Que Sera Sera

This time last year I was preparing for my second Christmas in Tanzania searching the market for an elusive chicken willing to be sacrificed and roasted. I missed the crisp winter nights at home, the festive lights, the parties and Billy Idol blasting out in shops crammed with food, gifts, clothes and a billion other material things that seem indispensable on December 25th. But there was something to be said for the simplicity of being gifted a pile of mangoes and a packet of cashew nuts. Of not having to cook a meal that covers a dining table and is left half uneaten. No need to buy bigger better noisier presents or watch the Queen's speech or play games that end in stony silences over the evening turkey buffet. Where thanks are given to one God or the other for the blessings of family, health and income. Mangoes had never tasted so good.

I loved being back in the UK. The supermarkets, dirty late night take-away's, fancy toiletries, Friends reruns, efficient transport networks and holidays. Having family and friends who know you and love you despite that, who you can confide in or conspire with because you speak the same language and share a history. Having access to an endless supply of entertainment and distraction. In the last few months I tried bikram yoga, zumba, joined a running club, dating apps, had painting and guitar lessons and honestly, it's exhausting. All of the choice we have, decisions we face, and questions we feel obliged to have the answers to. What's for dinner? What am I doing on Friday? Who am I seeing at the weekend? Swipe right or left? What are my future plans or why don't I have any...? I told my Tanzanian colleagues that they were the lucky ones in some respects. That there are different challenges and obstacles in life whether you live in Africa or Europe. But who would believe me with my nice clothes, money, big house and a one-way ticket back to London. I wouldn't and they didn't.

So, six months of being back home has gone by in a flash. Full to the brim of family, old  friends, new friends, indulgence and extravagance. My next adventure is here and in 2 weeks I will fly to Sierra Leone with Save the Children to work in the Kerry town Emergency Treatment Centre. The plan is to stay for 6 months as their lead in-country pharmacist helping with the current ebola outbreak. Yes dad, if it makes you feel better I will always wear latex gloves and no mum, I won't go jogging on my own....

"He knows not where he's going,

 For the ocean will decide.

It's not the destination,

It's the glory of the ride."

Kama jana

Only 12 days left in the village. It feels kama jana (like yesterday) that I arrived with my suitcase of impractical items. Time flies when you're having to continually think of new recipes that involve only three vegetables and some out of date stock cubes.

Last month I learnt how to make bread. Only two of my loaves have resembled small bricks and I'm feeling confident about my chances of being a professional baker when I get home if the NHS won't have me. I am going to miss many things I've come to love in Nyangao. Having a cleaning lady tidy up after my baking disasters especially. I'll miss our security guard who sits outside the kitchen window at night even though it's guaranteed he'll be asleep before I am.  Instead of traffic, police sirens and the odd drunkard singing "Eye of the Tiger", I'm used to waking up to chickens and dogs scuffling in the garden or the giant monitor lizard clawing in the roof or the neighbours houseboy sweeping their garden.

I'll miss our Friday night tradition of going to the Old Trafford for a chip omelette and a semi-cold Pepsi (electricity permitting), coming home with change from £1.50. The beaten up plastic chairs and Formica covered tables that are carried out to the roadside when they see us coming. Listening to the same CD of Bongo Flava 'toons' clashing with the Muslim call to prayer and enjoying the sudden pitch black of a power cut and the milky way shining overhead.

Our Friday night hotspot

At the market I've embraced buying the same selection of vegetables, my own doing as I haven't been inclined to sample the piles of dried fish or a piece of meat freshly hacked off the rump of a cow/pig/goat. I like that the flour shop is next to the bean shop which is close to the egg shop across from the man selling milk and juice. But I won't miss being watched at as I walk past. It's tiring pretending I don't hear the whispers or feel the stares.

Why don't people wear Obama shirts, Obama belts or use Obama brollies back home? Everyone loves an Obama lollipop...

I suppose I'll have to get used to sorting out the rubbish again and not just throwing it in the pit or watching James burn it in the garden.  Tea bags not tea leaves, hot showers instead of cold, make-up not au naturale, toilet paper and not my hand...only kidding.

A scenic spot

I won't miss the salty tap water, local transport, or having feet that never get clean.  Goodbye mosquito bites, scabs and scars. Hello not needing to use a surge protector, mosquito net or a dose of antibiotics after a dodgy looking piece of chicken. I'll happily say farewell to fried chips, fried cassava, fried bananas, fried bean balls, fried rice dumplings and fried pork scraps...well, maybe not the fried pork scraps, they are pretty darn delicious.

Fried pork scraps aka Kitimoto

It will be strange not having to keep one eye on the ground, sandy and uneven, with randomly located crevices, creatures and cow dung. Or checking door frames for geckos - more than one has met his untimely death by decapitation. Skimming the rice water for floating insects, picking bugs from the flour and flicking ants off the cake. But I can't wait for anonymity, blending in, being invisible. Not being asked for money, presents, my trainers or my clothes.

The Tanzanian obsession with the mobile phone still gets me. Everyone has one, two or three different numbers, usually in a multi-sim handset. A call never goes unanswered even if it is the relative you really don't want to speak to or you're in the middle of a very important meeting. If I ever deign to not answer a call from someone there is guaranteed to be some fierce words the next time I see the person I ignored. The cultural norm of protracted greetings has extended into the phone conversation. More than once I've answered a call from a colleague only to be none the wiser afterwards as to its purpose.

Colleague: What's your news?

Me: I'm fine. What's your news?

Colleague: I'm fine

Me: (Pause slightly, expecting there to be a reason for the call) Are you at work?

Colleague: I am leaving now

Me: Sorry you're working. And I'm sorry it's raining a lot.

Colleague: Thank you. Have a good night.

Me: And you

Colleague: OK

Whilst greetings are paramount to making a good impression, please's and thank-you's are not. Nor, apparently, is saying goodbye. At the end of an evening people will get up and leave without a farewell and last month a colleague at the hospital left their job and their home without telling a single person.

There's a lot to be said for the simple life. No TV, radio, restaurants, cinemas, trains, traffic, fashion police or indeed any real police of any kind. Where making solar-eclipse viewing devices, Yahtzee tournaments, and scouring the sky at 9.30pm, 45° south for the International Space Station are highlights of the week.

"I think I can see the sun!"

 

Most of all I will miss the people. The funny people, the happy people, the odd people, the nuns, my colleagues, my neighbours, my housemates. A wise person once told me it doesn't matter where you go in life, it is always the people that you remember. He was probably right. I only hope I forget that crazy guy who follows you around the village with a broken camera dangling around his neck.

Sister Columba, my favourite nun

Dedicated to James A. Davies - who left the village for the final time May 21st 2014.

James (R), unknown boy (L)

On Tour

Having a friend come out to visit in March, I'd saved the really touristy attractions of Tanzania to experience together with him. I was a bit nervous that a first time trip to Africa would be a huge challenge for some people and hoped that the poverty, accommodation and safety of transportation would not be too much of a culture shock. I hope he won't mind me sharing but my concerns were raised when, on arriving at the hotel in Dar Es Salaam, he was very reluctant to use the toilet. My fears were ill-founded and after a night's sleep and a portion of street-barbecued chicken and (possibly) unwashed salad, my friend not only sat on the toilet he embraced everything that Tanzania had to give.

The first part of the adventure involved climbing Mount Meru, the second highest mountain in Tanzania at 4562m. Having stopped any regular exercise months ago and despite gaining a few* pounds, I still thought climbing Mount Kilimanjaro's smaller sister would be more of a hike than a real challenge. Turned out I was wrong and on Day 3 after waking at midnight for a 5 hour climb to the summit to see the sunrise, the full impact of my sloth-like fitness regime reached its crescendo as I was pushed from behind over the crest of the mountain. Of course, I had missed the sunrise and the rest of my group (except my friend) had already started their descent but at least I made it to the top, albeit dry-retching and feeling truly awful. I wish I could blame altitude sickness but I walked even slower on the way back down even with both the guide and my friend sharing my load and clothes as I discarded them. Fourteen hours of walking later we reached the lowest hut and the rescue car was called in to drive us the rest of the way off the mountain. Embarrassing.

Week 2 we were joined by more friends for a far more leisurely trip to the safari parks of the north. All the animals came out to play; sometimes too close for comfort. It was hard to remember you weren't in a zoo they looked so peaceful, at least that was my excuse as our guide had to pull me back into the car when I tried to get out to see the lions up close. They were 3 metres away and I would "surely have been attacked" if they had heard me, or so my over-protective guide said. The cats looked completely nonchalant to me, sleeping off the feast of an earlier zebra kill. I'm sure they wouldn't have noticed me...

My trip highlight was driving through the Ngorongoro Conservation Area which unlike safari parks is inhabited by people as well as animals. The Maasai tribes live side by side with the zebra, wildebeest and giraffes although their villages are surrounded by tall fences to keep out the lions and other predators and protect their own herds. We visited one of the villages where I had the oddest experience of sitting in a dark Maasai hut made out of dried cow dung and full of flies. The Maasai have their own language, Kimaasai, but one of the tribal warriors and I talked in Kiswahili whilst I translated for my friends to describe typical village life. Not something I would have predicted I would be doing a year ago.

The night-time rains became a challenge as our tents couldn't resist the downpour any longer and we awoke to soggy sleeping bags, wet clothes, wrecked I-phones and broken spirits. The mud also meant we got stuck in the middle of the Serengeti for two hours despite our best efforts to dig out the car. Luckily the smell of fear did not attract any beasties although the vultures weren't too far off. By the fifth night the boys had had enough of the rain and stayed in a local guesthouse. Nature came a bit too close for comfort that night, when walking back to my own tent I noticed the camp was full of buffalo. Although described as the most dangerous of the Big Five, thankfully it is also a vegetarian.

The final week of our trip was spent drying out on the beaches of Zanzibar. The crystal clear ocean, freshly cooked seafood and relaxing by the infinity pool were well appreciated by everyone. Sadly the snorkelling trip and ensuing violent seasickness wasn't nor was the food poisoning and weeklong diarrhoea.

Reading this back, the holiday sounds like a unrelenting nightmare which I promise wasn't the case. Well, maybe a few small, unrelated horrors that kept on coming but then isn't that what makes going home again so special......?

*a few pounds may be an underestimate.

The other side

A couple of months ago I had my first experience of a Tanzanian funeral. One of the nurses fell ill suddenly after finishing her shift on Valentine's Day. Within a few minutes she was dead. Cause of death is often speculation and rumour without the facilities for a post-mortem. Perhaps more realistically why someone dies is irrelevant in most cases. Not only is it a tragedy for the family but the loss of a salary can have huge consequences on their future.

Not having experienced death in Tanzania the rituals and traditions that surround it were new to me. Within an hour, the news of her passing had spread around the village.  Phones were buzzing with the grizzly details and her final moments became a common topic of conversation in homes and at the market stalls. Being a member of staff the funeral costs were paid for by the hospital and sacks of flour and a coffin were sent to her family.

The next morning, I went with my neighbour to the family home to view the body and pay my respects. She had lived in a typical village home that had a few disconnected rooms surrounding a central open area where people would meet to cook, wash clothes and socialise. A large metal barrel collected rain water that was running off the roof and the women worked to keep the fire going under the pan of boiling water that was ready to cook the ugali.

I was led to one of the smallest rooms made of mud with a tin roof. Coloured cloth was hanging across the doorway and it was dark inside. The body was wrapped and laid on a bed, surrounded by people sat on the sand floor. The shroud covering her head was undone and a torch held up to her face so that I would be able to see. My first dead body and without the luxury of fridges or formaldehyde. Afterwards I was taken to see the matriarch of the family who was sat on the floor of another small room surrounded by a group of solemn women. Her eyes were fixed on the floor and her chin was touching her chest as I offered my regrets and gave her a small amount of money. The onset of wailing from outside signalled the arrival of senior female relatives who were led into the room, supported under each arm by more women. Their heads and faces were fully covered with scarves and whilst they wailed with a passion they discreetly rejected incoming phone calls on the mobile phones in their pockets.

Before the burial a mass was held in the village Catholic Church.  A priest arrived from a town 2 hours away after the local father refused to hold a funeral service for someone who did not attend church regularly. The church was full of women dressed head to toe in brightly coloured kangas. According to Tanzanian culture, death is the most critical situation to the bereaved and helping a family during this time is considered an indication of friendship. To be seen to attend a funeral is very important in the Swahili culture. Time off from work for burials is a common occurrence and representatives from each hospital department are often called on to attend funerals in distant villages of colleagues' parents or relations.

The graveyard was already full by the time the congregation arrived, Muslim well-wishers having bypassed the church service. Small groups of people whispered amongst themselves and the odd woman had to be carried off, inconsolable. Men at the graveside performed the final ritual as they fought over the spades used to cover the coffin with dirt. Then it was over. The crowds slowly departed, drifting back towards the village and their homes to carry on with their lives. 

After 18 months in Tanzania, I have the feeling that certain things are taken for granted. Life will be hard. Death will likely come early. And there is very little that can be done to change either.

The end of the road

The rest of my journey around Tanzania way back in September consisted mainly of many long bus journeys; pre-dawn starts and night arrivals. On the western border of Tanzania we caught a lift with some travelling priests and visited Kalambo Falls, the second tallest waterfalls in Africa. The falls lie right on the border with Zambia which we could have crossed into had we slipped the border officials the £1 they wanted. The Zambian side had new concrete walkways and metal railings with a tourist office. The Tanzanian side had a crowd of children in bare feet and torn clothes who were trying their best to extract money from us. Eventually they settled on fighting over my empty plastic bottle, which must have been worth a few shillings to somebody. Appreciating the (lack of) health and safety rules, it was easy to approach the edge of the 215 metre high falls to look into the valley below that had claimed at least three lives; two European tourists and one local man who was climbing up the falls on a rope. Maybe I shouldn't be so flippant about health and safety rules, after all. Not long later, the priests were keen to get back to town, probably to continue their party judging by the number of empty beer bottles in the boot of the car.

Kalambo Falls

Paul - a local tourist attraction

Four days later and we'd crossed the width of the country, 6 hour break-downs in the middle of nowhere and grimy guesthouses a distant memory. I can testify that once the road has been completed the journey will be much more comfortable. Sadly for us, we drove alongside the unfinished road for much of the way, passing groups of Tanzanian labourers working under the fierce glare of the sun and a Chinese foreman who sat in the shade. Arriving back in Dar Es Salaam, the city is never the oasis I hope for; hours sat in traffic jams inhaling fumes and paying the fines that my taxi driver gets after illegally u-turning in front of the police are part and parcel of the ride. Like Primark, I can't wait to leave as soon as I get there. After travelling for 3 weeks and covering 4000 kilometres it was nice to finally reach Nyangao and get home.

A fisherman on Lake Tanganyika

In December, the Annual VSO conference meant a return to Dar and four nights of being put up in a plush hotel with good food, a swimming pool and the chance to meet all the volunteers from around Tanzania. It also meant attending serious sounding sessions like "Challenges in Development Work" and "Monitoring and Evaluation Tools" - the lengths I'll go to in order to stay somewhere with air-conditioning, a TV and a bathroom that has miniature toiletries. There was even a gym although it was empty; I had to climb through the window to get in and the next day the staff commented on how they'd been watching me exercise on the CCTV system. I would have run for a full 5 minutes had I known.

You can take the girl out of Manchester....

On the way to the conference I shared a lift with other volunteers who had a car. The drive to Dar probably took the same length of time as catching a bus but we weren't at the mercy of a crazy bus driver. Instead we were at the mercy of the police, who stopped us several times for speeding. We became experts at reducing the fines or talking ourselves out of them altogether after offering anything from smiles, Dutch biscuits or the phone number of one of our more voluptuous passengers.

This time around, Christmas and New Year were spent in Nyangao. In the village there was no traditional sign of the festive season. The coloured lights, decorated trees, presents and Bing Crosby a luxury unknown to most around here. At best, some families can afford a chicken although they must have had better luck than us at finding one. The irony of there being dozens wandering through your garden is that when you want to buy one they are none in the market. Someone knew someone who could get us a bird but it was more a chick than a chicken, all feathers and no substance. In the end we paid a friend of a friend for chicken pieces that worked out more expensive than Sainsbury's but they were a nice addition to the festive spread of potato salad, bread and rice. Happy carbohydrate Christmas to you all!

Xmas presents

Preparing Xmas dinner