Dar es Salaam

Last week, business called us to Dar es Salaam.  Dar es Salaam is a big port city on the Indian Ocean and though it isn’t the capital of Tanzania, it is home to many government buildings and embassies.  While in Dar es Salaam we needed to get a research permit approved, pick up 90 kilos of books from the US embassy as well as get a security briefing at the embassy. 

Rising at an insanely early hour, we set off for the airport to take a plane to Dar es Salaam.  Morning blue clouds hung from stars on a scarlet dyed sunrise as we took off, leaving Africa’s highest mountain behind us. 

Dar es Salaam can be described in one word: hot.  Luckily, we found an air conditioned hotel where we could retreat from the oppressive heat and humidity.  During the first day we got the research permit approved, visited a cultural museum and went to a main shopping district. 

The second day which included a visit to the US embassy was more interesting.  The embassy was bombed eleven years ago and has been rebuilt since with increased security that seems a bit excessive. To get into the embassy, you first pass through a building with constantly locked doors that are opened by a security guard in a secure room.  Inside you are required to deposit all bags, cell phones and other electronics, show identification, get scanned and proceed though another permanently locked door. 

On the inside, the embassy is quite nice.  Walking in, you really feel like you have left Tanzania.  Ergonomically designed office chairs fill conference rooms and modern art hangs on the walls.  In Tanzania, offices are generally sparse, white walled rooms, with only perhaps a picture of a current or past president hung high up, flush with the ceiling. Walking through corridors with fake house plants and artsy black and white photographs created an illusion that the security building leading into the embassy was actually a portal to a location in Washington D.C.

Once settled into comfy office chairs, we sat back for a short security briefing.  Much was less relevant to our situation in Mweka, but it was interesting nonetheless.  Evidently there really are people whose job is to protect information.  It really makes you wonder, what kind of information they have that is so important to protect.  And it is even more interesting to wonder who they are protecting the information from.  At one point during our briefing, the presenter stopped and said, “Oh, no.  I don’t think I can tell you that.  I think it’s classified.”

After the briefing we got official ID badges and we collected our four boxes of books.  Lugging around 200 pounds of text is no easy matter, but we eventually got all of the books back to the hotel.

There isn’t a terribly lot to do in Dar es Salaam so we cut our trip short and returned to the pleasantly cool slopes of Mt. Kilimanjaro a day early. 

A Presidential Visit

Last Thursday, President Kikwete, the president of Tanzania, visited the college.  Having been out of town, we arrive back on campus to find the place decked out in yellow, blue, green and black.  Red carpet was lined up for the president, a stage erected for his speech and students wandered about with little plastic flags stamped with the college emblem. 

Once again, I was able to take photos for the college as I had for graduation and the safari.  But this time I would have to fight for elbow space along with a dozen or so other photographers, cameramen and journalists.  In Tanzania, to take pictures of the president requires a press badge.  So I queued up with the others to exchange my driver’s license as collateral for a large press badge on a bright yellow lanyard.  Feeling official, I wandered off to take pictures of preparation until the president showed.

  As can be expected with diplomats, the president arrived late.  The dispersed students that had waited patiently in the morning under a warm sun came rushing back along with the rest of the population as sirens announcing the president’s arrival could be heard. 

Cameras rolled and shutters snapped as the president emerged from a black SUV.  He greeted everyone with a smile and a wave and shook some hands before disappearing into the main office building for the first part of his college tour.

The president was escorted by a number of police, ‘secret service’ and other security guards.  Though there were more security personnel than might be expected, there was still less than what you would find in the states.  Beforehand, bomb-sniffing dogs investigated the premises and guards diffused across campus.  With the arrival of the president came men wearing short-sleeve suits and ear bud radio communication devices looped over their left ears.  These men hovered around the president, keeping photographers, excited children and other patrons an arm’s length away. 

Students and faculty gave short presentations on various aspects of the college as the president listened with interest.  In the background, the brass band could be heard playing an odd mix of polka, classical, and Christmas music as they entertained a patient crowd waiting for the president to make his speech. 

After the president had listened to the student speeches and planted a tree for the college, he gave a speech of his own which was well received.  As the sun sunk behind the western trees, the president sat for a few pictures before hopping back into his awaiting car which parted the enthusiastically waving crowd.          

 

 

A Winter Solstice in the Summer

Today is the first day of winter at home, and though those seasons don’t apply down here, it is still hard to think that it is mid-December.   The countless inconstancies with the current season have me wondering what time of year it really is.  When you’ve lost your time-markers, time seems to stand still. In fact, I haven’t even registered fall yet.  I missed the state fair for the first time in years, Halloween slipped by without even a tootsie roll, and Thanksgiving was relegated to chicken soup (though it was good).

The days here are as long as ever – the sun always sets at the same time and in the same place.  It’s nice to be able to wake up with the sun and walk home before dark, but it is amazing how much constant-length days distort one’s sense of time. 

It doesn’t help that the landscape is an emerald Minnesota only experiences in the spring.  There are roses outside our front door and flowers are blooming everywhere, though the poinsettias in our front yard are on the decline.  Much to my delight, there are even dandelions blooming in our backyard.

Furthermore, there isn’t a trace of snow anywhere except up on the mountain.  Actually, I’m sitting around in shorts and a t-shirt.  We’ve been here over three months and its pretty much still looks the same (if anything, it’s greener, which just confuses my mind more).  Now we are on the verge of Christmas and I highly doubt that it will be a white one. 

No snow is just the beginning of the lack of holiday decorations.  The only Christmas tree I’ve seen was a four foot plastic tree slung over the shoulder of a sidewalk pedestrian.  There are no inflatable Santa Clauses, window decals, and worst of all, no Christmas lights.  Our festivity has only extended to the paper snowflakes in our living room. 

Though summer in the winter is confusing, I can’t say it isn’t appreciated.  I have no remorse for not having to bundle in so many layers that you are forced to waddle like a penguin, or shovel wet, heavy snow, or loose sensation in your ears and toes trekking to and from class.  Though I can’t go sledding and I miss Christmas lights, I could get used to long, sunny days. 

Send the Ark

Living on a mountain, I never would have though I would need to worry about floods. However, life has a funny way of dealing out the unexpected.

One day, coming back from the Secondary School, I thought, “A nice, refreshing shower will be nice when I get home.” Ten minutes later, hot and sweaty, I arrived home. But upon opening the door, I was welcomed not by a shower, but a bath. The entire entry was flooded with water and the damage continued on to the other rooms. A good inch of water stood in the entryway, hallway, both bedrooms and the bathroom had closer to two inches. From the outside of the house, you could see the water coming out of the bathroom outside wall.

I quickly surveyed the damage. Nothing seemed too bad – a few wet pairs of shoes and a wet laundry basket. I grabbed a broom and began the slow and difficult task of sweeping the water out of the house. The problem with water is its fluidity. When you sweep the water in one direction it has a tendency to fan out and end up where you didn’t want it. You learn to sweep fast enough to keep the water somewhat together but slow enough to be able to beat the water to the end of the hallway where you have to change it’s direction to keep get the water out of the house instead of into the kitchen.

No, it wasn’t the rains that had flooded our house, but our hot water heater. The heater, little more than a rusty tin can, had started to leak after I left in the morning and had nearly flooded the house by the time I had returned home in the afternoon.

Since that incident, we have been forced to take cold showers and keep a bucket of water under the heater to catch the drips. We have been informed that a new heater will be installed soon, but ‘soon’ on a Tanzanian timescale is tantamount to ‘eventually’. At least we will be conserving more water and energy this way.

The Dance

In memory of John Boniphace Mwakilasa

7 December 1984 –8 December 2009

Professor Cindy Johnson

I am a professor of biology. Teaching is my calling, my passion and love. It is through teaching that I am freest to express my true self. I can play. Teaching is a playful dance staged in the wonders of biology. As the student learns the steps, the dance becomes a thing of beauty. Teacher and student, both rise to new ideas, inspirations and questions. The probing is deep and the awe is profound. The dance contains elements of a spiritual quest for a deep connection to one another and to the study of life.

The dance transcends culture, language and politics. We are all dancers, swirling around in a kaleidoscope of images, colors and discovery. I am dancing in Tanzania, teaching at the College of African Wildlife Management in Mweka as a Fulbright Scholar. My students are a mix of tribal heritages, Chagga, Maasai and Meru; all are African. I am American. They take me in with my broken Kiswahili. Few can withstand the temptation of the dance and soon they are swirling enthusiastically.

In so many ways these students are a world apart from my students in the United States. Few own computers or other electronic gadgets. Almost none have earplugs and iPods dangling about. Few have pierced body parts or tattoos. Most are better dressed than American professors; ties, dress pants and skirts are the norm here. The thought of showing up in pajamas or sweat pants is unfathomable. They are courteous and frequently offer to carry my class materials to and from class. There are no textbooks and they share a few precious library books. Few have traveled outside Tanzania.

Yet, at the same time they are like students anywhere. Some are curious and motivated; others go through the motions only because it is required. An embarrassed student gropes to find the errant ringing cell phone as others look on with annoyance. They whisper to their friends, secrets that professors don’t and shouldn’t know. They linger to talk biology, ask questions or teach an impromptu lesson in Kiswahili. A question after class gathers them like moths to a light.

Like students around the world, they laugh hard and dance hard. They hang out with friends, teasing one another. They groan when assignments are long and hard. They cringe or seek high 5’s with assessment results. They struggle with concepts and rejoice when it all comes together. The excitement of discovery and new ideas motivates them and the sheer drudgery of learning discourages them. They beam with the smallest bit of attention.

I am blessed. Over the years of teaching I have come to understand my calling. Though plants are my passion, it is education and working with young adults that is my calling. I am privileged to work with the best and brightest of our youth as well as the confused and conflicted. Perhaps it is the eternal optimist in me that relishes this work with young people. They are indeed full of hope, promise and energy. It is they who see the way where no one else has succeeded. It is they who abandon reason and follow instinct. It is they who are fresh and not jaded by life. It is they who step forward laughing with a mischievous spark. It is they who embrace life, full of promise and adventure.

Yesterday one of our students died in a car accident. I knew him only for a short while, but my heart grieves for his family and friends. As an ‘elder’ I have experienced the death of friends and family; it never gets easier. The loss of this young man perched on the edge of the world ready to launch hits me especially hard. As a biologist I know that juvenile mortality is a fact of life, but as a dancer I grieve the loss of the promise, the vitality, the very essence and joy of life.

I cannot say anything about his life or whether it was lived fully. I know nothing about his family. I know nothing about his dreams. But, I do know that this young man was hopeful, expectant of life and full of promise. Seeking answers we pose questions. Why? What are the lessons here? What have we learned? Time and community will help us process this loss, but each of us must seek meaning independently. For me, I am reminded that the promise and joy of life doesn’t belong solely to young people. We must carry it throughout our lives. To do otherwise is to denigrate those who didn’t have the opportunity.

I can think of no other dance I’d rather do. I am a teacher of biology and a student of life and death. I’ve learned many new steps in this dance. It is an eternal celebration of the relationship between teacher and student, mentor and mentee, elder and youth, parent and child; a celebration of life and all that we have to learn about living and dying. To dance is to embrace life, to honor the sacred. Our time is brief, the music is sweet, let us dance.

What’s in a name?

As would be expected, names here are different than ones you might find in the United States.  I’ve compiled a short sampling of some more common and unique names of my students bellow. 

• Philbert
• Wilbard
• Baraka
• Godlove
• Mary
• Restituta
• Amani
• Goodluck
• Norberth
• Heavenlight
• John
• Novatus
• Chrispin
• Lukresia
• Frida
• Innocent
• Peter
• Khalid
• Urbani
• Emmanuel
• Happy
• Boniphace
• Benedict

Though at first, some of the names like Innocent and Goodluck may seem strange to an English-speaker, consider some the fact that many American names have meanings in other languages.  For example, my own name means ‘times’ in Swahili.

Graduation

A few weeks back, the college had its annual graduation ceremony.  Though Mweka College has the familiar schedule of a August-June school year, graduation is in the fall. 

This graduation was very similar to an American one.  The campus was decorated with green, yellow, blue and black, plastic lawn chairs were arranged in neat rows, and parents lined up to take pictures of their graduates.  There were even long speeches (though not all in English), restless children traditional and graduation robes and hats (though the Tanzanian ensemble included a coloured sash corresponding to the diploma type).

Before the ceremony began, women with plastic flower leis lined a sidewalk to sell to friends and family members of the graduates.  The leis were then presented to the graduate, sometimes with a gift, after the graduate had gotten their diploma.    

After the ceremony, more sellers lined up with freshly printed pictures of the graduates for the families to purchase.   

Pass the turkey

Consider that Thanksgiving festivities you enjoyed last week. It probably included getting together with family and friends for a big home-cooked meal, maybe some card games and parade viewing or football playing or watching.  Now what would you do if you had half of a kitchen (the half without an oven) your friends and family were thousands of miles away and the Macy’s Parade wasn’t broadcast on any of the local channels?  Why, you would improvise of course. 

What to do about that turkey dinner.  Hmmm?  We couldn’t exactly have a full-blown Thanksgiving dinner seeing as we were missing quite a few ingredients, namely a turkey.  And had we a turkey, what would we have done with it?  We had no stuffing, a limited repertoire of spices and our cooker would not even have been big enough to accommodate a small bird.  So, what to do?  Let’s see, we have some chicken.  That's a bird.  Close enough.  Don’t even think about pumpkin pie or cranberries; there’s no way that could happen.  We ended up making ourselves a lovely meal of chicken noodle soup (which was actually quite good) and peanut butter cookies.  Not exactly a feast, but it worked. 

Since I haven’t a good handle on apparation yet, spending Thanksgiving with family was out of the question.  We settled for inviting a group of students from the college over for a few games of cards.  Twelve of us crowded around our rickety dinning table sitting on a variety of chairs and foot stools.  There are only a few card games you can play with so many people but there is one suited for large groups.  Spoons.  Since our limited kitchen only had four spoons we needed to acquire more in order to play.  Luckily the students were able to scrounge up some and dutifully whipped spoons out of jackets and pants pockets on cue.  What ensued was a rather intense session of Spoons, including fervent concentration, cross-table diving, and bent cards.  The game quickly became quite competitive but was enjoyed by all. 

Though are Thanksgiving was far from traditional, it was very agreeable. 

Driving

Driving in Tanzania is an experience in itself. Despite the overall laid back manner of people in Tanzania, they drive like maniacs.

When driving in Tanzania, there are a lot of things to pay attention to. The most obvious is that to remember to stay on the left side of the road. Thanks to a brief stint of British colonialism, Tanzania is in the minority of left-sided-driving countries

Once you’ve conquered staying in the correct lane, you have to watch out for speed bumps. Speed bumps here come in many flavors and can be found around every corner. Some of them are low and wide and can be crossed at high speeds. Others are only a few inches wide but quite tall and require a creeping pace. There are even little speed bumps to warn you of upcoming bigger speed bumps. And of course none of the speed bumps are marked in anyway so you have to be on a constant lookout for weird shadows on the asphalt.

When you’re not looking for speed bumps, you have to be aware of the daladalas. The public transportation of Tanzania is the daladala. These are Scooby-doo vans with windows and are invariably crammed with passengers. They often stop to unload and pickup passengers and will pull out in front of oncoming traffic whenever they feel like it.

Luckily, there are a series of signals to indicate driver intention, though they can be a bit complex. There are light signals to say, “You can pass now” or “If you pass, we’ll both crash.” Tanzanian drivers also use the car horn frequently, though I’m not always sure why. There is is an additional cohort of signals that I have not been able to decipher so far.

Also, you have to mind the pedestrians and bicyclists. Unlike in the States, it is common for people to walk along the road. And though they won’t pull out in front of you like a daladala might, they are yet another thing to be conscious of. Bikers are more dangerous. They often have long bundles of lumber tied on the back or a big pile of grass strapped behind the seat. They also have a tendency to weave in and out of traffic making them an unpredictable variable.

It doesn’t help that traffic rules are suggestions. Speed limits are flexible. A sign may say 50km/hr but 100km/hr is close enough. And when there is no one else on the road, why not just drive down the middle? A few years ago, a stoplight was put up in Arusha. The result was not better driving, but more accidents as no one paid attention to the newly installed stoplight.

Though traffic rules hold little sway, police officers are prevalent and often pull drivers over for periodic vehicle checks. Vehicles are required to have multiple stickers and also be equipped with safety flags, and a mini fire extinguisher in case of emergency.

We have been slowly adjusting to Tanzanian driving and have not gotten into an accident (yet).

Hello?

As part of our journey down the long path of Swahili fluency, we have been trying to master greetings.  Though this sounds simple enough, I assure you, it is no simple task.  Everyone tells us that Swahili is an easy language to learn, but I’m not yet convinced. 

In English, there are a couple greetings that work for all occasions and a few standard responses.  In Swahili, things get a little more complicated.  Greetings depend on the time of day, and the age of the person being greeted.  Additionally, each greeting has it’s own answer that cannot be interchanged with any other greeting-answer.  Time-based greeting are easy.  It’s a simple matter of inserting the right time word (asubuhi, mchana, jioni, etc.) into the sentence. 

However, when you get to greetings based on age, you really have to think.  If the person is older than you, you say, “Shikamoo”, to which the correct response is “marahaba”.  Younger people greet each other with “Mambo vipi” (and the reply ‘poa’). And remember, don’t mix the responses! 

Though learning the phrases is easy enough, using them is more difficult.  When you pass someone on the street who is slightly older than you, should you use the formal ‘shikamoo’ or is appropriate to say ‘mambo’? Should you wait for a child to address you with ‘shikamoo’ or can you initiate with ‘mambo’?  Keep in mind that these are the greetings that we have mastered – there are even more we are less familiar with. 

Once you get beyond greetings, you find that Swahili is a very structured language.  There are a lot of rules, but very few exceptions.  Swahili is like Spanish in that the verb has to be conjugated to fit the person along with the tense.  Fortunately, in Swahili the conjugating is nearly always the same and doesn’t vary with the verb like Spanish. 

Though verbs are relatively easy, adjectives can be tricky.  Adjectives take a certain prefix  depending on the noun class and plurality of the noun being described.  Unlike in English where most plural nouns  receive an ‘s’ or ‘es’, Swahili nouns fall in to various classes which are pluralized multiple ways.  For example, ‘kitabu’ (book) becomes ‘vitabu’ in plural form but ‘mtoto’ (child) turns in to ‘watoto’  and ‘mbwa’ stays ‘mbwa’  no matter how many dogs there are.  These examples are just three of many noun classes.  Once you figure out the noun class and plurality of the noun, you have to conjugate the adjective to fit. 

Swahili, as you may have noticed, is packed with double consonants.  There are a lot of words with mw, mb, ng, kw, mn, or mt.  People say that Swahili is pronounced like it sounds (which I maintain can be said by any speaker of his/her native language.  Think about it.).  I don’t know about you, but I was never taught the pronunciation of ‘mk’ words when I was a toddler.  Though Swahili and English share a similar alphabet (there is no q in Swahili), some Swahili words are difficult for an untrained English mouth. 

Fortunately for us, good-byes are limited to a couple variations.  ‘Kwa heri’ is the standard ‘good-bye’, ‘Usiku mwema’ means ‘good night’, and ‘baadae’ is the slang  for ‘later’.  With that in mind, kwa herini until next time!

Type to Learn

A few days back, I headed to the Nsoo Secondary School for another day of teaching.  I was running a little late and once reaching the school, headed straight for the classroom.  Before I reached my destination, I was intercepted by the school’s secretary, Mary.  She said the headmaster wanted a word with me.  I told her that I had class then, and perhaps I could speak to him afterwards?  No, she said, it’s urgent. So off I go with Mary. 

Upon entering his office, I saw the headmaster squished behind his desk which was pilled with messy stacks of dog-eared papers.  Head in hands, he motioned me to sit at the  chair in front of the desk which is always facing the wall, perpendicular to the headmaster.

The head master sighed once and said, “We have a problem.”  Uh-oh, I thought, this doesn’t sound good.  Hundreds of possibilities flooded my head.  What could this be about?  They weren’t going to fire me, were they? 

“Yes?” I asked, mentally rifling through all of the possibilities in my head.

“Final exams are next week and our typist is gone.  We need someone to type them up.  Could you do that?” he asked, fiddling with a blue pen.  Much relieved that I wasn’t going to be fired from my volunteering job, I eagerly agreed to the task and went to class.

Later that afternoon, I was flagged down by Mary again.  She led me to a backroom, unlocked a heavily padlocked cabinet and pulled out a huge stack of papers.  Warily, I eyed the thick pile of exams.  It was a lot more than I had bargained for.  She cheerfully handed over the papers and thanked me profusely.  I had the notion that if it wasn’t for me, she would have had to type all of the exams up. 

Once home, I settled in to type exams.  The work was more interesting than I had expected it.  Knowing little about the Tanzanian school system and curriculum, it was interesting to see what these students were learning and compare it to my high school education.  Though  the material covered is similar, the delivery method is different.  Unlike in an American high school were you can choose which classes to take, in Tanzania you have no choice.  The courses are also maintained throughout the year and repeated at higher levels in subsequent years. 

I returned to the school the following day with half of the papers typed only to find that they didn’t have power and I couldn’t give them the typed exams. 

“Come back tomorrow,” Mary said. “Hopefully we will have power then.  Oh, and here are some more exams.”  She handed me another stack, though this one wasn’t as large. 

All in all, I typed up over 20 final exams (which were no little tests, by the way) on every subject ranging from Math to Bible Study to English (which, surprisingly, had a few grammar mistakes).

Tales from Safari (edition V)

Mud in Tanzania is unlike any other mud I have experienced.  After a good rain, the lowland roads on the coast turn to sticky black molasses.  The soil absorbs extreme amounts of water and grab at everything that passes.  Especially vehicles.  On our return to Mweka, we found ourselves stuck in the mud several times.

Driving in the mud seems to be even more difficult than driving on snow or ice.  Luckily we had exceptional drivers that could keep the momentum going while still keeping the vehicle in control.  We bounced along, fishtailing and soon our white Land Rovers were brown.  We were doing good until the vehicle in front of us got stuck and we had to slow down.  Then we, too, found ourselves stuck.  After a few minutes of spinning tires and moving inches we were freed.  Unfortunately, the supply vehicle behind us was in deep.  After moving to higher, dry ground, we unloaded and hiked back to free the stuck Land Rover.  It took a good deal of time and manpower, but the students were able to push the Land Rover out of the mud and back on the road.  Cheers and high-fives were cut short as the Land Rover quickly found its way back into the mud.  The process started over and was repeated a few times that morning. 

     

Once we made it back to the main road, which was paved, we were safe.  But as we passed through the Pare Mountains, which had early that day experienced heavy rains,  parts of the road were flooded with murky orange water and gullies appeared where none had been previously.  In the more arid Northern regions, when it rains deforested areas are prone to heavy erosion, as we saw. 

Tales from Safari (edition IV 1/2)

Here is another perspective on the bush meat incident written by the ever-captivating Professor . . .

I was angry, only I didn’t know whom to be angry with. The assailant, the villagers, the rangers, the foreign factory owner, the government, whom? All held and sidestepped responsibility. There was little I could do other than extend a spiritual embrace to a soul hovering between life and death.

The water buck was mired to its belly in mud in a watering hole on the edge of the village. It quivered with exhaustion. Deep lacerations oozing with blood spread across the haunches, neck and face. Snorting in fear and defense, a frothy mix of blood, sweat and hormones cascaded down the broad face from the laceration just below the eyes. The look of fear, pain and exhaustion was unmistakable. With it’s characteristic white ring of fur around the buttocks and a beautiful gray brown coat the muscles of this common water buck likely had shimmered athletically just hours earlier before descending to this lethal watering hole. Here in the night it became entangled in a crudely set snare.

The watering hole was a muddy puddle of water not more than six meters in diameter on the edge of a small village. Nearby was a large tank of water for villagers who cautiously watched while filling their vessels. The water buck, as the name implies, must visit water daily and the end of the dry season had forced this particular animal to venture to the edge of the village in search of water.

Snares do not discriminate. A water buck is a large animal comparable to an American elk. The poacher, machete in hand, likely had approached in the night to harvest this animal as the lacerations attest. Finding a machete no match for the horns of a healthy water buck, the poacher probably retreated in the hopes that the animal would weaken before dawn, enabling harvest and discrete distribution of what then would then be bushmeat.

Many times I had taught about bushmeat in my classes on conservation biology and each time I presented the difficulties of poverty versus conservation. How can westerners cry about animals lost to poaching when abject poverty and hunger fuels desperation? What would my students do I ask and who is to blame? Like many difficult problems there are no simple answers, yet here I stood watching this water buck seeking desperately to find someone to blame.

The villagers watched as the rangers lassoed the water buck and dragged it out of the mud after several hours of trying to scare it out of the watering hole. The animal braced all legs, pulling back against the cable hooked to a truck until it collapsed. The villagers were silent. No one would utter a word, though likely each of them knew who carried the bloodied machete. This was meat lost. The East Indian factory owner indignantly insisted on a doctor for the poor animal. He spoke with denial in English, apparently unable to speak Swahili. I wondered if he felt a twinge (or perhaps a surge) of guilt in this factory town of poorly paid hungry people.

The rangers carefully went about their job of tying the animal and loading it on the truck, still alive. This task clearly pained them and brought great sadness. The water buck could not be left in the waterhole to die or even be shot as this was viewed as incentive to poachers. The government, in an effort to discourage poachers mandates that the animal must be transported and released in the hopes of recovery. Animals taken only a short ways are often stalked by their assailants and butchered, so the journey deep into the bush in the back of a truck was long.

Before leaving the site, the rangers collect the snare and take photographs knowing that is unlikely that anyone will be held accountable, but rather to add the evidence to the growing pile of statistics on bushmeat. They remove another snare in an adjacent tree along with a tethered vervet monkey, long since dead. The young monkey too small to butcher, was left to die and now was no more than a dried carcass.

The rangers unload the water buck deep in the bush where the acacia trees stretch to the horizon. Theirs is not an easy job. I wonder how many silent prayers they have made over similar heaps of blood matted fur. Though of little comfort, the bush is a better place to die and as we departed the soul hovered between the savanna and clouds.

I still have no answers to the questions I pose to students on bushmeat, nor was I able to identify any group or person to blame, but something inside me changed. There is a small piece of sadness that comes from lost hope and I find myself deeply angry. Angry at a world that allows people to be hungry, for corporations who fail to provide a living wage and for governments forced to make difficult choices. The world is big. Big enough for waterbucks, villagers, corporations and westerners, but only when we all take responsibility. We cannot and must not lose hope, for hope is the spirit that guides us from anger to responsibility. Could hope be the strongest conservation tool we have? Maybe, the answer lies in a combination of hope, beauty and dignity for all, including waterbucks.

Tales from Safari (edition IV)

During our stay at Sadani National Park we had a unique experience.  One day, after dropping the students off in the bush with a promise to pick them up five kilometers south of that point in a few hours, we headed back to camp.  Before we got to camp we came upon a watering hole just outside a village.  As Sadani National Park has been recently established, all of the area’s former inhabitants have not been entirely relocated.  (The government is in the midst of buying out a salt company whose workers live in a town within the park boundaries.) 

Reaching the watering hole we realized what the commotion was about.  Being the end of the dry season, this was one of the remaining watering holes in the area and many animals flock to it.  Unfortunately they don’t all leave. In this case, a large male waterbuck had been caught in a snare.  A small group of villagers stood around watching while four park rangers tried to free the animal.  In the previous night, the hunter had tried to kill the snared animal but only succeeded in wounding it.  By the time we had arrived, the waterbuck had lost much blood from deep gashes on its nose and side and was in a weakened, frightened state.  The rangers tried poking and prodding the beast but to little avail.  When waterbuck are scared, their tendency is to water, making it hard to chase this one away from the watering hole.  After several failed attempts, they resorted to a new tactic.  Looping a cord over the waterbuck’s horns, five grown men tried to put the animal out of the mud, moving the creature only meters before the rope broke.  Once armed with a new rope, they tied the waterbuck to a truck and pulled that way.  The poor creature fought its removal to exhaustion and collapsed on the ground.  The waterbuck was then tied up, pilled in the back of a pickup and driven off, deep into the park, where the poachers couldn’t find it.

In a country where over half of the population lives on less than $1 a day (and nearly all of the country on less than $2), illegal hunting is a popular method for food and income.  In National Parks, hunting is strictly prohibited, though laws do little to deter poor villagers.  It’s easy to sit back and think, ‘why would anyone do such a thing?’, but when you consider the circumstances, black and white become gray.  When you have starving children to feed, and bush meat is considerably cheaper than beef, you are not inclined to spend your precious little money for the conservation-friendly beef.  The on looking villagers certainly knew who the culprit was but kept the secret to themselves.  But can you really blame them?  The salt company pays them little to nothing, their children are hungry, and why should the waterbuck get free access to the town’s watering hole?  Until communities have greater ownership and economic benefit from wildlife it is unlikely that the bush meat trade will decrease.A vervet monkey was also caught in a snare, but not being worth the small amount of meat it would provide, was left in the tree where it was snared.

     

Tales from Safari (edition III)

As I have previously mentioned, we spent a good amount of time on the beach.  I could devote a rather lengthy post to how much I love the ocean, but I think that it would bore a good deal of you (or make you so jealous of my beach time that you quit reading).  So instead I will devote my time to other things. 

The coastal area of Pangani is a beautiful place.  The blue waters sparkle in the sun and there is always a breeze to carry the heat away, and best of all there are virtually no mosquitoes. In the mornings, local fishermen hoist the white canvas sails of their dhous (catamaran sailboats) and emerge from the Pangani river to disperse on the wide seas for the day.  The tides at Pangani were impressive.  The difference from high to low was half a mile.  When the tide was out, the white sand beaches stretched far and a beachcomber could find multitudes of colorful seashells and stranded jellyfish with stubby tentacles. 

The culture of the coast is also different from farther inland.  Though the Kilimanjaro region has Tanzania's highest population density, the coastal region is far poorer.  Even though Pangani hosts a lower standard of living than say Arusha or Moshi, theft is rare.  (Having said that, I was the unfortunate victim of a boot-thief, much to the dismay of the group.)

During our stay at the coast, we visited a mangrove forest, a seaweed farm, tide pools, and the Maziwe Marine Reserve.  The students did studies on diversity, took species inventories and listened to presentations given by locals.  The teaching style is a bit different here in that students are much more self reliant. When left on their own, they set to work and and complete their surveys.  During lectures they listen intently and ask insightful questions.  And on a Friday night they can be found not at the bar blasting loud music, but next door at the quiet restaurant finishing up their homework. 

Liability is also different here.  In the States, doctors prescribe every test imaginable to avoid missing an illness and being sued.  Here, seatbelts aren’t required and in fact, many of the seats don’t even have them.  Getting to Maziwe Marine Reserve requires a 90 minute boat ride.  Before we left, life vests were handed out, just like they would be in the States.  The difference was that there were fewer than 10 lifejackets for the 24 people.  The lifejackets that were handed out were little more than orange vest that might have once had some stuffing for flotation.  There was little doubt in my mind that if an emergency arose, the vests would provide no assistance. (To add to the circumstances, only about half of the students could swim.) 

Our stay at the beach was very enjoyable and it was hard to leave.  Luckily our next stop would be a National Park. 

Tales from Safari (edition II)

At Mweka Wildlife College, the students periodically go on safari to put their theoretical knowledge to practice in the the field.  The safari group we went with were third year advanced diploma students.  These are the seniors of the college and they really know their stuff.  So last week we piled twenty people and two drivers into two Land Rovers (I’m still not sure how we all fit) and headed of to the coast.

The drive from our home in Mweka to the coastal region of Pangani where we stayed took a good part of the day.  As soon as you come down off the mountain, the air warms and the enclosed quarters of the vehicle become increasingly confining.  But the landscape is distracting and you soon forget your sardine-packed state. 

East of Moshi, the landscape is covered with scrub brush and the Pare Mountains loom blue on the horizon.  Baobabs, thick-trunked trees with spindly branches, dot the countryside and shade herds of goat and cattle.  Many of the larger trees have conical boxes hanging from braided rope that serve as beehives. 

The dusty landscape is void of water and agriculture except for the occasional oasis which can be spotted miles off thanks to the grove of coconut trees they support  Upon closer inspection, the coconut trees show stems notched for ideal footholds. 

Further along, the Pare Mountains turn into the Usambara Mountains and through their peaks, you can see Kenya.  The soil also changes from burnt orange to crimson red.  Towards the coast, cinder blocked and tin roofed houses give way to mud and stick thatched huts. 

Half way we stopped at the Highway Restaurant.  The name seems a misnomer to me.  Lots of businesses boast the title “highway” but I have yet to find the highway.  The road, though fancy by African standards, is but one lane in each direction.  I would only qualify that as a road. 

The scrubland turned to vast fields of sisal as we neared the coast.  Spiky plants stretch in even columns to either horizon.  These plantations are the remnants of the colonial period which have since been bought out by Asian companies.

As we crested a hill, the Indian ocean came into view in the distance.  Past the fields a sapphire ribbon was pasted on the horizon beneath the pale blue sky.  As we drove through a village that overlooked the distant ocean I had to wonder how many of the children in the village had been to the ocean.  In a poor, rural village many people live their whole lives within a few miles of their home village.  In my opinion, everyone should get to experience the ocean.

Reaching the ocean we set up camp just back from the white sand beach.  The hot equatorial afternoon was cut by a warm breeze and the scent of salt water.  Coming from the middle of a continent, there is something irresistible about an ocean.  Maybe it’s the tangy smell of the water, the tides, the vast expanse of blue or perhaps all three things.  Whatever it is,  I would travel a million miles to get to the ocean and willingly spend all my life there.  Though our drive was long and hot, it was most definitely worth it. 

Tales from Safari

As we just returned from a Safari, this coming week of posts will be about our adventures.  I’ll start today with a letter home.

 

Dear Friends,

I hope every thing is going well in the Northern Hemisphere.  Is it cold? Is it snowing?  That’s a shame.  I was sitting here on the warm,  tropical Indian Ocean and decided to write you a letter.  It’s hot on the coast, but a light breeze off the azure waters makes the beach a perfect place to relax.

Today we went to island Marine Reserve Mziwe about an hour’s boat trip.  The ocean here is so clear and warm!  The deep water blues are a color you wouldn’t find in a Crayola box, and the shallow waters are an aqua even National Geographic can’t capture.  As I’m used to the temperature of Minnesotan lakes, Lake Superior in particular, I brace myself as I jump in the turquoise waves, but instead of ice cubes I find a hot-tub. The only bad thing about being on the coast is the amount of sun – I’m afraid I’m a bit burnt.  I’ll have to remember to put on more sunscreen on next time I go swimming.  Alas, life isn’t perfect, is it? But nearly so in this case.

Tomorrow we are leaving this beautiful paradise.  But it isn’t as bad as it sounds.  We are headed to Sadani National Park where we hopefully see all kinds of exotic wildlife.  Wish you were here?

Best of Wishes, Mara

And for everything else, there’s $10

The prices of food and other commodities in Tanzania continues to astound me. The other day I bought five tomatoes, two cucumbers and an eggplant for 38¢. On top of that, the quality of the vegetables is much better and fresher than any you would find in the states. Sending a text message will cost you only 1/5th of one cent. I thought it would be interesting to see what you can by with ten dollars here in Tanzania. With ten dollars you can buy all of the following items:

• 1 bag of cookies ($2.30)
• 1 bottle of Coca Cola (30¢)
• 1.5 liters of water (54¢)
• 1 box of cereal ($2.30)
• 1 can of beans ($1.08)
• 1 large aluminum cooking pot ($2.30)
• 2 rolls of toilet paper (23¢ each)
• 1 bag of potato chips (77¢)

And with another ten dollars, you can buy all of these items:

• Juice ($1.84)
• A large loaf of bread ($1.00)
• 1 kg of sugar ($1.15)
• 2 kg of flour ($1.84)
• 1 jar of strawberry jam ($1.84)
• 6 candles (92¢)
• Laundry detergent (46¢)
• 1 package of gum ($1.11)

If you want to look at it another way, you can buy any one of the following with just ten dollars.

• Dinner for three at a nice restaurant
• Hiring a maid to clean and do laundry for two weeks
• 3 silk scarves
• 4 bags of cookies
• 4 boxes of cereal
• 10 loaves of bread
• 10 cans of beans
• 13 bags of potato chips
• 18.4 liters of water
• 24 lb of sugar
• 33 bottles of Coca Cola
• 44 rolls of toilet paper
• 53 movies
• 65 candles
• 223 text messages

Though basic food stuffs are cheap compared to American standards, other things, like books, are expensive. A wildlife guide book will cost somewhere between $45 and $75.

It’s a good thing that $10 will buy a lot of food because Master Card won’t work for everything else. Hardly anyone takes credit cards, so your $10 needs to go a long ways.

Cooking with a Cooker

Coming from a house with a oven, a microwave and a full cupboard of spices and baking paraphernalia, we have found it difficult to come up with meals that fit our new situation. Having more time to cook, and less things to cook with we have found ourselves at an interesting crossroad.

Our first problem was one of equipment. Upon arrival, we were given a refrigerator and a set of dishes to use; nothing more. So naturally, one of our first orders of business was to purchase some of the things we would need to cook. We ended up buying a ‘cooker’ as it is called. Though I was initially hesitant at its capabilities, the cooker has proven to be quite useful.

As you can see, it has two burners and an oven. However the oven can only go to 250° which provides for some interesting baking. We also acquired a few basic kitchen items like stirring spoons, pots and a pan. Because of the difficulty in finding cooking utensils, we end up using a tea cup as a measuring cup and a real table spoon as a tablespoon.

The second difficulty we have been coping with is ingredients. Because you don’t find any supermarkets here, getting baking ingredients is a challenge. We have a limited number of spices (one called ‘Tanzania spices’ – a mix we have no idea what its made up of), baking powder but no baking soda, a bag of generic flour and a few other basic items. Not having a cookbook, we get our recipes off the internet. The recipes we get off the internet though, only resemble what we mix together and throw in the oven. When your recipe calls for thyme and baking powder – neither of which you have – you tend to get a bit inventive, more out of necessity than of creativeness. Some days we don’t get a chance to find recipes and end up guessing. (Mac n’ cheese is just macaroni and cheese, right?)

In addition to those ingredients we have a pile of avocadoes (the avocado tree in our backyard is dropping them faster than we can pick them up). Since neither of us is all that fond of guacamole (and we don’t have any chips to put it on) we have been searching for recipes with a large proportion of avocadoes. Using a banana bread recipe as a template, we have created a new dish – avocakes. These little green cakes, however unappealing they may look, actually taste quite good. They make tasty sweet cakes for desert. If your interesting in trying them out, check out the recipe at the bottom of the page.

The hardest part of cooking here is the variability of electricity. Often, when you want nothing more than a hot bowl of soup for dinner, the electricity is off and you are stuck with a cold cabbage salad or a P&J sandwich on week old bread. Now there is nothing wrong with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I adore them, but after the third meal, you really wish you had electricity to make pasta. Lack of electricity also makes refrigeration hard. After 48 hours with out power, you begin to question the safety of the chicken in the freezer.

With ample time in the evenings and a hour and a half lunch break, there is plenty of time to experiment in the kitchen. Experimentation makes for interesting meals and is definitely fun (though maybe not so entertaining for those who have to eat what you cook).

Avocakes

• 1 cup flour
• 1/2 cup sugar
• 1 tsp baking powder
• 1 tbs cinnamon
• 1 cup of mashed avocadoes (about 3 medium avocadoes)
• 3/4 cup milk

Mix all of the ingredients together. Place heaping spoonfuls of the batter on a greased pan. Cook for 15 minutes at 250°.

If you want to get the whole experience, measure ingredients with teacups and spoons, find an avocado tree and go collect your own avocadoes.

For the Birds

If you’ve noticed the new bird list in the right column next to the posts, you may have been wondering what all the strangely named birds look like. Well, it is your lucky day. Here are a few pictures to satisfy your inquisitive mind. (Keep in mind that birds, especially the little ones, are difficult to photograph so some of these pictures are rather grainy.)

This prehistoric-looking thing the Silver-cheeked Hornbill. These large creatures make the most noise I’ve ever heard out of a bird. Their wings make loud whooshing noises when they fly and they have a distinct call.

Here is the lovely Augur Buzzard. This one likes to hang out on the football goal.

Meet the beautiful Amethyst Sunbird. When the sun catches his feathers just right, his chin shines iridescent red and the top of his head brilliant green.

The one and only Common Bulbul, tricolor variety.

This would be the Black-and-white Mannikin. Doesn’t look much like a manikin to me either.

And the ever prominent White-eyed Slaty Flycatcher

This is the feather of a pied crow. The Pied crow looks like a North American crow wearing a white vest.

This terrible picture is of the Speckled Mousebird. It’s hard to see here, but the Mousebird has a funny crest of feathers on its head and a super long tail.

And this cute little fellow (the Common Fiscal). . .

. . . is a killer. (Poor lizard)

This is the female Baglafecht Weaver caught in the act of making a nest.

I’ve saved the best for last. This is definitely my favorite bird of all the ones I’ve seen so far. It is the Variable Sunbird and is almost as noisy as the Hornbill, but much prettier.

This duller one is the female.

Those are all the bird pictures for now. Bye!