The Woes of Transportation

I realize I never explained why traveling and transportation is incredibly cumbersome. Let me begin by explaining the bus ride from Dar es Salaam to Masasi on the coast in the South. In the dry season, it’s supposed to take 9 hours. In the rainy season, expect it to take as long as 12 hours. Since it’s rainy season from Dec. – March, it took us 15 hours, give or take a flat tire. Peace Corps took the liberty of booking us the entire back row of the bus. I don’t care if you’re on the newly paved roads of America, everyone knows the back row is ALWAYS the bumpiest. This bus was special. The 6 seats were separated into two groups of three by a huge crack that was somewhat uneven. My seat was really half a seat, and my fellow PCV’s seat wasn’t actually a seat at all. Every bump we’d go over her seat would detach from the seatback, she’d have to stand up and push it back on. The normal 9 hour ride is on half paved, half unpaved roads. I think we were somewhere in the middle of the unpaved road and our bus got stuck in the mud. People were made to exit the bus into about a half calf-full of mud. I chose to take the window route and jumped onto the grassy bank nearby. It only took an hour and a half to get the bus moving again. I pitied the men who had to literally dig the bus out of the mud. That did NOT look fun. We then had a flat tire, which was only a half hour wait, quite fast I might add.

Then came the weigh station. Mind you, there were four of us with luggage which consisted of everything we brought for our entire 2 years here. Along with the sacks of who knows what was packed onto the bus, we were extremely overweight. I happened to glance down and saw them unloading some of our luggage. They put a few pieces back in through the windows in the middle of the bus, I suppose to balance the weight. I noticed one of my pieces and a fellow PCV’s bag didn’t get put back on the bus, and we drove away to get weighed again. We passed that time, and then turned the opposite way of where we’d left our bags. Now, getting mad or freaking out doesn’t get you anywhere here. We stopped at a nearby gas station to pick up some of the people we dropped off before the weigh station, and waited there for a time. Luckily I glanced out the window and saw them loading our luggage back onto the bus. Sneaky.

After the weigh station, we had a little over two and a half hours to go. It was dark, and there were half-in-the-bag PCV’s waiting to greet us upon our arrival. We just wanted to get off that dang bus.

I’m not complaining, because it really was sort of funny how long it took us to travel to our sites as compared to other PCV’s in our class. And, it wasn’t all madness and frustrations; we eventually made the bus ride into a sort of twisted roller coaster ride. Anything to get a little laugh out of the situation. Since we’d get air on most the big bumps, we’d raise our hands up and pretend we were riding Raging Bull or good ole’ rickety Viper.

Daladala rides are a whole different kind of fun. The saying really is true that the bus (or in this case, glorified minibus) really doesn’t leave until it’s full. In which case it then travels 50 feet and picks up another 17 people which could have made the dala full in the first place if they’d gone the extra mile to walk to the standi. Let’s see, I’ve been here a little over three months now, and I don’t think I’ve had so many butts, boobs, armpits, faces, or chickens in my face as I have in my entire life. Personal space is lost on Tanzanians. Again, getting frustrated will get you nowhere. Looking out the window (if you’re lucky to get a seat, not to mention a window seat) has proven the best thing to do in these situations.

I’m sure I will become somewhat used to dalas and bus rides, it’s only a matter of time.

Nonetheless, if I have a choice (which is rare), I’m very careful about my seat selection.

Greetings, A Visit to the Zahanati, African Randomness

Here in Tanzania, greetings are essential. There are on average about 20 different ways to say “hey, how are you?” in Kiswahili; you never know which one they’re gonna throw at you next. Now, in America you’re allowed to let the person (depending on how well you know them, or care to tell them) know if you’ve had the shittiest day of your life. Here, all of the possible answers are a variation of “I’m good.” There’s even a “I’m peaceful” answer. Apparently in Tanzania, you’re not allowed to experience a semi-bad day. Which is a blessing and a curse. The other day I biked to and from town. Now mind you it’s the rainy season and none of the roads in my Region are paved, so as I was going up those hills and getting greeted left and right, my answer was always “I’m good!” Which, after a while, I had to laugh to myself because I actually thought about what I was saying, and as much as I didn’t feel good, I started to make myself believe that I was, in fact, “good”. So much of the time I feel like I’m giving a robotic answer, but I actually had to stop and think about what I was saying and it made me laugh, which in turn made the hills seem somehow less steep and less muddy J

Also, here in Tanzania, giving respect to your elders is a must. There’s a word, “Shikamoo”, response “Marahaba.” I say it to anyone I think who looks older than me, and children say it to me. Sometimes it’s hard to tell, but when you’ve got a baby strapped to your back and one on your hip, I don’t care if you’re 16, I’m going to Shikamoo you. They laugh if I’m wrong. Anyway, it’s an amazing feeling when you’re walking by an elder and you Shikamoo them. Maybe they’re not expecting you to know Kiswahili; they’re especially not expecting you to know the need to Shikamoo. I love it when their eyes light up, they smile with a grin full of teeth (sometimes not, ha), and give a polite “Marahaba.”

Today I went to the Zahanati (Health Dispensary). A Clinical Officer works there, equivalent to our RN’s in the states. She gave me a tour, which consists of a waiting room, an examination room, a delivery table (!), a recovery bed, and a fridge running on solar power which holds vaccines of all sorts. I also found out the villagers are able to get tested for HIV, which is valuable knowledge for my future work. My level of excitement sky-rocketed when I saw that rustic, semi-stained delivery table. I thought back to my time in NY, when I was shadowing a CNM and had the pleasure of assisting with a delivery. I believe this is the exact right place for me to make a difference. Thing is, everything here takes time. Patience really is a virtue.

Let me tell you, cooking in Africa is no small feat. First of all, it’s a gamble as to what’s available in the village. It’s another gamble as to what’s available if you make the trek into town. Luckily it’s mango season, so those are plentiful. However, it turns out if you don’t own a farm and harvest all the food you eat, finding nutritious food is difficult! I’m afraid I’m in the wrong profession. Nonetheless, once you do find food to cook, preparation and cooking takes about on average 2-3 hours depending on how intricate you desire to be. You know the saying (now forgive me if this is somewhat off, because every time I think of it in my head it doesn’t sound quite right), but… “A watched teapot never boils”, well, take it from me, it might take 40 minutes, but it WILL boil damn it!

And anther thing, I will never again complain about turning the knob on an electric stove, or washing each dirty dish separately in a sink under running water ever again. And you can quote me on that.

Random tid-bit from today. Snakes are nothing to be shrugged off. I got water for the first time from my well today (one reason to welcome the rainy season), and saw a snake swimming around. Call me naïve, bit I really didn’t think anything of it at the time, just made sure it didn’t swim into my bucket without my knowing. One of the teachers happened to be walking by and I mentioned it to him. About 20 minutes later he, an army of teachers, and what seemed like half the villagers came by to fish the snake out of my well. I’d come by for the show too, wouldn’t you? Don’t ask me how, but they managed to get it into the bucket with nothing more than a flashlight and long stick. Once inside, everyone stepped back save the guinea pig who got the lucky job of taking the bucket into the road, tipping it over and killing it. I repeat, Snakes are (I guess) nothing to be shrugged off. And here I was just going to watch him swim around for a while.

Ok, I’m patiently waiting under my mosquito net for the sound of the pitter-patter of rats in my house. Maybe they won’t show up tonight. Wishful thinking, I’m sure. Oh the joys of living in Africa J