this regionpeople of the same sex are not allowed to stay in a room together*. Thinking we must have misunderstood the first time, we made sure that this was the case, and indeed it was. While the reasoning behind this (likely homophobia) was not explained to us, we figured we would have to accept it. After shopping around at a few places, we decided on SunCity Hotel, which made an exception to the same-sex rule for us.

Our hotel costs my roommate and I $2 each/night. Yes, that is USD**. 

We were told there was only one self-contained room—a term used to indicate the presence of a bathroom in the room—and that the only other available room had a shared hall-bathroom complete with latrine-toilets***. The staff did not speak a word of English, so all of this was conveyed to us through our new Supervisor who was kind enough to help us figure out our living situation. There was also no electricity there, nor at any of the other lodges we had visited. (Power outages are commonplace in this area of Mwanza, so the staff was unfazed, and perhaps even confused by our questions of when the power would come back on.) Despite all of these problems, however, the rooms were incredibly clean, each had a color television, and it was next door to the APHFTA office. After paying for our rooms and putting our luggage away, we went to the office and then out to dinner.

After a delicious meal of roasted tilapia and plantains, we returned to the hotel. To our delight, the electricity was on. We had been speculating amongst ourselves the best way to shower in pitch-black darkness without falling into the adjoining latrine-toilet, but luckily our conjectures did not have come to fruition. The generator was roaring loudly and all was well.

As my roommate and I walked back to our non-self-contained room, a rather large middle-aged man came out of the bathroom wearing only a towel. Shocked, horrified, and scandalized, I fumbled for the key, as we struggled to keep from bursting out with laughter. Now that we were privy (no pun intended) to the utter awkwardness of our bathroom situation, we decided that we would shower in our other teammate's room to avoid walking around the sole hallway in a state of undress. We also realized that our window overlooked a table at the bar and restaurant next door, and that the loud music almost managed to drown out the noise of the generator.

After realizing we had been given only one towel, I attempted to ask the sole staff member for an extra one. Up until this point, I’d been able to scrape by communicating with what little Kiswahili I have, mixed with a good amount of English and an even better amount of TPR. Having been reduced to two tactics now that the staff was monolingual, I found myself having a much harder time. The main issue was that I knew she could understand me, but I could not understand her. Luckily we happened upon another tenant who could speak English. After about twenty minutes of back and forth, it was explained to us that only one towel was allowed per room. Because we were sharing a room (which was not technically allowed) we were only permitted one towel. I could not rent an extra towel, but would have to pay the price of another room (TZS 8000) if I wanted to be able to dry myself after my shower.

I walked away, incredulous and defeated. After all this, we found out that therewere in fact, more self-contained rooms. To our surprise, our Boss had moved into the hotel while we were at dinner. Not really sure how that miscommunication went down, considering it happened between two Kiswahili-speaking people...

Now, I wouldn’t say that up until now we’d been experiencing an illegitimate, watered-down, or fake version of Africa, but what we were experiencing in Mwanza was something entirely different from what we had seen thus far. Perhaps more real. Perhaps not. It was certainly less-Westerner-friendly. I feel that I may have a lot to learn from Mwanza. We’ll see what I have to say one week from now.

Oh, and one thing I’ve already learned that I’ll never forget: If you turn on the hot water switch while the generator is running, all the electricity on the entire street will go out.

*We assume that the pricier, more touristy hotels would probably allow same-sex rooming arrangements, but all of those would have been well out of our price range.

**The moral of the story: You get what you pay for.

***If you know of any possible way a latrine-toilet is in any way practical than a toilet bowl, I beseech you to do so. 

Summertime...

Yesterday, the first of the interns made her way back to her home country of Sri Lanka. Just a few hours ago another intern left to go back to the Phillipines.

Watching my two colleagues leave really made me aware of the mortality of this summer. For so long it seemed endless and boundless, but I’ve been reminded now that it’s very quickly drawing to a close.

And then there were three.

On Thursday we’ll be leaving for our last scheduled training in the Mwanza region. We’ll be training personnel from seven different clinics, so we certainly won’t be lacking things to keep us busy. Laden with 5 net books and two desktops (complete with printers and scanners), it will certainly be the largest training I’ve been through for this summer, but I’m looking forward to going out with a bang.

City Report: Stonetown*, Zanzibar

After spending 5 days on the beautiful (understating here) island of Zanzibar (a.k.a. Spice Islands), all of us decided that we would spend our (respective) honeymoons there—it’s just that incredible. The people on the island are actually incredibly conservative, and you’ll see most women in full hijab despite the piercing heat, although the narrow corridors of the immaculately historical Stonetown provide enough shade to escape the harshest parts of the day.

Home to the birthplace of Swahili, a mixture of Arabic, Bantu, and some English and Portuguese, most of the inhabitants of Zanzbarare of mixed-race heritage, allowing for an rather diverse-looking population. It’s main income comes from tourism though—you can find tourists there year-round—and there are shops on every street, as well as many gorgeous and unique hotels.

Food:

There are a plethora of restaurants on the island, with many different international cuisines to choose from—we even found a restaurant specializing in Belgian foods! However, if you’re on a budget, I’d stay away from them. All of them. Only in the inner areas of Stonetown will you be able to find reasonably priced meals at a restaurant (TZS 2000-8000), but don’t worry, the food is still pretty delicious. Luukman’s was one of our favorite day spots to go to. I got lunch there for TZS 2500. There’s also an unnamed place—to our knowledge—just down the street that has great prices as well, when Luukman’s is too overrun by tourists. But for the King of dinners, you’ll have to go to Foridhani Gardens. As the sun begins to set this beautiful Garden area is turned into a street food fair complete with (mostly) fresh seafood, Zanzibar pizzas (super delicious and really cheap), fresh sugarcane juice, and the like. I’ve developed a mantra recently that unless there is a price tag or a sign declaring fixed prices, everything is negotiable, and the same goes for Forodhani. Within the first night I developed a lasting relationship with one of the seafood vendors, procuring two large crabs, salad, and chapatti for my friend and I for only TZS 9000 (from the starting price of TZS 36000). It might be hard to budge sometimes, but if you’re persistent (or from Africa), you’ll be able to bring the prices down.

Notice: The seafood at Forodhani’s is not always as fresh as the nice boys behind the smorgasbord would allow you to think. The cheaper things tend to come and go pretty quickly, but there was one lobster that stayed on the table almost every night we were there. You should also be aware that everything is partially cooked for ease of throwing it on the grill to reheat and get to your plate in a reasonable amount of time. You can always have them throw something back on the burner in case you’re unsatisfied with its doneness.

Market:

There is actually only one market near Stonetown, but it contains a fish sections, fruits and vegetables section, and an enormous spices section. Everyone will give you different prices for the same products, but before even worrying about that, you should make sure to look at freshness. Particularly with the spices, you may get a great deal on old, tasteless wares if you’re not careful. For packaged spices, make sure that the plastic is still completely translucent. They start to get opaque once they’ve been sitting around for too long. The food market is also catty-corner to a pretty comprehensive fabric market with beautiful “silk” (not silk) scarves.

Sights:

Just like in Arusha, almost everyone is a tour guide or knows of one. You may want to shop around a bit, as the prices can be vastly different for the very same tours. I definitely recommend going on the spice tour. You get to see, taste, and smell a lot of fresh spices and fruits and it’s awesome. A tour of Stonetown  is also an absolute must. It’s such a beautiful city with such incredible history. You’ll even get to see the home of Freddy Mercury!

Stays:

Manch Lodge or Jambo Hotel are great places to stay. They’re more hostel style, so you pay $15/night and have to share a few bathrooms, but the breakfast they serve is delicious!

Notice: It is highly unlikely that you’ll ever be able to find these places without taking any wrong turns in the maze-like streets of Stonetown. Make sure to take note of surrounding landmarks so that you can ask locals.

Warning: People in Zanzibar are incredibly kind—we wazungu are their livelihood after all—but I would be careful with some of the men and boys. I don’t want to make any blanket statements, but I encountered quite a few creepers. There was one guy (~40 years old) who worked at our hotel who kept trying  to get me to go on a “walk” with him. If you’re an unmarried female, beware! If you’re married, however, most men will leave you alone.

All in all, Zanzibar is an incredible place. It was the first place in which we encountered Americans or people our age. I also feel like it’s one of those places where you have to spend at least a month or so there to feel satisfied that you actually know the place. There’s so much more to the island than Stonetown (it’s an archipelago!), and all of it—particularly the beaches—is breathtaking. We extended our stay by an extra two days because we loved it so much. I also met a pastor who went there on a short-term missions trip with his family and loved it so much that they came back with a one-way ticket.

Be careful if you ever go to Zanzibar—you might never want to leave!

*I think Stonetown may actually be more of a neighborhood than a city, but whatever.

Wazungu

It passes from person to person like an echo.

Wazungu.

Foreigners.

If it’s not our bags clutched tlightly at our sides, or our backpacks perched in front like bellies pregnant with gadgets, valuables, and stacks of shillings, its our hair, natural, worn down, uncoverd. If its not our hair it’s our clothing, girls in pants or skirts that hit mid-shin instead of ankle. If it’s not our clothing it’s our skin. Or our eyes. Or our accents.

Wazuuuunguuuu!

Children scream it like laughter, women whisper it like gossip, men gnash it with teeth like sharks. It’s a brand. Wazungu.

Like hawks, we are descended upon. Newspaper men flock to the windows of our taxis, quickly flipping to the English section and pressing it onto the glass. Street vendors call out to us as we walk along the street. Karibuni! Looking is free! Young men and boys, permanently stationed on various street corners call out Mambo! and Vipi! like a test. We murmur our Poas and Safis in response as necessary. We simply ignore those who call out China to our Vietnamese and Filipino teammates and the various Kiswahili names for Indians to our Sri Lankan ones.

Here, it is as if the observation of our foreignness is as necessary to point out as it is to breathe or eat. Heads turn as we walk down the street. Children poke, men eye. And always the whispers. Wazungu.

While on safari, we would constantly call out to one another as we spotted animals. Zebra! Hippos over there! Baby elephant! It never got old. In many places, we feel as if we are the safari animals, moving through the savannah of the streets, providing them with spectacle.

It’s not so much irritating as it is intriguing. In America—in Harvard Yard even, we receive thousands of tourists everyday. I have yet to go out of my way to even glance over at one as I walk to my classes or back to my room. I do not poke them. I do not grab at them as they walk down the cobblestone sidewalks. I do not try to guess their nationality and then yell it at them, or attempt to speak to them in a language I think might be theirs, yet here, these things happen to us and our fellow tourists everyday.

In America we love privacy and personal space, and we would never dream of breaching another’s. Here, no such boundaries are upheld and while it used to disturb us, it gets less and less startling everyday. 

“Please put your lifejackets away!”

“We do not need our lifejackets anymore,” a voice commanded over the intercom.

Lifejackets? Everyone was in a panic at the sound of that word. We watched as one of the flight attendants carried back a jacket that had been inflated by a trigger-happy unattended minor.

Who said anything about life jackets?

The South African woman sitting next to me and I looked at one another. I knew her expression mirrored mine. A combination of confusion and fear.

We had stopped in Zanzibar for a few hours because of a problem with our second engine. When we returned to the plane, the engine that had had problems was now running. They told us they didn’t want to turn it off in case anything happened again.

Shortly after takeoff, I noticed that everyone on the right side of the plane started looking around, pointing, and exclaiming. I glanced at a window across the aisle from me and noticed that one of the propellers had stopped turning. One of the South African woman’s daughters began exclaiming in Afrikaans.

The air-conditioning had stopped working so the flight attendants were going up and down the aisles handing out cups of water to both cool and calm us. Their faces and demeanors were the picture of serenity. They hadn’t begun panicking, so I told myself that that meant I didn’t need to worry either. I also thought that could be a clever trick they were playing to keep chaos from ensuing. At any rate, I tried to convince myself that if we were in any real danger we would turn around. We had taken off only moments earlier.

“Are we going to turn around?” The South African woman asked.

“We are going to fly and land with one engine,” the flight attendant responded, smiling calmly. It was a short flight—only 20 minutes from Zanzibar—to Dar, so I figured we could make it. I could tell that the plane was tipping slightly to the left, possibly in an attempt to keep the plane from losing control. Before we knew it, the captain announced that we would be landing—the only thing he’d said since the engine had gone out.

The descent was rather smooth, but once we touched down to the ground the plane began shaking from side to side, lights flickering and everything. I gripped my armrests as tightly as I could. Not a thought was going through my mind other than a classic African hymn I had grown up hearing since childhood. My God is a good God, yes He is! One woman’s hands flew up, one on the roof of the plane, one in the air praying fiercely. We began to slow until we eventually rolled to a smooth stop. After a momentary pause, all of the passengers broke into applause.

In all of that, the thing I found most odd was the lack of compensatory customer service. In America we would have been given all kinds of vouchers and air credits to keep us happy, whereas here, the pilot gave us a simple apology for our late arrival and “rough” flight and then sent us on our way. Strangely, that was the thing I found most jarring in that whole situation…

In Transit

I have finally learned to work the Tanzanian airline system. Well...sort of.

Having already paid TZS 70000 to bring both of my suitcases on the flight to Arusha, I decided to try to trade one of my suitcases for a carry-on-sized one from my colleagues. That way, I could check one suitcase to Dar and carry on my backpack and their suitcase. Foolproof, right?

When I arrived at the check-in counter, I found that my bag was slightly overweight. Not a big deal, I could just rearrange a few things or pay the extra TZS 5000/kilo. Once I got all of that nearly sorted out, the woman behind the counter looked at my carry-on.

“That’s too big.”

Oof. I was hoping to avoid this struggle. I’d had my friend take out enough stuff such that the carry-on didn’t stick out at all. I knew it would fit in the overhead bin, because it was smaller than my backpack. I didn’t want to bring this last point to her attention, however.

After trying to reassure her that it would fit, while also trying to cover up the size of my bulging backpack, she had me weigh it. Her coworkers stationed at other counters, as well as the shuttle driver began to crowd around where she was standing. This was probably the most action they’d seen all day. They all gasped a unison, Ayyahhh! when my carry-on came in at 12 kilos.

“The weight limit is 7 kilos for a carry-on.”

I had been traveling alone for the past 3 years with all sorts of overweight luggage, over-sized carry-ons and the like. That TZS 70000 I’d had to pay had been a blow to my pride and I refused to let it happen again. I dropped to my knees. No, no in defeat, but in full on offense—I was going to rearrange like a master. I pulled out the small duffle bag that I had purchased for just this sort of situation and began puling things out of the carry-on. If I was going to have to pay an excess luggage fee, I was going to make sure I at least had as much in something I could put on the plane as possible.

They all eyed the duffel bag like spectators watching en extra handful of passengers attempting to squeeze into an already overstuffed Daladala. Everyone knew it couldn’t be good. Weight: 11 kilos. I sighed, beginning to accept defeat. Having been satisfied to see the Daladala overturn and begin to burn, the shuttle driver began making his way back to his station. The others followed suit.

“So what should I do?” I asked, “in America you can have two carry-ons—one to put above and one to put under your seat. Can I not do that?”

She thought for a moment. She looked left, she looked right. “Put a few things into there,” she said, pointing at the carry-on. I reluctantly moved my friend’s GRE books—the heaviest load in the suitcase—back into the suitcase. With each book, I watched the total weight go up by one kilo. “Okay, when you get on the plane, put the bag under your seat and put your backpack on the top.”

She was letting me go... free. I looked at the scale, and then at her. “Is there nothing else?”

“You can go.”

“Asante sana, dada! Asante sana,” I just managed to breathe out before gathering up all of my things and scampering off before she could change her mind.

So now here I sit in Zanzibar—yes, Zanzibar—reminiscing on this happy moment while I wait for our plane to be fixed. Don’t worry, just your typical case of deplaning for engine problems. I’ll still arrive hours before my friends and it’s nice to have the time to sit and reflect. It’s also a bit of foreshadowing of what Zanzibar will be like for our trip next week!

City Report: Arusha

We have been in Arusha for a total of eleven days and this morning we are leaving for Dar.

I know it’s a little early to say as I readily approach the end of my third week in Tanzania, but I think Arusha might be my favorite Town in Tanzania. Because of its high altitude, Arusha is significantly cooler than any of the seaside towns we’ve been to thus far. You might want a medium jacket until about 10 or 11 am when the sun melts away the cloud cover. Arusha is also an incredibly clean city. Aside from the occasional corncob, you’re not going to find too much trash on the ground, which is perfectly fine with me. Fewer rats.

As the hub city for safaris, tourists—wazungu—are not hard to find, although they tend to stay in nicer parts of town than we do. We only encounter them as we walk briskly past places you could easily mistake for Europe or America such as Africafe or the Blue Heron Pizza Garden—a garden surrounded by a high wall where they sell pizza and salads—or Shoprite. The first time I passed Africafe, I couldn’t help but laugh. It was filled with people whose skin was the opposite color of the coffee they were drinking, and they were paying close to Starbucks prices for it and the food they were eating. Perhaps they knew that they could get these things for less than one-fourth the price even a few doors down, but it was much more likely that we didn’t. We seasoned Arushans, on the other hand, did.

After a few days of wasting thousands of shillings on taxi drives, we began to venture out of our safety net by walking around the town. It helped us get to know it a lot more quickly, and saved us quite a bit of money. We also got to know quite a few people and places as we passed them each day on our way from one side of town to the other.

Food:

Can I hear three cheers for Sweet Bite? Very aptly name, this joint with the typical Tanzanian fare was one of our favorites. Enormous portions and dirt-cheap prices. What more could you ask for? While Arusha does have tons of expat-friendly restaurants—I’ve even seen a sushi restaurant—we preferred to frequent the types of places where the waiters don't speak much English. Restaurants such as Kulan’s, Mehboob’s BBQ (yeah, we know), The (2G) Restaurant, and the like. At these sorts of places you can never go wrong with Wali Ro(a)st (the “a” is optional) which costs around TZS 2500-3500 ($1.50-2.25).

Notice: There are also places nearer to the outskirts of town that are a bit cheaper than this. They’ll usually have enormous banners that you can see quite easily from the street announcing their prices. This is most likely a lie and they will tell you that the promotion is over, but the food is usually good enough.

Also, Mehboob’s has 4 different types of grilled chicken. Do not be fooled: they are all exactly the same. And what they give you doesn’t taste like any of the descriptions, but it’s still good!

Markets: Mount Meru Market (aka the Maasai Marktet, it’s near the clocktower roundabout) is fantastic. However, if you don’t have basic Kiswahili skills or are white they will rip you off immensely. I actually made quite a few friends in that market (I went there far too often) and even received two marriage proposals. They know me there as the Girl from Cameroon. There is also someone selling something at every street corner and a few places in between.

(Hoorah for new categories!)

Sights:

Mt. Meru is a mountain near Arusha that always stands proudly in the distance. Unlike Kili at this time of year, you can see Mt. Meru most days, and it’s a rather incredible sight at that.

Arusha has a fantastic Cultural Tourism Program (which is just near Africafe so you can go there right after your TZS 5000 muffin!) which provides area tour excursions ranging from a half-day to four days to places such as maasai villages, waterfalls, Mt. Meru, local schools, camel safaris, and the like. The best part about these is that the profits go back to the community. While they tend to be slightly overpriced (be careful because they will cheat you), they’re still a great, relatively inexpensive way to spend your time.

Stays: Hotel Flamingo is a dream. We’re currently getting the resident rate (TZS 35000 for a double) because we had our Supervisor help us out, but even without the savings would be worth it. The hotel is incredibly clean, the water is (almost) always hot, and the staff will even cut and peel your mangos for you!

Notice: The girl at the front desk smiles and laughs a lot. You may assume she’s laughing at you and your inability to open the door or work the remote, but she’s really just like that.

Also, our Boss says Hotel Miami Beach is not as good and more expensive, so don’t be fooled by the price.

Warning: I’ve heard that Arusha is supposed to be a very dangerous city. We haven’t encountered any mishaps (thank God), but I’ve heard quite a few stories. Everyone knows someone who knows someone—that sort of thing.

There is a particularly rude scarf vendor one street down from Sweet Bite who will most likely refuse to give you good prices and won’t sell you a Pashmina for any less than TZS 8000, even if you want to buy five.

Always make sure to add up the bill yourself. Some restaurants will add on random fees just because they assume we'll just go ahead and pay. Which you probably will. Let's just go ahead and call it a wazungu tax.

We all adore Arusha and will miss it immensely when we go. We extended our stay here for an extra day because we love it that much. A day in Arusha vs. a day in Dar? When the opportunity presented itself it was a no-brainer…

We have a running joke among us that when we have too many taxi drivers phone numbers, or begin to know our way around the place then that’s when we know it’s the time to go, but with Arusha we were absolutely content with befriending the Mango Guy down the street or the duffle bag vendors on the street corner or the man who tries to sell us paintings every single day. It was the closest we’ve felt, I think, to being safe and comfortable. The closest we’ve come to something we could want to call home.