Thoughts on clothing from the bus

The polyester leisure suit is alive and well in Tanzania. Well maybe thread worn and stained, but holding it's own among the more well to do in the rural population at least. On the bus to Kondoa our conductor looks dignified and official in his faded lime green affair. Numerous older men step on, wedging themselves in deeper, immaculately dressed in matching jacket and trousers. Any wonder? The dust and dirt here is enough to get a Maytag salesman drooling. Too bad electricity is in such short supply although they've put up the power poles into the village (Mnenia) recently...

The women seem committed to the maximum visual effect, colourful kangas and kitenges draped over their shoulders, covering their hair and of course in layers as skirts. The one exception to my generalized observation would be the Maasai. The men mostly (we only occasionally see the women) dress in layers of shukas, brightly patterned woven fabric in plaids of  blue and red, green and yellow and flourescent orange and red...(yes!) or all of the above, together. Which cannot  begin to describe what it looks like.  

These Maasai herdsmen stand at the side of the road, seemingly miles from anywhere in blue and red plaids with their ever present staff/stick/cane, watching their livestock eke out some sustenance from the (what looks like) non existent vegetation. But this year is an initiation year and many of those young herdsmen are dressed in black. Completely in black, every item of clothing black. Except their faces, white foreheads with various permutations of design and expression on the cheeks in white face paint, ash likely or flour. A few have ostrich feathers shooting up from behind their heads, black of course. As we drive by they stare more intently than I dare to. Out of respect for their process I took no pictures.

Meanwhile in the cities their elder brothers walk up and down the streets, cell phone in hand decked out in colours many women would be challenged wearing.  On their feet the famous Maasai sandal; a chunk of motorcycle tire with a piece coming up between the toes; a beaded fringe waving saucily in the air. Although the ubiquitous running shoe/sneaker/training shoe  (I'll name no brands) seems to be making inroads, pardon the pun.

Back on the bus in rural Tanzania, if you can get a seat, there will likely be someone sitting beside you. If a woman,  she'll be constantly fiddling with her head scarf, tucking it here, pulling it out there, occasionally disappearing from view. Possibly to sleep or at least avoid any eye contact with this heathen infidel. The men are usually more friendly, their suits staining sweat right through to their jackets. Asking in their best English where I'm from and for how long, and expressing incredulous surprise at where I'm living.  Almost every man wears the Islamic hat called taqiyah or kofia. Occasionally a ball cap and rarely a fedora. 

 The availability of western clothing is remarkable (at least to my naive mind) For 10,000 Tanzanian shillings one can purchase a bale of clothing, jam packed into a metric cube that when opened -stand back!- will overwhelm one with such a variety of shirts, pants and underwear to possibly jade one forever from ever wanting to wear the stuff. T-shirts with every imaginable slogan, endorsement or "witty" saying, adorning folks who have no English,  no idea what it says. Cheap though, thanks to the folks who donated these dated, discarded derelicts of a disintegrating culture to the land of all our ancestors.

 This is globalization in action,  the few folks  still wearing traditional clothing fast becoming anomalies in a rapidly moving, corporate driven, pathological push towards  uniformity.

 No thanks! I had  a shuka made into a shirt and a kanga into pants. Bring on creative dressups!

We walk to Haubi

At Amarula campsite in Tanzania every once in a while someone would mention Haubi, a small town nestled in the mountains to the east and south of us. It had a lake! Amazing to consider in this dry environment. And a Sunday market!
Hamisi, one of our workers said he'd ridden his bike there to visit his father from the Pahi side, so I thought it couldn't be too far. One of our goals at the camp was to investigate possible day hikes around the vicinity for our visitors.  Our time at Amarula was rapidly coming to an end so we arranged with Hamisi and Daniel to guide us there one Sunday in September.
  Our host Seppo was visiting and drove us early to the turn, off the Kondoa road. As he drove away the numerous folks waiting for the bus to Haubi peppered Hamisi with questions. "Who are those white folks and why are you walking when you can take the bus?"

The road was rough; loose rock, steep and dusty from months without rain.  Soon we took a"shortcut" following a well worn path traversing a wild and undulating landscape. Off to the right and behind us a village  perched on a rise in the distance. Ahead brush, the odd tree and far away to the south as we climbed we could make out buildings in Kondoa.


When it rains here it is torrential. We descended a few times into canyons of eroded clay and stone, crossing narrow channels carved deep into the earth between hoodoo like columns of dried mud.

Then up and out through scrubby bush and herbage. Incredibly in the midst of this we passed a woman, just sitting, waiting. For what I know not, seemingly, in the middle of nowhere.

  Back on the road dump trucks filled with people passed us by on their way to the market. They all seemed pleased to see us, waving and calling out as the truck lumbered past swaying and straining up the hills. Not long after we walked across a wide sandy river, the tire tracks churned deeply into ruts. I wondered how they managed when the river was running.
Occasionally we'd pass or be passed by young women draped in layers of colourful cloth, Kangas and Kitenges flowing behind them, mist like, baskets in their hands.
Climbing still we passed through a small village, Hamisi again explaining  our purpose to the assembled men at the roadside.

 Not long after a few of those men caught up and walked with us awhile through more extreme looking landscapes till suddenly before us the lake appeared. Some settlement all around, the town visible at the far end at the foot of the hills.


 Walking on we found a fig tree loaded with fruit. Although apparently not so attractive to the locals, we nevertheless enjoyed a sweet treat and a break in the shade before continuing on.

 Down below to the left the lake was choked with weed and reeds so no swimming to cool our sweaty bodies. By this time the road had become quite crowded with people returning from the market. As we turned a corner near lakes end, there before us, a sea of people, booths and buses, trucks, donkeys, dogs, goats and chickens, coloured cloths, racks of western style clothing, pots and pans. I walked past a fellow sitting behind all manner of hardware, hinges, doorlocks, bolts and screws, car and bicycle parts spread out on the ground. And almost everyone there staring at us.
 The whole way we'd been anticipating some food and a place to sit to enjoy it. Where we finally ended up was more like a cave than a cafe and no chips mayai.
That brief interlude passed and we continued on around the lake walking back towards Pahi, passing a woman carrying an enormous clay pot on her head.
 Turns out Haubi is a source of homebrew, made in these giant pots. I wanted one! Sanity prevailed and we walked on.... and on... and on.
 The road continues into the hills but at the river Hamisi turned us right.

 Erosion has an amazing face, the steep walls of sandy clay cut by years of roaring river,  the bed wide and hard enough to drive on. We  walked down broad avenues, around corners into grottoes and canyons, past cliffs and islands eventually climbing onto a plateau up what looked like a driveway.
 On one side farmland stretched right up against the rising hills. On the left, steep drops into narrow canyons choked with vegetation.  Proceeding through this valley the path became narrower, the drops on either side more precipitous and I realized no one was driving in or out from this side!
Ahead the vast Masai steppe was visible from our vantage point in the hills. The trail, no longer a path, traversed one hillside to the other, up down and around loose rock and boulders through Miombo forest.

  It was remarkably red and green, the trees beginning to leaf out in anticipation of the coming rains.

 Stopping to rest we were passed by parties of young men and women, then family groups from very old to young with a troop of donkeys, not impressed, veering off the trail to avoid us.

 

 Down, down through scrub and forest, sliding over rock faces, around more boulders then coming around a corner on the road,  way off in the distance, we spied Amarula camp. Elke called Seppo for a ride and as the land leveled off we walked into  Pahi.
Quite a spectacular walk, we decided next time we'd do it in two days. Maybe then we could try the homebrew?

Bad day for a bus ride

Here we've arrived off Babu Transport after shopping in Kondoa. Seems like they have concerns about the front tire.



Sometimes though the signs are there and I'm not paying attention.


Occasionally we would run low on cash. There's no international ATM in Kondoa, so we'd make the trip to Babati 3 hours and 80km away.

The bus is cheap, relatively speaking, 6,000 TS (about $3.C), runs once a day to Arusha and is scheduled to pass by our driveway at  5:30am.

That morning the bus never came. Babu Transport, our usual ride to Kondoa, happily carried us up the hill to Kolo where an eager fellow sold us tickets to Babati on the next bus. It arrived within minutes and away we went standing up front, swaying and holding on.
Within an hour we were stopped by some undetermined mechanical problem. The bus jockeys were back and forth from the tool box and two hours later had leaf springs unassembled under the bus and were then waiting themselves. This was a clear message to start walking.

It was pleasant walking, a few flowers on trees brightening the dry leafless landscape. An hour later we stopped at what appeared to be a bus stop. A group of local women and children were entertained to see us. When a bus roared past I waved it down.

This bus was already full. On the roof a large overstuffed chair, baggage/luggage and piled sacks with two or three men sitting on top. In order to get on we had to wedge ourselves onto the steps. We carried on for a few minutes when it stopped to pick up more passengers!
I was pushed and shoved further into the bus so more folks could get in. I had my head up against the ceiling. Elke, behind me, perched on the edges of a sack of rice. Both of us in full contact with the rest of the standees front and back.
 Unfortunately this is quite typical. Limited service, low wages and a large population mean the bus folks will take as many as they can to make the extra cash.

I'm watching as the bus slows down and the two bus jockeys standing in the doorway are thrown out as we lurch left. The bus tips over and slides sideways across the road. People are screaming, I'm thinking "is this my time?" and "no apparently not."  I search around for Elke who is now beneath me.

 I've braced myself against the wall maintaining a somewhat upright position. Folks are scrambling up and out the windows, crawling out through the doorway and the back window/exit. Elke has the presence of mind to grab our bags, I pass them up with her as she is pulled through the side windows and jumps down.

My turn, except I've lost my shoe as someone squeezed past my foot. I'm standing in kerosene, very slippery on a metal surface. I grab my shoe off the ground beneath the bus. I'm one of the last out. Helpful hands haul me up and over the edge, dropped into the arms of a fellow outside. Women are crying, yelling into their phones, limping and sitting alone shock and dismay on their faces. A group of men push the bus up and pull out the two who fell. People are running towards us from all directions.

Someone asks if we are ok? as we sit beside a young woman, Elke reassuring her, checking out her possibly injured hand. Other than shock we seem fine. There is not much we can do here, don't speak the language and folks are assisting where needed. Two motorcycles take some injured fellows away held in place by another sitting behind.

We start walking, stopping frequently to inform folks to the best of our ability what happened. I'm still amazed I've survived. The walking helps to ground me. Elke calls our friend in Babati who arranges a cab and after walking another hour we are picked up.
This experience is truly unsettling. We talk about the safety and security of life back in the developed world, how complacent and trusting we became. How risk makes things interesting and why we would choose to even get on a bus that full.

Back at camp a week or so later we hear the sounds of singing as a vehicle comes down the hill, then a crash and silence. We rush over to the overlook on the road where we see a large truck on it's side, people everywhere. 19 die returning from a wedding.

Here it is "the will of God" Certainly there is sadness and mourning but it seems accepted that these things happen. No blame and it seems no responsibility either. Is this the price, the risk I take to be here?

What it's like, to be out there....

I am isolated. Adrift  in a stream of reality I could only dream of before being here. Where ever we are, our reality, imagined by me or you, supports how we believe we wish to exist.
Until I stepped out of my safe(fear driven) job, culture and belief system, I was dependent on my structured life to define who and what I was. I'm still connected to that reality, living on the avails of 20 years of pension payments, but I am proceeding through life differently in a new and alien culture.
  For starters I'm sleeping in a tent, eating mostly locally grown vegetables and helping to build an earthen house.To go anywhere I take the bus or walk.


 I know this is possible back home too, yet it seems more real, more intense, more dramatic and essential here. The options are limited, yet I feel no lack. (Well maybe good chocolate occasionally.)There are things to do, challenges to overcome, meals to cook and daily tasks to complete. All my life I've yearned for this simplicity,  to live outside mostly, with only the distractions that one's immediate surroundings can generate.
We are far from the nearest town, most services and dependable internet. There is cell coverage depending where you are standing. And I put the cell phone away, since no one is going to call me anyway.
This close to the equator the sun sets at 7 and it gets dark fast. Except it isn't mostly, the milky way a bright swath across the sky. The moon rising full or setting as a sliver in the morning are reminders of past times, and the passage of time. There are moments when time almost stands still; a rainbow arcing across the vista, lightening flashing from all directions and those incredible light shows of sunrise and sunset. 



Daily I wake early as the dark fades, the  first morning bird song from one particular bird followed by another different song and another. I write awhile, have some fruit and the day begins as workers arrive, tools are collected and the house slowly emerges from the land.
Stone and earth, clay and sand, water and local labour form this building. It is a kind of primal experience with overtones of elegance and sophistication from our skills and knowledge.
I am happy, content and prospering. Privacy and isolation have never been that attractive to me but here there is something refreshing, powerful and soothing about wandering the land, watching the weather,  throwing mud at the walls and being present in every moment to what is.

No, I don't want to leave!

I'm not afraid of weirdness, but this is something else. We are on the cusp of leaving Africa/Tanzania. Having already said goodbye to our recently completed home/cottage at Amarula Camp and the folks in the village of Mnenia, we are now about to leave Arusha.
  It was challenging! Especially getting onto the overcrowded bus, after being in a bus crash not so long ago.(more about that later) The swaying, jerking and bumping affecting my equilibrium as I unsuccessfully tried not to recall tipping over.

The time here in Tanzania has been full and potent with events, people and experience. I have new friends, thousands of photos and a greater sense of humility. It has been a huge challenge to sit and write (peck away at the keyboard) while there was so much to do, including wandering around the landscape marveling at the flora and occasional fauna. Even in the dry season.

 To get back to the weirdness, I'm anticipating a cultural shift of massive proportions. Stepping into a densely populated, sophisticated, moneyed and consumer oriented reality. Need I describe our existence up to now as anything but? Truly, I don't want to leave. And yet, I will, willingly embarking on new adventures, intending to learn German, teach English, continue to bake bread, do some traveling and get back to writing.
My sense is one of confusion, fear and concern... What if...? and I know that's all bullshit. The future remains an unknown, the time here now is what matters.
 We have some time to organize, repack and let go of the last bits of stuff I am still hanging onto. Anything to distract me from the impending departure. I don't want to leave!

At the moment I'm sitting outside on the porch of the Masai Cafe here in Arusha,  listening to the sound of the croaking white shouldered ravens. On the fence, red, orange and purple bougainvillea, while bits of avocado flower fall like rain and jacaranda blossoms litter the driveway. The temperature a pleasant 25'C  with the smell of burning cheese and dough from the wood fired pizza oven occasionally drifting past my nose.
Arusha is lush, Mt Meru's influence maintaining rainfall year round, although we've had a nice dry spell since we arrived. The usually shrouded peak is visible from most anywhere.

I'm holding onto these images, this moment,  feeling some sensory overload. Traffic for one, there isn't much in Mnenia. The birds have much more melodic and attractive songs, the acaia 'fruit' it's distinctive smell and the brown and greys of the dormant vegetation a stark sight on the hillside and mountains. But man! I love it there. I don't want to leave!
The shuttle tickets purchased, I have bread waiting to bake, bags packed, weight distributed evenly, my treasures tucked away..... Here I come!

Amarula Camp

My life at Amarula camp is idyllic. Each morning the light wakes me with enough time to dress, walk to the Banda and take a few pictures of the rising sun. The Banda is a large octagon open shelter with a conical high thatch roof. It provides shade, a meeting place and an impromptu office. Often the breeze blows through, keeping it a cool space to hang out in during the hottest part of the day.
 The birds too, don't hesitate to pass through or stop to pick up a bug or bit of dropped food. Bird song/calls are constant. Beside the Banda there is a red and white bird building a nest on the tip of a branch, an enclosed ball of woven grass and twigs, like an upside down igloo.
 I stood underneath and watched him moving around inside, setting up the boudoir. Apparently he will soon woo a wife who inspects his work by shaking it as hard as a bird can. If it survives, they make babies together.
There are flocks of little yellow birds, single bigger bright yellow birds and pairs of black and white birds with long tails, all  flying back and forth from the many trees on this meadowed slope. I saw  a strange one flying over the tent,  long, black and thin with a bent yellow beak.
 Our night watchman Mohamed has been cutting the grass with the Chinese made African weed whacker. He swings his arms back and forth with such force the grass flies high in the air above his head. The aroma of the African Basil, now sliced and diced is wonderfully fragrant. We've been harvesting it almost daily for our meals. Strangely the locals don't use it.
 After the hay dries, I rake it up and spread it in the garden for mulch, and around our newly planted bananas.

The vistas here are marvellous, across the way to the South, above the river, Kolo/Mnenia mountain covered in the Miombo (forested hillside). Then to the south East more bushy mountains, the Irangi Hills, above the savannah spread out across central Tanzania as far as the eye can see East and North.  Many people are living down there along the rivers, seasonal as they may be. Everyone grows food, so beside the roads, onto the plain and up toward the mountains are fields and fields. Corn, sorghum, sunflowers, sweet potatoes, beans and squash, an occasional plot of tobacco, cassava and many more "vegetables" I'm unfamiliar with.

 Our sleeping room, a safari tent, sits on the Eastern edge of the ridge, and  sounds of the village are carried up by the wind. The call to prayer from the mosque is much more pleasant than the horns of the bus to Arusha at 5:30 am. At that time  we hear the dhikiri- recitations of the 99 names of Allah, hauntingly beautiful.

On the Western horizon more Miombo as the Irangi Hills continue West and North. There is old decrepit rock everywhere here, crumbling granite, some black mix of iron and mica with flecks of green. We drop it and it falls apart. Some seems integral enough for foundation building though.

Our cob cottage is coming along. After a couple of work parties with the "Mamas" from the village we are almost ready to start cobbing. Our glassless windows are ready to be installed along with the doorframe, once the mud starts piling onto the rocks. It is exciting to be building a space we can call our own, even temporarily. I take pictures as it progresses, help where I can and imagine the final product, making (I think) helpful suggestions on some esthetic touches.
We'll see eh?
..

Bus rides

Bus rides in Tanzania, hurtling through traffic seemingly oblivious to any signage or common courtesy, passing at approaching hills, an ongoing game of chicken with the oncoming traffic. The horn is used liberally mostly as a warning to get off the road, but  also to announce ones arrival and departure. I must be so familiar with it it doesn't wake me at 5:30 am any more when the Arusha bus arrives in Mnenia.
The dala dalas are even crazier. The "conductor" leaning out the window or mostly  open door, soliciting his customers, then out before it stops, hustling any available passenger into the already cramped, what I would call overflowing mini van. The driver inching into the traffic flow and racing along, cutting people off to pull over and disgorge someone. Like some gigantic game of leapfrog there are countless dala dalas stopped and moving all the time (well maybe not all the time) both directions along the main drags.
Our experience with Kondoa 1 the 6:30 am passing through the village has been wonderful. It stops at our driveway with smiles on the ticket sellers faces. They seem genuinely happy to see us as we wedge ourselves into an already overflowing, in motion bus. I've learned the best place for me to stand is on the steps in, that way my head isn't crushed against the ceiling on every bump.
  The conductor "boys" are friendly and seem to look out for us sending Elke to an available seat when such a miracle occurs and letting me know it's not safe for my hand (grasping the window frame or clutching the door outside) when we deke down a side road to avoid the authorities at some road check. Me I would hesitate to drive my van down that road. These guys in a 40 seater bus make it work, driving up one side of a half metre deep gully, crossing over gigantic cactus remnants and along the edge of corn fields. Then across the river. There must be lots of traffic through, it is hard packed sand. Upriver I saw some boys stripped down having a bath in a pool they dug and have seen women washing clothes, colourful patterned material laid out on the rocks and sand to dry.
At the bus "terminal" the bus conductors get possessive as we purchase our ticket home (no refunds or exchanges), and later the ticket sellers are all over us when we return from our shopping, trying to sell us a ticket somewhere, anywhere.
Returning home from Kondoa, anticipating the next stop, one fellow climbs up the ladder outside to untie, dislodge or somehow release whatever the passengers have trusted to be up on the roof so when the bus stops, their goods are handed over and we are in motion again within it seems the blink of an eye and a bang on the side of the bus.
On one ride we watched a fellow climb out the window, swing over to the ladder and disappear up as we careened down the red road.
Our trip to Arusha was somewhat different, a larger bus, and a seat each near the back, although my knees were spread so wide someone else could have sat between. When the seat at the back in the middle was vacated I grabbed it, my freed knees level with the arm rests on the seat forward. Beside me a mother, her two daughters and a box of chickens. Mother and eldest daughter motion sick into their own ubiquitous black plastic bags.
Later they were buying cookies and bottled drinks through the window when we stopped in Babati where at least half the travelers got off. Women hawking snacks and drinks from the plastic wash basins carried arms free on their heads. The men generally don't carry stuff on their heads preferring great square frameworks loaded with wristwatches, combs, sunglasses and other small manufactured items resting on their shoulders. Occasionally a man will walk by with a tray loaded with boiled eggs or newspaper cones of peanuts. We bought samosas.
 After Babati, pavement. The road seemed to get worse what with the speed bumps and potholes, swerving around cyclists loaded with all manner of freight and lurching to a stop when they spied a possible passenger. My back was not happy.
Arriving on the outskirts of Arusha a number of men standing beside the ladder up, caught the six large baskets of chickens the roof jockey levered off.
I was glad to step off at the bus station and walk the half mile or so to the Masai cafe.