I find driving in Dar is actually quite enjoyable, except for the potholes the size of the Titanic. When you factor in the lack of road signs, speed limits signs, lines on the roads and functioning traffic lights, it becomes an interesting cross between downtown Manhattan and bumper cars. There are driving laws, yes, in theory. But like most laws in Tanzania it is nearly impossible to get a copy of the actual laws and more importantly, they are enforced only to the extent that you can bribe the traffic officer. Yet surprisingly enough, the selective enforcement (or lack of enforcement) creates a road situation that is relatively orderly.
Well, maybe I’ve lived in Dar too long if I think that driving here is orderly. But there are two definite principles that rule the road: aggressiveness (a.k.a. guts and stupidity) and size of vehicle. So for me, I’m actually pretty close to the top of the pecking order. The largest vehicles on the road are trucks, but since they are older than I am, they are slow at accelerating and maneuvering in traffic. The next largest are dala dalas. They have crazy drivers (VERY crazy), but they are hindered by the fact that they usually have 30 people in a vehicle built to fit 10 and are also old and slow. The next largest vehicles on the road are the large SUVs (Toyota Land Cruiser size). But these are usually owned by older expats or older wealthy Tanzanians, so they tend to be slow and cautious drivers. (Or the old folk are being driven by a driver who tends to be even more slow and cautious.) The last group is the sedans and smaller cars, which loose based on their size alone.
So that leaves the small SUV category, into which my baby and I fit. Most of the people in this category are younger expats, such as myself. And I will further split this group into two: those that can drive and those that shouldn’t be behind the wheel. Now, many Americans and Europeans initially fall into the latter category as they learn that driving on the left means the steering wheel is on the right but that the car should always be on the left side of the road. (You would be surprised at how long it takes some people to realize that.) But most of the expats here are females, and… as much as I hate to say this, most of the female drivers in Dar I’ve met also fall into the latter category of ‘please, please take the keys away from them’. I usually hate that stereotype, but I honestly think I only know one other girl in Dar that actually understands how a car works and also understands that you should look at the road on which you’re driving. (Again, you would be surprised.) And anyone who has an automatic has weak acceleration here, so they tend to fall into the latter category as well.
They say that power corrupts and that absolute power corrupts absolutely. Well, I have to say, that falling near the top of the pecking order of driving has definitely corrupted me a bit. (My baby may loose a little on size, but driving in South Africa and San Francisco… let’s just say that dala dalas defer to me.) But, unlike my dear brother, I have not gone over to the dark side and adopted the motto “screeching tires are happy tires”. No- to me screeching tires still mean you need to be nice and stop the car and let your little sister out before taking the 25mph turn at 60mph.
But seeing as Dar doesn’t exactly have an advanced trauma unit in case of accidents (you get sent for treatment in another country if you get a complicated fracture of your arm), the best way to drive is still defensively.
But when it’s a beautiful day with a nice breeze and you’re on a road with the beach and the Indian Ocean on one side… it’s nice not to have driving laws.
24 October 2007
08 July 2007
who needs instructions?
As the last post describes, I recently purchased a new baby. Now, seeing as this is my baby, I was tempted to purchase an anti-theft system involving flame throwers and darts that would ensure that if anyone tried to steal even the most minute of parts, it would leave such an impression that no one would ever think of going near the ‘pyscho black CRV of Dar’ again. And yes, they do make anti-theft systems with flame throwers- legal in good ‘ol South Africa, but for rather obvious reasons illegal in the US. So I purchased a standard system with a wonderfully loud alarm and a switch that disables the battery if anyone tries to override the system.
So on Saturday the mechanic arrived with an electrician and I handed the box over to them and showed them the installation guide. The electrician looked through the installation guide and then asked for the instructions. I told him that those were the instructions and showed him the page with the diagram for the wires. He looked surprised, looked and the mechanic, shook his head and said something in Kiswahili and then put the instructions down. He then pulled the facing off under the steering wheel and started cutting wires. Two thoughts crossed my mind: 1- that he was good enough that he didn’t need instructions, and 2- that my car was never going to start again.
Not to ruin the story, but neither ended up being true. My baby does start. But there were a few rather hairy moments- it took an awful long time for him to find the wire that controlled the door locks. And in the process he cut at least 4 wires and reattached them to each other, smiling sheepishly at me each time he realized that he had cut the wrong wire. He would also occasionally grab the diagram and look at it for a few seconds. Though I think his glances at the diagram were more to give me confidence in him than to actually serve as a guide for him, since he didn't seem to mind if he was reading it upside down or not. (Which, needless to say, did not exactly scream "relax, your car is going to turn on again with a functioning security system".)
But the reason that I am describing this rather traumatic experience in my baby's life, is to describe how completely African the event was.
The process for arriving at a result is very different here in than in the states. In the states there are always instructions and a clearly defined path to get from A to B. Here you use your brain and figure out how to get something done. Granted, this involves a lot of trial and error, a lot more time, and backtracking when you go down te wrong path (e.g. reattaching the wires to each other). But I have to say, as someone that would much rather put something together on my own by playing with it than by using instructions, I find this way refreshing. Because as scary as it was to watch the electrician cut and reattach wires, it was reassuring knowing that he actually knew what he was doing.
Note: this method should probably not apply to any heart or brain surgeries. And I think its track record with chandeliers (cough cough dad cough) has also been shown to be dubious.
So on Saturday the mechanic arrived with an electrician and I handed the box over to them and showed them the installation guide. The electrician looked through the installation guide and then asked for the instructions. I told him that those were the instructions and showed him the page with the diagram for the wires. He looked surprised, looked and the mechanic, shook his head and said something in Kiswahili and then put the instructions down. He then pulled the facing off under the steering wheel and started cutting wires. Two thoughts crossed my mind: 1- that he was good enough that he didn’t need instructions, and 2- that my car was never going to start again.
Not to ruin the story, but neither ended up being true. My baby does start. But there were a few rather hairy moments- it took an awful long time for him to find the wire that controlled the door locks. And in the process he cut at least 4 wires and reattached them to each other, smiling sheepishly at me each time he realized that he had cut the wrong wire. He would also occasionally grab the diagram and look at it for a few seconds. Though I think his glances at the diagram were more to give me confidence in him than to actually serve as a guide for him, since he didn't seem to mind if he was reading it upside down or not. (Which, needless to say, did not exactly scream "relax, your car is going to turn on again with a functioning security system".)
But the reason that I am describing this rather traumatic experience in my baby's life, is to describe how completely African the event was.
The process for arriving at a result is very different here in than in the states. In the states there are always instructions and a clearly defined path to get from A to B. Here you use your brain and figure out how to get something done. Granted, this involves a lot of trial and error, a lot more time, and backtracking when you go down te wrong path (e.g. reattaching the wires to each other). But I have to say, as someone that would much rather put something together on my own by playing with it than by using instructions, I find this way refreshing. Because as scary as it was to watch the electrician cut and reattach wires, it was reassuring knowing that he actually knew what he was doing.
Note: this method should probably not apply to any heart or brain surgeries. And I think its track record with chandeliers (cough cough dad cough) has also been shown to be dubious.
05 July 2007
how to purchase a car online
I try to (loosely) stick to my rule about not writing stories specifically about my life, but I thought this story was pretty funny and also a tale of life in Dar.
The title of this past was going to be “how to purchase a car online from another continent and pray that it doesn’t fall off the ship on its way to Dar”, but I thought that would be too cumbersome. And it would give too much of this post away.
So the first option for buying a car is to buy one here in Dar (see previous post). The second option is to have a car imported. Cars drive on the left hand side of the road here (right-side driver) so there are a limited number of places from which one can import a car. Japan is the most common option. The process is to view cars on a website (e.g. http://www.japanesevehicles.com/tcl/en/stockList?region=Japan&type=8). You then email the company and tell them you’re interested in such-and-such vehicle and they quote you a higher price that includes freight and processing charges. You then have 48 hours to send them the entire sum of money, otherwise you loose your hold on the car. In my case, I sent them the entire sum of money in 48 hours and then received a polite email telling me that my car had already been sold.
Needless to say, that was not a happy moment. Not a happy moment at all. After a week of haggling, I found a new car that will henceforth be referred to as “my baby”. Now, keep in mind that all this occurred in March and that I had, in essence, purchased a car that I had never seen, never driven and had no information on past the type, year, color, transmission and engine specs. I had paid a rather substantial sum of money to own a car, in Japan. You get no paperwork, only an emailed version of the invoice saying that you own a car. Everyone assured me that was “how it was done”, but really, it was not the most reassuring feeling.
Then the waiting begins for a spot on a ship. So for two months my baby sat in Japan while I sat here. Then finally, you get a shipment date. The car is put on a ship and then, (finally!!), then you are sent the bill of sale and the paperwork saying that you actually own a car. My mean, evil roommate (jokingly) pointed out that with my luck, my baby would fall off the ship and I would never actually get to claim her. Luckily his prediction did not come to pass.
But the battle is not over yet- once a car reaches Dar it has to be maneuvered through the bureaucracy of the import paperwork and import duties. And it needs to do this fast enough so that parts don’t start to “fall off” the car. Luckily, none of my parts succumbed to the incredibly strong pull of gravity (helped along of course by screwdrivers and fingers). (Though I’m told that even if parts do fall off, there is usually little structural damage to the car since if the guy with all the keys gets a cut, there is no need to break windows.) I of course do not possess the requisite skills (aka the knowledge of who to bribe and how much to bribe) to speed the paperwork through the process, but I did have the brains to hire a skilled individual to do that for me.
So nearly 3 months to the day from when I paid for my baby I allowed to see her and drive her home. I’m still waiting on plates and the registration, but those should come any day now. And luckily, hopefully (since only time will tell) my baby is not a leemon.
The title of this past was going to be “how to purchase a car online from another continent and pray that it doesn’t fall off the ship on its way to Dar”, but I thought that would be too cumbersome. And it would give too much of this post away.
So the first option for buying a car is to buy one here in Dar (see previous post). The second option is to have a car imported. Cars drive on the left hand side of the road here (right-side driver) so there are a limited number of places from which one can import a car. Japan is the most common option. The process is to view cars on a website (e.g. http://www.japanesevehicles.com/tcl/en/stockList?region=Japan&type=8). You then email the company and tell them you’re interested in such-and-such vehicle and they quote you a higher price that includes freight and processing charges. You then have 48 hours to send them the entire sum of money, otherwise you loose your hold on the car. In my case, I sent them the entire sum of money in 48 hours and then received a polite email telling me that my car had already been sold.
Needless to say, that was not a happy moment. Not a happy moment at all. After a week of haggling, I found a new car that will henceforth be referred to as “my baby”. Now, keep in mind that all this occurred in March and that I had, in essence, purchased a car that I had never seen, never driven and had no information on past the type, year, color, transmission and engine specs. I had paid a rather substantial sum of money to own a car, in Japan. You get no paperwork, only an emailed version of the invoice saying that you own a car. Everyone assured me that was “how it was done”, but really, it was not the most reassuring feeling.
Then the waiting begins for a spot on a ship. So for two months my baby sat in Japan while I sat here. Then finally, you get a shipment date. The car is put on a ship and then, (finally!!), then you are sent the bill of sale and the paperwork saying that you actually own a car. My mean, evil roommate (jokingly) pointed out that with my luck, my baby would fall off the ship and I would never actually get to claim her. Luckily his prediction did not come to pass.
But the battle is not over yet- once a car reaches Dar it has to be maneuvered through the bureaucracy of the import paperwork and import duties. And it needs to do this fast enough so that parts don’t start to “fall off” the car. Luckily, none of my parts succumbed to the incredibly strong pull of gravity (helped along of course by screwdrivers and fingers). (Though I’m told that even if parts do fall off, there is usually little structural damage to the car since if the guy with all the keys gets a cut, there is no need to break windows.) I of course do not possess the requisite skills (aka the knowledge of who to bribe and how much to bribe) to speed the paperwork through the process, but I did have the brains to hire a skilled individual to do that for me.
So nearly 3 months to the day from when I paid for my baby I allowed to see her and drive her home. I’m still waiting on plates and the registration, but those should come any day now. And luckily, hopefully (since only time will tell) my baby is not a leemon.
04 July 2007
cars in Dar
Most people buy cars by wandering down to a dealer and either purchasing a bright, shiny, new one or looking at a used one. Of course if the car is used, you order a vehicle history report and find out all the sordid things the car did in its past. That’s not exactly how cars are bought and sold here.
There are two types of cars in Dar: old and really old. The “new” vs. “used” doesn’t really apply. Occasionally you see a new car, but chances are that is 1- the person who will be investigated next month for the purchase of some unnecessary radar system for the airport/port/local dala dala stand or 2- an embassy car. There just isn’t enough wealth here (and import taxes are 50% of the price of a car) for people to be able to afford new cars. Also since cars are truly luxury items there isn’t a large enough market to sustain numerous car dealerships.
There are a few dealerships in Dar- and when I say a few, I really do mean 3 or 4. And they each have a handful of cars (10-20) rather than the scores you would find on a typical American car lot. There is however a vibrant car market in dar- expats are constantly arriving and leaving so there is usually a handful of quality cars (mainly suvs) for sale at any moment. When you’re selling a car, you post an advertisement at the local supermarkets and if it’s priced reasonably it usually sells in a matter of weeks.
What I found fascinating was the years of the cars for sale here. Expats tend to own SUVs, which are more expensive but well worth the extra money seeing as a lot of the roads aren’t paved. (And getting stuck in mud up to your doors is not a fun experience in a city with two tow trucks.) Most of the smaller SUVs were models from the mid-90s. 95 and 96 were pretty common, with 97 being considered newer while 98 and more recent models are relatively rare. The model years of larger SUVs goes back even farther, with early to mid 90s being common. (There’s even one car from ‘81 on the market for sale, in shockingly good condition for a car that’s nearly as old as I am.)
When you see these cars and compare them to similarly aged vehicles in the US it’s pretty surprising. On the one hand, people don’t drive their cars long distances here, so two cars may be the same age, but the Dar version only has half the miles on it. The weather is also less brutal on a car here- there are no cold winters, no need for anti-freeze, no salt to corrode the undercarriage. (The opposite problem exists here- cars frequently overheat from the, shall we say, occasional heat.) Yet when something breaks here, the mechanic doesn’t open up a shiny new package with a new part and install it. Chances are you may be getting a part that is as old as you and your car combined. The other thing about Dar that wrecks havoc on cars is the roads- cars, even SUVs with high clearance, bottom out on some of the roads here- and it’s not simply a matter of avoiding the potholes. When a road is one big series of dirt potholes, there is no avoidance.
So sometimes when you buy a car that has braved life in Dar you get lucky. But unfortunately, sometimes that ’97 (that’s really a ’95) is a leemon.
There are two types of cars in Dar: old and really old. The “new” vs. “used” doesn’t really apply. Occasionally you see a new car, but chances are that is 1- the person who will be investigated next month for the purchase of some unnecessary radar system for the airport/port/local dala dala stand or 2- an embassy car. There just isn’t enough wealth here (and import taxes are 50% of the price of a car) for people to be able to afford new cars. Also since cars are truly luxury items there isn’t a large enough market to sustain numerous car dealerships.
There are a few dealerships in Dar- and when I say a few, I really do mean 3 or 4. And they each have a handful of cars (10-20) rather than the scores you would find on a typical American car lot. There is however a vibrant car market in dar- expats are constantly arriving and leaving so there is usually a handful of quality cars (mainly suvs) for sale at any moment. When you’re selling a car, you post an advertisement at the local supermarkets and if it’s priced reasonably it usually sells in a matter of weeks.
What I found fascinating was the years of the cars for sale here. Expats tend to own SUVs, which are more expensive but well worth the extra money seeing as a lot of the roads aren’t paved. (And getting stuck in mud up to your doors is not a fun experience in a city with two tow trucks.) Most of the smaller SUVs were models from the mid-90s. 95 and 96 were pretty common, with 97 being considered newer while 98 and more recent models are relatively rare. The model years of larger SUVs goes back even farther, with early to mid 90s being common. (There’s even one car from ‘81 on the market for sale, in shockingly good condition for a car that’s nearly as old as I am.)
When you see these cars and compare them to similarly aged vehicles in the US it’s pretty surprising. On the one hand, people don’t drive their cars long distances here, so two cars may be the same age, but the Dar version only has half the miles on it. The weather is also less brutal on a car here- there are no cold winters, no need for anti-freeze, no salt to corrode the undercarriage. (The opposite problem exists here- cars frequently overheat from the, shall we say, occasional heat.) Yet when something breaks here, the mechanic doesn’t open up a shiny new package with a new part and install it. Chances are you may be getting a part that is as old as you and your car combined. The other thing about Dar that wrecks havoc on cars is the roads- cars, even SUVs with high clearance, bottom out on some of the roads here- and it’s not simply a matter of avoiding the potholes. When a road is one big series of dirt potholes, there is no avoidance.
So sometimes when you buy a car that has braved life in Dar you get lucky. But unfortunately, sometimes that ’97 (that’s really a ’95) is a leemon.
28 June 2007
the anniversary of the day of your birth
In honor of Ms. Barca, today would be the perfect day to talk about birthdays in Tanzania, or the lack thereof.
Of course everyone has a birthday, for pretty obvious reasons. But historically birthdays are not celebrated here. It used to be that people wouldn’t know their birthday and some still don’t. Birth certificates are a relatively modern thing. If you think about it, if you’re born into a community, then you’re a part of that community and everyone knows that you’re a part of it. So in villages and rural areas, and even in the cities here, people are born into communities. So paper records aren’t needed since you’re known. One of coworkers said that he didn’t know his birthday until he was 10 since his dad forgot it and only his mom’s family remembered it. It is only the year that matters.
Since the day and the month aren’t crucial, no one celebrates the individual day of their birth. Everyone turns another year older on the first of the year. So if you’re born in January or in December of the same year, you’re the same age.
Which brings us to the translation of “happy birthday”. There isn’t an easy translation- the closest way would be to say “congratulations on the anniversary of the day or your birth”.
So Ms. Barca…
Hongera kwa siku ya kuzaliwa ya wewe, hongera kwa siku ya kuzaliwa ya wewe…
Hongera kwa siku ya kuzaliwa ya weeeeeeweeeeeee,
Hongera kwa siku ya kuzaliwa ya WEWE!
Of course everyone has a birthday, for pretty obvious reasons. But historically birthdays are not celebrated here. It used to be that people wouldn’t know their birthday and some still don’t. Birth certificates are a relatively modern thing. If you think about it, if you’re born into a community, then you’re a part of that community and everyone knows that you’re a part of it. So in villages and rural areas, and even in the cities here, people are born into communities. So paper records aren’t needed since you’re known. One of coworkers said that he didn’t know his birthday until he was 10 since his dad forgot it and only his mom’s family remembered it. It is only the year that matters.
Since the day and the month aren’t crucial, no one celebrates the individual day of their birth. Everyone turns another year older on the first of the year. So if you’re born in January or in December of the same year, you’re the same age.
Which brings us to the translation of “happy birthday”. There isn’t an easy translation- the closest way would be to say “congratulations on the anniversary of the day or your birth”.
So Ms. Barca…
Hongera kwa siku ya kuzaliwa ya wewe, hongera kwa siku ya kuzaliwa ya wewe…
Hongera kwa siku ya kuzaliwa ya weeeeeeweeeeeee,
Hongera kwa siku ya kuzaliwa ya WEWE!
01 June 2007
bertha and gimpy
Bertha and gimpy are my new friends. And when I say “friend”, I mean I-have-never-in-my-life-been-this-scared-of-anything-before. They are both spiders- the same type actually, but they live on different sides of the house. As you can tell by the pictures, neither would really be classified as a cute little spider like the late Gary or Water Jr. that lives by my desk. bertha and gimpy are the type of spider that hollywood would rent to put in movies and scare people. Gimpy is a good 5-6 inches (inches) long from scary leg to scary leg while bertha is slightly smaller at about 4.
Gimpy recently appeared on a car that’s resting outside our kitchen window. She rapidly wove a web that’s more like twine than what I would normally consider a spider-web. If you take the car out for a drive, she stays on the car and the web remains undamaged. A normal spider would die or fly off the web. Oh no, not gimpy- she’s very much alive at the end of the drive. (And she conveniently manages to catch a few tasty morsels in the process.)
Yes, for now I am going to call gimpy and bertha my friends in the hopes that one of them don’t decide to eat me. Or one of our guard dogs- if it came to that, I would sadly have to bet against that dogs. And hopefully gimpy is happy on the car. For as much as we don’t want her outside our kitchen window, the thought of having her wander around and us not know where she is… it’s too much like a bad horror movie.*********************
I wrote this post last week and started to post it, but the power went out and then I got too busy to post it. Since then… since then Bertha has disappeared. She’s no longer on her web against the garden wall. (The wall is actually white stucco, but the green is the mold growing on it.) Nor has she reappeared on the web, despite all my hopes.
So I did a quick search on the web trying to find this type of spider, so that I would know how long it would take her to wrap my body in twine (aka her ridiculously strong web) and eat me. Thankfully, bertha and gimpy aren’t poisonous. (Though the reliability of Wikipedia is doubtful.) But really, does anyone want to wake up to bertha crawling across their face?
(oh, and i'm guessing you can tell which pictures are of gimpy and which is bertha from the rather obvious naming...)
07 May 2007
that convenient dirt strip
Scene: The view from the front seat of my roommate’s car a few weekends back. You may wonder (keeping in mind that Tanzania drives on the left-hand side of the road) why there’s a dala dala (mini-bus) driving towards us on the left of our car. You may also wonder why it’s driving on what appears to be a dirt strip on the side of the road.
Scene: Same road, a few km up the road. You may wonder why in this case a dala dala is driving away from us on the dirt strip on the side of the road.
Scene: Close up of the dirt strip on the side of the road.
I think that I forgot to mention this is a national highway.
It is known as Bagamoyo Road, which is a major (actually the only) route up the north coast from Dar. It leads to Bagamoyo (clever naming, I know) then to Tanga, the second largest port in Tanzania. From Tanga it goes into Kenya to Mombasa, and from there continues up to coast to Somalia.
The scenes are meant to show you that driving rules don’t exactly apply in Dar. Driving on the strip of dirt on the opposite side of the road (quite conveniently placed if you ask me) seems to be acceptable if the strip of dirt on your side of the road is busy. The obvious question arises of what happens when people are driving towards each other in this spontaneously created lane. Luckily the cute little bumps- that are large enough to hide small families- keep traffic at a crawl, so accidents aren’t the main issue. The real fun arises when you ask: what happens when the vehicles come head-to-head with no way to continue going forward?
Traffic jam is the easy answer. Hysterical confusion is the more appropriate answer. What usually happens is the person going against traffic has to drive across the lane of opposing traffic and back into their original lane. Now, you can imagine that no one likes to let a vehicle in, especially one that’s been taking short-cuts while everyone else is stuck in traffic. So no one lets the person in, and traffic ‘pauses’ for a second.
Usually Tanzanians are the most laid-back and calm people on earth, but when you put them behind the wheel and throw dala dalas into the mix, the street becomes worse than midtown manhattan in rush hour. They take every inch they can get and have no qualms about cutting around someone. So after an initial pause while everyone surveys the scene, traffic suddenly becomes a circular maze with people driving on the right and left of each other and people cutting off the people that are cutting off the people that are not letting the dala dala back in. It’s enough to make a manhattan taxi driver jealous.
26 April 2007
dirty money and money laundering
Before I headed to San Francisco a few weeks ago I realized that I needed to pull out my old familiar greenbacks. (The trip, by the way, was more than worth the 30 hours there and 36 hours back of flying. I would do it again in a heartbeat. I only wish that I could have been there longer and gotten to see more people- and a public apology to all those that I didn’t get to see.) Tanzanian shillings, though they are colorful with cute and cuddly animals, aren’t exactly useful in the states. (The largest bill here is the pinkish 10,000 note, which is worth about $8.)
So I went into my bags and grabbed my foreign currency. I started to count out a few bills when I realized that there was suddenly a horrible stench in my room. I looked around my room and outside the windows, wondering where this putrid smell had come from… only to realize that it was coming from the bills in my hand. All of my money was moldy- it literally had mold growing on it. I could barely separate some of the bills because they were so damp and stuck together.
Ahh… mold. It’s everywhere here. Everywhere. It grows on the outside walls, it grows on inside walls, it grows on suitcases and bags, it grows on money. I once left a half-full jar of spaghetti sauce in the fridge and in a week it was covered in mold, and not little white and green spots of mold- every free surface was covered. (Which usually takes at least a few weeks in the states- maybe months to grow as much as there was in this jar.) Basically anywhere there’s humidity (which here is anywhere there’s air) and a lack of ventilation/circulation, there’s going to be mold.
On the bright side, I learned a lesson of always leaving my fan on and my windows open. And the green and brown mold growing on the white walls outside actually makes them look pretty cool. I like to think that it gives them color and texture. (But if it appears on the walls of my room I’m sure that I’ll feel a little differently.)
But to conclude the story of the dirty money, I decided to leave almost all of the moldy bills here since I was too embarrassed to take them to the states. So today I washed them and dried them on my bed, under my fan. Who would have thought that I would have starting laundering money in Africa?
So I went into my bags and grabbed my foreign currency. I started to count out a few bills when I realized that there was suddenly a horrible stench in my room. I looked around my room and outside the windows, wondering where this putrid smell had come from… only to realize that it was coming from the bills in my hand. All of my money was moldy- it literally had mold growing on it. I could barely separate some of the bills because they were so damp and stuck together.
Ahh… mold. It’s everywhere here. Everywhere. It grows on the outside walls, it grows on inside walls, it grows on suitcases and bags, it grows on money. I once left a half-full jar of spaghetti sauce in the fridge and in a week it was covered in mold, and not little white and green spots of mold- every free surface was covered. (Which usually takes at least a few weeks in the states- maybe months to grow as much as there was in this jar.) Basically anywhere there’s humidity (which here is anywhere there’s air) and a lack of ventilation/circulation, there’s going to be mold.
On the bright side, I learned a lesson of always leaving my fan on and my windows open. And the green and brown mold growing on the white walls outside actually makes them look pretty cool. I like to think that it gives them color and texture. (But if it appears on the walls of my room I’m sure that I’ll feel a little differently.)
But to conclude the story of the dirty money, I decided to leave almost all of the moldy bills here since I was too embarrassed to take them to the states. So today I washed them and dried them on my bed, under my fan. Who would have thought that I would have starting laundering money in Africa?
21 March 2007
he’ll come back when he realizes you’re an idiot
Khangas are a staple of every woman’s wardrobe and life here. A khanga comes as two identical pieces of fabric, both about a meter square that are large enough to wrap around the body. Despite the popular misconception, khangas are not worn as a garment. They are worn over one’s clothing, a baby is placed in a khanga and strapped to the back, or they are wrapped around the head to protect oneself from the sun… they’re incredibly versatile and useful. The only time they’re worn alone is maybe when a woman is doing housework.
Khangas are soft cotton with very colorful prints and patterns. They have a border around the edge of the fabric, and on one side of the border there is always a saying- the khanga’s ‘jina’, which is the Kiswahili word for ‘name’. This is the part that I love about khangas, the jina. I assumed that the words were just meaningless words, or common sayings. No, not here in the land of passive-aggressiveness. Jinas are saying that are both nice and mean, take a few here:
-Second wife- forget it!!
-Let this wedding day be the happiest.
-He likes my full-food better than your half-food.
-Remain safe and happy.
-Friendship will last an eternity.
-I thought you were my friend, but you are my cowife.
-The true measure of a wife is her character.
-A house without a mother-in-law is a happy home.
Frequently khangas are given as gifts, either to good friends, as wedding gifts, or by a husband to his wife. So there are sayings of prosperity (especially for weddings) and saying of love. Friends may also give half a khanga as a gift, with a saying of friendship, so that you can wear matching khangas. (A twist on that old “be fri” and “st ends” pendant idea.) During elections, many women choose to wear khangas showing their political affiliation.
But the best are the khangas that women buy for themselves… they are chosen and worn to express a thought or feeling. If your friend is sleeping with your husband, you buy the one that says “I thought you were my friend, but you are my cowife”. If your husband is considering taking a second wife (which is legal in Tanzania), you buy the khanga “Second wife- forget it!!” to give him a not-so-subtle hint. If you don’t really like your mother-in-law, you buy the “a house without a mother-in-law is a happy home” and wear it, but not when she’s around.
My favorites are the khangas young women wear when fighting over guys. “He likes my full-food better than your half-food”, “don’t compete, you can never beat me”, “when you taste pineapple, you won’t go back to anything else”. And my favorite that I’ve seen is “he’ll come back when he realizes you’re an idiot”.
Khangas are soft cotton with very colorful prints and patterns. They have a border around the edge of the fabric, and on one side of the border there is always a saying- the khanga’s ‘jina’, which is the Kiswahili word for ‘name’. This is the part that I love about khangas, the jina. I assumed that the words were just meaningless words, or common sayings. No, not here in the land of passive-aggressiveness. Jinas are saying that are both nice and mean, take a few here:
-Second wife- forget it!!
-Let this wedding day be the happiest.
-He likes my full-food better than your half-food.
-Remain safe and happy.
-Friendship will last an eternity.
-I thought you were my friend, but you are my cowife.
-The true measure of a wife is her character.
-A house without a mother-in-law is a happy home.
Frequently khangas are given as gifts, either to good friends, as wedding gifts, or by a husband to his wife. So there are sayings of prosperity (especially for weddings) and saying of love. Friends may also give half a khanga as a gift, with a saying of friendship, so that you can wear matching khangas. (A twist on that old “be fri” and “st ends” pendant idea.) During elections, many women choose to wear khangas showing their political affiliation.
But the best are the khangas that women buy for themselves… they are chosen and worn to express a thought or feeling. If your friend is sleeping with your husband, you buy the one that says “I thought you were my friend, but you are my cowife”. If your husband is considering taking a second wife (which is legal in Tanzania), you buy the khanga “Second wife- forget it!!” to give him a not-so-subtle hint. If you don’t really like your mother-in-law, you buy the “a house without a mother-in-law is a happy home” and wear it, but not when she’s around.
My favorites are the khangas young women wear when fighting over guys. “He likes my full-food better than your half-food”, “don’t compete, you can never beat me”, “when you taste pineapple, you won’t go back to anything else”. And my favorite that I’ve seen is “he’ll come back when he realizes you’re an idiot”.
20 March 2007
being grateful for the small things
You may have heard me mention that there are a million bugs in the house. Millions.
A few weeks ago we decided to fix the bug problem. Ha ha ha. I learned, yet again, that here things never really seem to work how you intend. But I digress…
We hired an exterminator to come and spray every nook and cranny in the house. We knew that the bugs would find their way back into the house, but we assumed that we would have at least a short time without bugs, and then when they returned we may be able to kill them as they entered. Ideally, we were going to have fewer bugs. And we were all so excited about it.
Well, the exterminators came and they did in fact spray everywhere. And bugs died. It was a happy moment. But the joy was short-lived. Unfortunately, it was the weak and infirm bugs that died. Some of the spiders and geckos also didn’t fare so well, so sadly I had to bid adieu to some of my first friends here. But the mutant bugs didn’t seem to die. And they have since multiplied profusely. So now we not only have more bugs than before, we managed to kill off all the weak and slow bugs and we are left with the mutant bugs that laugh at us.
Which brings me back to the ants in the house. There are basically 3 types/sizes; the nice ones being the large black ants (similar to those found in sf), then there are the two smaller types, both of which fall into the pyscho mutant category.
Prior to our extermination attempt the ants would crawl on the table, on your food and even climb into your drink. But they would never crawl on you. Now, when you feel something crawling on your arm or your leg or even on your face… in the states you would just think it’s the wind or a stray hair. But not here; here the sensation of something crawling on you is due to the fact that there is something crawling on you. Our attempt to exterminate the bugs seems to have angered the ants and brought out their mutant side. These mutant ants have no fear.
My roommate and I were laughing the other day since she was telling me her boyfriend’s apartment doesn’t have the small ants, only the larger black variety, and that in his apartment it is the large ants that crawl on you. I said that we were lucky only our small ants were mutant. She agreed that we were lucky. Then we looked at each other and realized that we had just said we were grateful that only small ants crawl on us.
It’s important to be grateful for the small things in life.
Yes, I live in Africa now.
A few weeks ago we decided to fix the bug problem. Ha ha ha. I learned, yet again, that here things never really seem to work how you intend. But I digress…
We hired an exterminator to come and spray every nook and cranny in the house. We knew that the bugs would find their way back into the house, but we assumed that we would have at least a short time without bugs, and then when they returned we may be able to kill them as they entered. Ideally, we were going to have fewer bugs. And we were all so excited about it.
Well, the exterminators came and they did in fact spray everywhere. And bugs died. It was a happy moment. But the joy was short-lived. Unfortunately, it was the weak and infirm bugs that died. Some of the spiders and geckos also didn’t fare so well, so sadly I had to bid adieu to some of my first friends here. But the mutant bugs didn’t seem to die. And they have since multiplied profusely. So now we not only have more bugs than before, we managed to kill off all the weak and slow bugs and we are left with the mutant bugs that laugh at us.
Which brings me back to the ants in the house. There are basically 3 types/sizes; the nice ones being the large black ants (similar to those found in sf), then there are the two smaller types, both of which fall into the pyscho mutant category.
Prior to our extermination attempt the ants would crawl on the table, on your food and even climb into your drink. But they would never crawl on you. Now, when you feel something crawling on your arm or your leg or even on your face… in the states you would just think it’s the wind or a stray hair. But not here; here the sensation of something crawling on you is due to the fact that there is something crawling on you. Our attempt to exterminate the bugs seems to have angered the ants and brought out their mutant side. These mutant ants have no fear.
My roommate and I were laughing the other day since she was telling me her boyfriend’s apartment doesn’t have the small ants, only the larger black variety, and that in his apartment it is the large ants that crawl on you. I said that we were lucky only our small ants were mutant. She agreed that we were lucky. Then we looked at each other and realized that we had just said we were grateful that only small ants crawl on us.
It’s important to be grateful for the small things in life.
Yes, I live in Africa now.
19 March 2007
dual apologies
I owe two apologies today. The first is to you all for the fact that I haven’t posted a new entry in a few weeks. It’s been a busy few weeks and my study finally started last Tuesday, so I didn’t have time to focus on anything else. But I can promise at least a few new posts this coming week.
The second apology is to the brilliant engineer/architect that designed our office. I may have mentioned the water spouts that are aligned perfectly to funnel water directly in front of the main door to the building. Apparently that was in fact on purpose. The office was originally built as a house- a rather odd house I have to say- but it was originally a residence for a large Muslim Indian family. And in talking with a co-worker I discovered that the owner has an identical house on Zanzibar, with identical water spouts. We joked about the positioning of the water drains and he explained to me that despite the impractically of the water drains, they are considered auspicious. He wasn’t completely certain as to the reason since it’s not a custom in his region of India, but he thinks that it is meant to signify cleansing. Therefore I humbly apologize to the architect/engineer.
The second apology is to the brilliant engineer/architect that designed our office. I may have mentioned the water spouts that are aligned perfectly to funnel water directly in front of the main door to the building. Apparently that was in fact on purpose. The office was originally built as a house- a rather odd house I have to say- but it was originally a residence for a large Muslim Indian family. And in talking with a co-worker I discovered that the owner has an identical house on Zanzibar, with identical water spouts. We joked about the positioning of the water drains and he explained to me that despite the impractically of the water drains, they are considered auspicious. He wasn’t completely certain as to the reason since it’s not a custom in his region of India, but he thinks that it is meant to signify cleansing. Therefore I humbly apologize to the architect/engineer.
01 March 2007
drunk and married
Well, I am officially a permanent resident of Tanzania. And it only took 5 weeks and a little grease to process my application- close to a record I think.
On a lighter note, I found out today in my kiswahili class that 'lewa' means 'drunk' while 'olewa' is the verb to marry. Coincidence? I think not...
On a lighter note, I found out today in my kiswahili class that 'lewa' means 'drunk' while 'olewa' is the verb to marry. Coincidence? I think not...
27 February 2007
stunning
I can’t fully describe the stunning scene Saturday night at Mikume National Park, but I’ll try my best…
Imagine a savannah. Imagine knee to waist-high green and golden grasses with acacia and baobab trees dotting the landscape. Add giraffe, zebra, impala, eland, buffalo, wildebeest, elephants, baboons and more birds than I can name. Imagine the savannah stretching flat for miles with mountains in the distance. Now imagine dusk.
As the sun sets, the rays of light turn the greens in the landscape into vibrant greens and the golden grass a light pink hue. The colors of the animals also come alive- the stripes of the zebra become bolder and the three tones of the impala become more distinct.
Then the light starts to dim and the colors fade to black. The clouds start to roll in- high level clouds that don’t obscure the landscape or the mountains.
In the distance, suddenly there is a flash of light and a cloud lights up. Just for a second, the silhouettes of the trees and animals on the savannah reappear. A lightening storm is rolling in. No thunder, no rain, just flashes of light.
The lightening storm starts slowly. There are sporadic flashes of light in the distance that light up the clouds. Then it starts to gain momentum. The flashes light whole sections of the sky and there are moments when it is as bright as full daylight and you can see the eyes of the animals as you drive out of the park. Then as fast as it becomes light everything returns to pitch black. The lightening storm draws nearer. Suddenly in the distance there is a streak of lightening that reaches the earth. And then another. The streaks of light crackle and light up the savannah, revealing the mountains in the distance.
And then without a sound, the rain starts. Not a light rain, but large drops that race to the earth, saturating everything in seconds. But still no thunder. Suddenly with the rain the distance is obscured so the streaks of lightening return to being flashes of light that light up the clouds.
And then you arrive at the hotel/motel for the night and watch the Ireland-England rugby match on TV. There is no power, but somehow they decide that the TV is important enough to warrant the use of the generator.
And why were we in the park after dark? Because the other car- full of brilliant people- decided to drive around the logs across the road (you know, the universal sign for road closed), got stuck in the mud (the reason for the closed road), and we had to find them, get them a park ranger and help get them out of the mud. So we were in the park long after everyone else had to leave.
Yes, seeing the animals was amazing. There is something about giraffe that will never bore me. They are so graceful and watching them run feels like you are watching them in slow motion. Watching a mother elephant shield and protect her baby while crossing the road is heartwarming. But the lightening show- better than every fireworks display I’ve ever seen combined- was really the highlight of the weekend.
23 February 2007
best excuse for missing a meeting
I learned how to tell time this morning in my Kiswahili lesson, which nearly had me laughing hysterically for a few minutes. Here’s how my teacher explained it to me:
In Kiswahili time, 4 o’clock is 10 o’clock.
2 o’clock is 8 o’clock.
10 o’clock is 4 o’clock.
11:30 is 5:30.
Getting the picture? If the time is between 12:01 (0:01 in 24-hour clock) and 6, you add 6 hours and if it’s between 6:01 and 12, you subtract 6 hours. The convention is that if you’re speaking in English, you use western time and if you’re speaking in Kiswahili you use Kiswahili time. But if you didn’t know this convention, this would be how a (literally translated) conversation would sound…
Me: The meeting is at 10 o’clock?
Njiro: Ndiyo, saakumi. [Yes, 4 o’clock.]
Me: Okay, see you at 10.
Njiro: Sawa, nitakuona saakumi. [Yep, see you at 4.]
So yep, time is six hours off.
Granted, there is a very logical reason for this odd and confusing methodology for time. The beginning of the day here starts when the sun rises, as opposed to western time where the beginning of the day is the middle of the night (midnight). So sunrise is 0 and an hour after sunrise is 1. Since the sun rises at 6, that produces the weird result of adding and subtracting 6 hours from the time. (So an hour after sunrise is 1 o’clock here, which is 7 in western time.)
However, this morning my teacher didn’t actually explain the logic behind this weird time system, she just kept quizzing me on how to say half-past five and quarter of nine and seeing if I could add and subtract in Kiswahili. I didn’t find out the reason for the adding and subtracting until I got to work and asked one of my coworkers.
Though all this is essentially a mute point since time isn’t exactly followed to the letter here- punctuality is definitely not a trait on this continent. (I can only imagine the heart failure that Swiss nationals must have everyday here.) If the meeting starts at 4 (saakumi), it’s perfectly acceptable to show up at 4:45 (saakumi na moja kasorobo), and then act surprised that the meeting has already started.
So next time you want to skip that 9 o’clock meeting, try explaining that you thought the meeting was 3 o’clock because you thought the office had switched to Tanzanian time for the day, and that may get you out of having missed it. (Or it may get you fired, in which case you can come visit me, and if you bring me chocolate chips I’ll let you stay with me and you can meet all the bugs in my house.)
In Kiswahili time, 4 o’clock is 10 o’clock.
2 o’clock is 8 o’clock.
10 o’clock is 4 o’clock.
11:30 is 5:30.
Getting the picture? If the time is between 12:01 (0:01 in 24-hour clock) and 6, you add 6 hours and if it’s between 6:01 and 12, you subtract 6 hours. The convention is that if you’re speaking in English, you use western time and if you’re speaking in Kiswahili you use Kiswahili time. But if you didn’t know this convention, this would be how a (literally translated) conversation would sound…
Me: The meeting is at 10 o’clock?
Njiro: Ndiyo, saakumi. [Yes, 4 o’clock.]
Me: Okay, see you at 10.
Njiro: Sawa, nitakuona saakumi. [Yep, see you at 4.]
So yep, time is six hours off.
Granted, there is a very logical reason for this odd and confusing methodology for time. The beginning of the day here starts when the sun rises, as opposed to western time where the beginning of the day is the middle of the night (midnight). So sunrise is 0 and an hour after sunrise is 1. Since the sun rises at 6, that produces the weird result of adding and subtracting 6 hours from the time. (So an hour after sunrise is 1 o’clock here, which is 7 in western time.)
However, this morning my teacher didn’t actually explain the logic behind this weird time system, she just kept quizzing me on how to say half-past five and quarter of nine and seeing if I could add and subtract in Kiswahili. I didn’t find out the reason for the adding and subtracting until I got to work and asked one of my coworkers.
Though all this is essentially a mute point since time isn’t exactly followed to the letter here- punctuality is definitely not a trait on this continent. (I can only imagine the heart failure that Swiss nationals must have everyday here.) If the meeting starts at 4 (saakumi), it’s perfectly acceptable to show up at 4:45 (saakumi na moja kasorobo), and then act surprised that the meeting has already started.
So next time you want to skip that 9 o’clock meeting, try explaining that you thought the meeting was 3 o’clock because you thought the office had switched to Tanzanian time for the day, and that may get you out of having missed it. (Or it may get you fired, in which case you can come visit me, and if you bring me chocolate chips I’ll let you stay with me and you can meet all the bugs in my house.)
20 February 2007
Cruel, cruel joke
There are evil people in the world. Evil, cruel, heartless people.
I went to a new grocery store and while walking down one of the aisles, I saw a bag of Chips Ahoy. Yes, Chips Ahoy. I stopped in my tracks and couldn’t believe it- here in front of me was a bag of chocolate chip cookies (many bags actually). I glanced to my left and right and wondered why the other shoppers in the store weren’t running for this aisle and fighting over the cookies. I felt like I had found the holy grail.
I very calmly took a bag from the shelf, put it in my basket, paid for my purchases, went to my waiting taxi and rode home. (And yes, I left the store as soon as I had the cookies, because really, what else do you need to eat other than chocolate chip cookies?) Like a kid waiting for Christmas morning, the taxi ride took an eternity. (I thought the taxi driver may find it a little offensive if I ripped opened the bag and proceeded to stuff my face with cookies while in his car.)
Upon walking into the house, I took my first bite of a chocolate chip cookie in 6 weeks. It was heavenly. It was glorious. It was wonderful.
So I had another bite, only to realize that it really tasted nothing like a chocolate chip cookie should. The rest of the cookie and two subsequent cookies confirmed the fact that it really wasn’t a chocolate chip cookie.
But how could this be? The bag says Chips Ahoy and they really are made my Nabisco. But upon closer inspection, I discovered that they’re made in South Africa. And the bag says “chocolate flavoured chip cookies”.
Chocolate flavoured chip cookies?????
Somewhere, someone very, very evil is laughing hysterically knowing that he/she played a very cruel joke on a poor, cookie-loving girl. (Johnnnnnny…?) Discovering that there are in fact no chocolate chip cookies in Dar was like discovering that there really is no jolly guy in red that delivers packages.
Heartbreaking
Absolutely heartbreaking
I went to a new grocery store and while walking down one of the aisles, I saw a bag of Chips Ahoy. Yes, Chips Ahoy. I stopped in my tracks and couldn’t believe it- here in front of me was a bag of chocolate chip cookies (many bags actually). I glanced to my left and right and wondered why the other shoppers in the store weren’t running for this aisle and fighting over the cookies. I felt like I had found the holy grail.
I very calmly took a bag from the shelf, put it in my basket, paid for my purchases, went to my waiting taxi and rode home. (And yes, I left the store as soon as I had the cookies, because really, what else do you need to eat other than chocolate chip cookies?) Like a kid waiting for Christmas morning, the taxi ride took an eternity. (I thought the taxi driver may find it a little offensive if I ripped opened the bag and proceeded to stuff my face with cookies while in his car.)
Upon walking into the house, I took my first bite of a chocolate chip cookie in 6 weeks. It was heavenly. It was glorious. It was wonderful.
So I had another bite, only to realize that it really tasted nothing like a chocolate chip cookie should. The rest of the cookie and two subsequent cookies confirmed the fact that it really wasn’t a chocolate chip cookie.
But how could this be? The bag says Chips Ahoy and they really are made my Nabisco. But upon closer inspection, I discovered that they’re made in South Africa. And the bag says “chocolate flavoured chip cookies”.
Chocolate flavoured chip cookies?????
Somewhere, someone very, very evil is laughing hysterically knowing that he/she played a very cruel joke on a poor, cookie-loving girl. (Johnnnnnny…?) Discovering that there are in fact no chocolate chip cookies in Dar was like discovering that there really is no jolly guy in red that delivers packages.
Heartbreaking
Absolutely heartbreaking
19 February 2007
Tennis in Dar
Yesterday some of my roommates and I went to play tennis. Finally, something completely “normal” for me to do, or so I thought. (Even though seeing camels on beautiful beaches, wandering through exotic bazaars and watching stunning sunsets is really starting to seem normal.)
There are in fact tennis courts in Dar, and our guess is that they’re basically the only courts in Tanzania. Sure, some of the nice hotels probably have courts somewhere, but these are the only ones where we can play. Football, not tennis, is the dominant sport here. The complex (which is clearly visible on google earth and not far from where we live) has 15 courts in various states of repair. (You’ll notice on the Google Earth image that the courts are different colors- and that’s not due to them being different surfaces.) It costs about $4 entrance to the courts (I’m told there’s also a gym there), 80 cents per hour to rent a court, and about 80 cents per hour to hire a ball-boy. So it’s a pretty good deal. And yes, you read that correctly, you also get a (non-optional) ball-boy.
Playing in beautiful San Francisco involved fog rolling in over the courts, cool breezes, and pretty courts. Playing in Dar involves not stepping on the crickets that hop onto the court, grass growing out of the cracks on the court and sun/heat. So basically, exactly the same. The great part about playing in Dar is that 1- you can blame things on the cracks in the court, and 2- lessons only cost about $5 per hour. (So maybe I’ll finally learn how to serve well!) Plus in Dar, you get a wicked tan (or heat stroke, depending on how you look at it) and you never have to run after a ball.
So in sum:
-An hour of tennis… $5.60 per person
-Getting racket restrung after a string broke… $8
-Not having to run after miss-hit balls… priceless
-Watching one of your roommates swing and miss, then spin around in a circle from the force of her swing… priceless
-Watching the ball-boy try to contain his laughter while watching you and acrobatic roommate play … completely priceless
(Though in my roommate’s defense, which was NOT me, the ball completely changed direction after hitting a crack in the court.)
There are in fact tennis courts in Dar, and our guess is that they’re basically the only courts in Tanzania. Sure, some of the nice hotels probably have courts somewhere, but these are the only ones where we can play. Football, not tennis, is the dominant sport here. The complex (which is clearly visible on google earth and not far from where we live) has 15 courts in various states of repair. (You’ll notice on the Google Earth image that the courts are different colors- and that’s not due to them being different surfaces.) It costs about $4 entrance to the courts (I’m told there’s also a gym there), 80 cents per hour to rent a court, and about 80 cents per hour to hire a ball-boy. So it’s a pretty good deal. And yes, you read that correctly, you also get a (non-optional) ball-boy.
Playing in beautiful San Francisco involved fog rolling in over the courts, cool breezes, and pretty courts. Playing in Dar involves not stepping on the crickets that hop onto the court, grass growing out of the cracks on the court and sun/heat. So basically, exactly the same. The great part about playing in Dar is that 1- you can blame things on the cracks in the court, and 2- lessons only cost about $5 per hour. (So maybe I’ll finally learn how to serve well!) Plus in Dar, you get a wicked tan (or heat stroke, depending on how you look at it) and you never have to run after a ball.
So in sum:
-An hour of tennis… $5.60 per person
-Getting racket restrung after a string broke… $8
-Not having to run after miss-hit balls… priceless
-Watching one of your roommates swing and miss, then spin around in a circle from the force of her swing… priceless
-Watching the ball-boy try to contain his laughter while watching you and acrobatic roommate play … completely priceless
(Though in my roommate’s defense, which was NOT me, the ball completely changed direction after hitting a crack in the court.)
14 February 2007
Password-22
Here’s the “I clearly live in Africa” story for the day.
I need to call one of our other offices, which I do frequently. The way the phone systems are set up here (pretty much for all Tanzanian offices) is a little different than in the states due to the lack of physical phone lines from the phone company. So the idea of a “direct line” into or out of someone’s office is non-existent. So in order to make calls here you have to dial the receptionist, who in turns dials out and then your phone rings a short time later and your call has been connected. At least, that’s how it worked yesterday.
But today is a different story. Today you need a password to dial out. Now this isn’t an individual password (it isn’t that we each have a code so they can track individual calls), this is a password for the entire building. And no one knows what the password is. Therefore no one can dial out.
How on earth could we have a password that no one knows? Very good question.
Truth be told, there is someone who knows the password. But in classic Catch-22 style, they aren’t in this building. So in order to get the password we need to dial out and in order to dial out we need the password.
As many of you know, I have the world’s greatest cell phone here in Tanzania. So I could just take initiative and call this person on the phone and get the password. You would think! But alas, no one seems to have the number...
I need to call one of our other offices, which I do frequently. The way the phone systems are set up here (pretty much for all Tanzanian offices) is a little different than in the states due to the lack of physical phone lines from the phone company. So the idea of a “direct line” into or out of someone’s office is non-existent. So in order to make calls here you have to dial the receptionist, who in turns dials out and then your phone rings a short time later and your call has been connected. At least, that’s how it worked yesterday.
But today is a different story. Today you need a password to dial out. Now this isn’t an individual password (it isn’t that we each have a code so they can track individual calls), this is a password for the entire building. And no one knows what the password is. Therefore no one can dial out.
How on earth could we have a password that no one knows? Very good question.
Truth be told, there is someone who knows the password. But in classic Catch-22 style, they aren’t in this building. So in order to get the password we need to dial out and in order to dial out we need the password.
As many of you know, I have the world’s greatest cell phone here in Tanzania. So I could just take initiative and call this person on the phone and get the password. You would think! But alas, no one seems to have the number...
13 February 2007
Zanzibar heat
I don't have time to write a proper story about my trip to Zanzibar this past weekend, but suffice it to say that it was: 1-amazing, 2-hot, 3-gorgeous, 4-wonderful, 5-hot and 6-incredible. I've posted a few pictures- the link is on the right.
The one advantage to the extreme heat is that Dar now feels almost cool. Almost.
And in response to the questions, the pb cookies tasted surprisingly like they're meant to. And rumor has it that there is a store that sells brown sugar in Dar, so there's hope yet for the chocolate chip cookies. (Though the key ingredient, the choc chips, is still questionable.)
The one advantage to the extreme heat is that Dar now feels almost cool. Almost.
And in response to the questions, the pb cookies tasted surprisingly like they're meant to. And rumor has it that there is a store that sells brown sugar in Dar, so there's hope yet for the chocolate chip cookies. (Though the key ingredient, the choc chips, is still questionable.)
05 February 2007
4 weeks... and the hottest day yet
Tonight is my four week anniversary here. Though honestly, it feels like I've been here a lot longer than that. I don't mean that in a good or bad way, it's just odd to think that I've only been here 4 weeks.
In honor of the anniversary, I'm going to try to bake peanut butter cookies. (I would have tried for chocolate chip, but alas, there are no chocolate chips for baking to be found in Dar.) And even the peanut butter cookies may be (very) questionable since I don't have any brown sugar, nor do I have a mixer. So I imagine that it's really going to be the thought that counts.
Also in honor of my four week annivesary, the weather gods decided to make today the hottest day here. Oh, it was pretty bad. Thankfully it's now back to being bearable (aka, hot but i don't want to kill anyone). But it's still pretty warm.
Two corrections on previous posts: the spelling of Kipapeo is really Kipepeo, which means butterfly in Kiswahili. And the corn-meal food eaten here is called ugali, not upagi.
In honor of the anniversary, I'm going to try to bake peanut butter cookies. (I would have tried for chocolate chip, but alas, there are no chocolate chips for baking to be found in Dar.) And even the peanut butter cookies may be (very) questionable since I don't have any brown sugar, nor do I have a mixer. So I imagine that it's really going to be the thought that counts.
Also in honor of my four week annivesary, the weather gods decided to make today the hottest day here. Oh, it was pretty bad. Thankfully it's now back to being bearable (aka, hot but i don't want to kill anyone). But it's still pretty warm.
Two corrections on previous posts: the spelling of Kipapeo is really Kipepeo, which means butterfly in Kiswahili. And the corn-meal food eaten here is called ugali, not upagi.
01 February 2007
the brilliant architect/engineer
A funny thing happened when I got to work today. I rained early this morning, which I will write about in another post. By the time I got to the office it had stopped raining and the large potholes were mini lakes, which conveniently double as malaria-breeding pools. When I got to the office today I noticed that there was a heavy stream of water coming from the upper floors and landing right in front of the front door. Needless to say, I was a little confused as to why it was still raining only in front of the door. Any thoughts why?
Well, there was a really brilliant architect/engineer for the building. He was smart enough to put in drain pipes to drain water from the decks on the upper floors (there are tons of decks in this building). Unfortunately for him, he was not quite bright enough to place them somewhere where they didn’t let out on someone’s head. Seriously, the drain pipes all empty out above the front door. So when it rains, all the water gets channeled to come down in front of the front door. And for some reason the downpour continues for a few hours after the rain stops. How hysterical is that?
I did actually entertain the thought that the engineer had a really evil sense of humor and that his error wasn’t really an error. But working in this building and seeing the rest of his work… let’s just say it’s pretty obvious his sense of humor was not the reason for the strategically placed drain spouts.
I think he got his degree from Hopkins.
Well, there was a really brilliant architect/engineer for the building. He was smart enough to put in drain pipes to drain water from the decks on the upper floors (there are tons of decks in this building). Unfortunately for him, he was not quite bright enough to place them somewhere where they didn’t let out on someone’s head. Seriously, the drain pipes all empty out above the front door. So when it rains, all the water gets channeled to come down in front of the front door. And for some reason the downpour continues for a few hours after the rain stops. How hysterical is that?
I did actually entertain the thought that the engineer had a really evil sense of humor and that his error wasn’t really an error. But working in this building and seeing the rest of his work… let’s just say it’s pretty obvious his sense of humor was not the reason for the strategically placed drain spouts.
I think he got his degree from Hopkins.
25 January 2007
the little generator that could… and then couldn’t
The dilemma at the house isn’t so much the lack of power, it’s the lack of power for extended periods of time. (see previous post for background info) 12 hours without power a day are manageable, problems arise when the power is out for longer than 12 or so hours. Last night it was 24 hours, which started to be a problem.
Why you ask? One main reason: water. Water gets into our house by pump. There are two water tanks on the top of the house that store water. As you may have guessed by now, the pumps need electricity. When the electricity is out it’s still possible to take a shower, but water pressure is based purely on gravity. So even though my hair is 12 inches shorter than the last time anyone saw me, it still took forever to get the shampoo out of my hair. (Think trickles of water coming out of the showerhead.) So am I really complaining about a little water pressure?
No, the real problem is what happens when the tanks no longer have water in them. (Obviously, they’re empty.) And with no electricity to refill the tanks, the bad water pressure seems pretty appealing. They think (key here is that no one really knows) that the tanks would normally last about two days, but we have twice the amount of people that normally stay in the house right now. So that means one day or so of water.
Enter the little generator that couldn’t. (I probably shouldn’t be making fun of it since we need it again tonight.) So last night there was a rather hysterical scene involving two generators, 4 guys, me (holding the flashlight), a cut-up water bottle (make-shift funnel), a few liters of petrol, and lots of electrical cords. The big generator didn’t work, so after a significant amount of spilled petrol, we tried the little generator. After lots of horrible noises, a few things flying out of it (I’m referring to bugs) and some great-smelling smoke, it turned on.
What does our little generator sound or look like? Take apart your lawnmower. That’s exactly what it is as far as I can tell. There just aren’t wheels or sharp blades. It sounds exactly like a lawnmower too- ridiculously loud and noisy.
So for too brief a time we had partial electricity in the house- fans only. And we supposedly filled the water tanks up, at least partially. Then the little generator that could became the little generator that couldn’t. (And no, it was not as simple as us running out of petrol.)
So the question is... what happens when I leave the office in a few minutes and head home. Will the bureaucrat in the office have ordered our transformer part in time for it to have arrived and been installed by today? I’m thinking… doubtful.
And more importantly, since we all took ‘showers’ this morning and the tank was only partially filled… well, add that idea to the no fans, and I’m sure we’re all going to smell great at work tomorrow.
Why you ask? One main reason: water. Water gets into our house by pump. There are two water tanks on the top of the house that store water. As you may have guessed by now, the pumps need electricity. When the electricity is out it’s still possible to take a shower, but water pressure is based purely on gravity. So even though my hair is 12 inches shorter than the last time anyone saw me, it still took forever to get the shampoo out of my hair. (Think trickles of water coming out of the showerhead.) So am I really complaining about a little water pressure?
No, the real problem is what happens when the tanks no longer have water in them. (Obviously, they’re empty.) And with no electricity to refill the tanks, the bad water pressure seems pretty appealing. They think (key here is that no one really knows) that the tanks would normally last about two days, but we have twice the amount of people that normally stay in the house right now. So that means one day or so of water.
Enter the little generator that couldn’t. (I probably shouldn’t be making fun of it since we need it again tonight.) So last night there was a rather hysterical scene involving two generators, 4 guys, me (holding the flashlight), a cut-up water bottle (make-shift funnel), a few liters of petrol, and lots of electrical cords. The big generator didn’t work, so after a significant amount of spilled petrol, we tried the little generator. After lots of horrible noises, a few things flying out of it (I’m referring to bugs) and some great-smelling smoke, it turned on.
What does our little generator sound or look like? Take apart your lawnmower. That’s exactly what it is as far as I can tell. There just aren’t wheels or sharp blades. It sounds exactly like a lawnmower too- ridiculously loud and noisy.
So for too brief a time we had partial electricity in the house- fans only. And we supposedly filled the water tanks up, at least partially. Then the little generator that could became the little generator that couldn’t. (And no, it was not as simple as us running out of petrol.)
So the question is... what happens when I leave the office in a few minutes and head home. Will the bureaucrat in the office have ordered our transformer part in time for it to have arrived and been installed by today? I’m thinking… doubtful.
And more importantly, since we all took ‘showers’ this morning and the tank was only partially filled… well, add that idea to the no fans, and I’m sure we’re all going to smell great at work tomorrow.
the transformer that couldn’t take it
As I may have mentioned previously, power is a bit of an issue here in Dar. Power for Tanzania is hydroelectric power- it comes from the dams that are upcountry. So when the dams are low (which they currently are) power can be a bit questionable. In the past two or so weeks we’ve had a couple of power outages, but nothing that lasted more than a few hours. So I other words, lately the power situation has been pretty great. When the power’s only out for a few hours, the fridge is okay and it’s just a minor annoyance for everything else.
So Tuesday night the power went out in our area, Upanga. And when it came back on, it decided to make sure that everyone knew it was back on, so it surged back on with a little too much power. And in its excitement, it blew the transformer for our half of the block and the block behind us. (Though we didn’t find this out until last night.) So at about 1-2 am Tuesday night (Weds morning) the power went out. Really out.
I, and everyone else in the house, slept beautifully from that point on with no fans. It’s really amazing how much a little thing like a fan can make or break the heat for you. But being tough, we all dealt with it for the rest of the night, took showers in the morning and headed to work.
After spending the day at the office with wonderful fans, we all returned home. It was a pretty funny picture, all of us upstairs sitting in the dark talking about what we were going to do for dinner and how long we thought the electricity would be off. Flashlights and candles are always an option, but just after dusk the mosquitoes are deadly, so sitting in the dark is a much better option. Then we found out from one of the guards that it was the transformer that blew. That was a happy moment.
Now, just having power off because the country doesn’t have enough electricity is one thing, but having something that needs to be fixed is a completely different timeframe for getting power again. Our problem requires a bureaucrat (who has power at his house) to send someone out to the problem to figure out what’s wrong with it (which apparently happened yesterday), to have that person have the right tools/part to fix the problem (which clearly didn’t happen yesterday), to then- and here’s the fun part- to then order the part or get the part from a supply office, to have that part/tool sent to the person who’s going to do the fixing, and to then have the person come out again and actually fix the problem. In other words, you don’t exactly measure ‘fixing time’ here in minutes.
So Tuesday night the power went out in our area, Upanga. And when it came back on, it decided to make sure that everyone knew it was back on, so it surged back on with a little too much power. And in its excitement, it blew the transformer for our half of the block and the block behind us. (Though we didn’t find this out until last night.) So at about 1-2 am Tuesday night (Weds morning) the power went out. Really out.
I, and everyone else in the house, slept beautifully from that point on with no fans. It’s really amazing how much a little thing like a fan can make or break the heat for you. But being tough, we all dealt with it for the rest of the night, took showers in the morning and headed to work.
After spending the day at the office with wonderful fans, we all returned home. It was a pretty funny picture, all of us upstairs sitting in the dark talking about what we were going to do for dinner and how long we thought the electricity would be off. Flashlights and candles are always an option, but just after dusk the mosquitoes are deadly, so sitting in the dark is a much better option. Then we found out from one of the guards that it was the transformer that blew. That was a happy moment.
Now, just having power off because the country doesn’t have enough electricity is one thing, but having something that needs to be fixed is a completely different timeframe for getting power again. Our problem requires a bureaucrat (who has power at his house) to send someone out to the problem to figure out what’s wrong with it (which apparently happened yesterday), to have that person have the right tools/part to fix the problem (which clearly didn’t happen yesterday), to then- and here’s the fun part- to then order the part or get the part from a supply office, to have that part/tool sent to the person who’s going to do the fixing, and to then have the person come out again and actually fix the problem. In other words, you don’t exactly measure ‘fixing time’ here in minutes.
23 January 2007
green leafy stuff
Normally expats here go out for lunch to one of the hotels or restaurants that cater to expats. Lunch usually runs $3-$10, depending on where you go. The fare is traditional European/American variety: sandwiches, salads, Italian, pizza, Indian, etc. (Alas, no Mexican!!!) So at about 12:30/1 there’s an exodus of cars from offices as all the expats leave to go to the same places. There’s even lunch-time traffic.
I decided to be brave today and eat lunch with our Tanzanian staff. It was a great idea in theory, but in reality I ended up eating the same food as them at my desk since I have a ton of work to do. We decided last night that our study starts recruiting women in less than two weeks so suddenly all the things on my ‘to do’ list actually have to be finished. (Preferably by yesterday.) Hence the eating lunch at my desk.
Lunch was a huge pile of rice, three pieces of meat, a small pile of green leafy stuff and a small pile of beans, all covered in a red meatish-tasting sauce. There was also an option for upagi, which is a cornmeal paste, basically a polenta. Those are the staple foods here: rice, upagi, beans and green leafy stuff. Tanzanians also eat tropical fruits. There are banana trees everywhere and since pineapples and mangos are in season now they really taste wonderful. Meat is too expensive for a normal Tanzanian to eat, but our staff are employed and better off than most.
The best part about it is that the food is brought to the house. A woman cooks it in the morning at her house, puts it in tubs that look like big paint cans, and then brings it to the office. (I’m sure the tubs are completely sanitary.) I have to say that was one of the best lunches I’ve had since I was here. I even ate the green stuff it was so good.
And the cost? 55 cents.
I decided to be brave today and eat lunch with our Tanzanian staff. It was a great idea in theory, but in reality I ended up eating the same food as them at my desk since I have a ton of work to do. We decided last night that our study starts recruiting women in less than two weeks so suddenly all the things on my ‘to do’ list actually have to be finished. (Preferably by yesterday.) Hence the eating lunch at my desk.
Lunch was a huge pile of rice, three pieces of meat, a small pile of green leafy stuff and a small pile of beans, all covered in a red meatish-tasting sauce. There was also an option for upagi, which is a cornmeal paste, basically a polenta. Those are the staple foods here: rice, upagi, beans and green leafy stuff. Tanzanians also eat tropical fruits. There are banana trees everywhere and since pineapples and mangos are in season now they really taste wonderful. Meat is too expensive for a normal Tanzanian to eat, but our staff are employed and better off than most.
The best part about it is that the food is brought to the house. A woman cooks it in the morning at her house, puts it in tubs that look like big paint cans, and then brings it to the office. (I’m sure the tubs are completely sanitary.) I have to say that was one of the best lunches I’ve had since I was here. I even ate the green stuff it was so good.
And the cost? 55 cents.
22 January 2007
Kipapeo
This gorgeous picture is of the beach were I spent Saturday. How can a day spent on a warm beach having someone bring you drinks and food not be an amazing day?
Dar is a large port- one of the two main ports for East Africa. (The other being Mombasa in Kenya.) At the mouth of the port/river/inlet is the ferry to the south of the city. As far as I can tell, the north and west of the city are much more developed than the south, but I could be completely wrong on that.
I could bore you with details of the ferry ride, but I won’t. Suffice it to say that it was the shortest boat ride I’ve ever been on and a bridge would be so much more logical. Though it was much better for my slowly darkening skin to stand in the sun. I love mid-day sun. It’s not hot at all.
Once we got off the ferry is when the fun started- we took a dala-dala down the road. (They’re the buses here.) To talk about dala dalas would take an entry in itself, and since I don’t have a picture of one, I’ll leave you with this imagine. Their footprint is about as big as a Suburban, but they look more like mini buses. And they have 4 1/2 rows of seats in them (3 1/2 facing forward, 1 backwards), plus the front seats. And they sit 4 across. So a good mental image to have right now is trying to fit 20 people in a suburban. Now add about 6 or 8 more, just for fun. And did I mention no air-conditioning?
So the beach... the beach was beautiful. It was a typical Dar day- hot, humid and lots of sun, so the beach was the perfect place to be. There are little ‘cabanas’ that are basically thatched A-frames open at the bottom that you get for the day. Right after you sit down a waiter comes and gets your drink order and makes sure that you always have cool drinks. And when you get hungry, he brings you a menu and then food appears. Granted, the quality of the food may not be 5-star since my chicken was essentially raw. Though a few beers helped kill whatever I ate, and the second version of chicken was more than cooked. But since you don’t go to the beach for the food, enough about that…
The water was warm and clear. So warm and so wonderful. It’s real ocean as it should be- no initial chill to the water when you climb in, so you can spend an eternity in the water. And real sand, not pebbles and not cold. Hot sand that you can barely walk on. In other words, a great beach.
There was also a camel for camel rides. I’m not quite sure about the significance of that- I think it was a tourist gimmick. But it was pretty cool. And since this is Africa, and there are always surprises, there were even cows being herded down the beach in the late afternoon.
So in the end, it was one of those days that just feels perfect.
And on a side note, Water was already named Gary by one of my roommates. And since he’s lived in the house longer and named Gary first, his name sticks. (We would hate to confuse Gary with two names.) So Gary’s still alive and well. And I’ve named the spider around my desk- who has an uncanny resemblance to Gary- Water Jr. or WJ for short.
18 January 2007
Kitchen, Water and Porch
Those are the names of my three new pets- I’ve named them after the rooms in which I usually find them. The first two are geckos. Water is the spider that lives on the water cooler. There aren’t enough names in the world to name the ants and mosquitoes in the house, though since I kill those as fast as I can, I don’t think that I should waste time naming them. I’m undecided on naming the cockroaches- the main hindrance is that I can’t really tell them apart, hence they have no names.
So yes, I’m guessing that you get the picture that I live with a lot of bugs. A LOT of bugs.
When I’ve talked about bugs in emails and chats, I love the fact that people have asked me why I don’t just close the windows or door. Thank you everyone for thinking I’m really that stupid. I’m not. (I swear I’m not.)
There are two things to consider when talking about my many-legged roommates.
1- Homes here aren’t sealed in the same way that American homes are. For example, our front door- which is a screen door- doesn’t actually touch the floor- it’s about an inch form the tile. So closing the door wouldn’t really help. Which of course begs the point of why don’t I just install a strip of rubber so that there is a seal. (See, I’m not an idiot.) That brings up the issue of windows and more importantly, the roof. Trust me when I say that I can guarantee the roof isn’t perfectly sealed. (One important note is that our house is nice, but it’s not a luxury, luxury house. So there are houses here that I imagine are sealed completely, but I seriously doubt those are bug free. Why you ask?)
2- These are tropical bugs. These aren’t your wimpy little American variety. They have a tenacity and stubbornness (not to mention intellect) that would make Shrub envious. I think that they’re smarter than half the population of the US- and more ingenious and devious. If they want to get into a room, they will, regardless of what the human inside the room does. It fascinates us how long it takes them to find food. One of my roommates pointed out that you can leave food out in the US and it takes at least an hour for the ants to find it- sometimes overnight. You drop or spill anything here and by the time you get back with a sponge it’s already covered with bugs and it’s already half-gone.
Which brings me back to Kitchen, Porch and Water, my new friends. (All of whom happen to eat the annoying bugs.) Porch is still a little scared of me and runs away when I get close to him. Water is a cheeky little boy and loves to crawl up my arm every time I get water.
So no one fear, I’m making friends.
So yes, I’m guessing that you get the picture that I live with a lot of bugs. A LOT of bugs.
When I’ve talked about bugs in emails and chats, I love the fact that people have asked me why I don’t just close the windows or door. Thank you everyone for thinking I’m really that stupid. I’m not. (I swear I’m not.)
There are two things to consider when talking about my many-legged roommates.
1- Homes here aren’t sealed in the same way that American homes are. For example, our front door- which is a screen door- doesn’t actually touch the floor- it’s about an inch form the tile. So closing the door wouldn’t really help. Which of course begs the point of why don’t I just install a strip of rubber so that there is a seal. (See, I’m not an idiot.) That brings up the issue of windows and more importantly, the roof. Trust me when I say that I can guarantee the roof isn’t perfectly sealed. (One important note is that our house is nice, but it’s not a luxury, luxury house. So there are houses here that I imagine are sealed completely, but I seriously doubt those are bug free. Why you ask?)
2- These are tropical bugs. These aren’t your wimpy little American variety. They have a tenacity and stubbornness (not to mention intellect) that would make Shrub envious. I think that they’re smarter than half the population of the US- and more ingenious and devious. If they want to get into a room, they will, regardless of what the human inside the room does. It fascinates us how long it takes them to find food. One of my roommates pointed out that you can leave food out in the US and it takes at least an hour for the ants to find it- sometimes overnight. You drop or spill anything here and by the time you get back with a sponge it’s already covered with bugs and it’s already half-gone.
Which brings me back to Kitchen, Porch and Water, my new friends. (All of whom happen to eat the annoying bugs.) Porch is still a little scared of me and runs away when I get close to him. Water is a cheeky little boy and loves to crawl up my arm every time I get water.
So no one fear, I’m making friends.
14 January 2007
TV at Longido
So the street that I live on is called Longido Street, hence the house is referred to as Longido House or just Longido. I was playing around with the TV yesterday and exploring the channel lineup. I have to say, it’s pretty funny.
BBC News & Sky News (both British)
ESPN (European edition, so lots of soccer)
Discovery Channel (Euro edition as well)
MTV- I’m not sure if it’s the Euro or Asia version
SABC (South African station, comparable programming to NBC or CBS)
8 Indian stations (7 of which are in Hindi, and I’m guessing the 8th is a Tamil station. I have to say that the Hindi soap opera I saw yesterday was even more fun to watch than Mexican ones- more slapping, more supernatural events, more explosions- they’re great. And did you know that there’s a ‘Big Brother’ for India? And a ‘Who wants to be a Millionaire’ too?)
A Pakistani channel
3 Arabic channels (one being Al-Jazeera at least part of the time)
An Egyptian channel
A Kenyan channel
A Turkish channel
A religious channel where people call in and have their problems solved by God. (Though I’m not sure which God is solving the problems.)
and I think the last channel is a Tanzanian station
So as you can see, there’s both nothing and tons to watch. I’m sure the TV would become much more interesting if I learned Hindi, but at the moment I’m having enough trouble with KiSwahili.
BBC News & Sky News (both British)
ESPN (European edition, so lots of soccer)
Discovery Channel (Euro edition as well)
MTV- I’m not sure if it’s the Euro or Asia version
SABC (South African station, comparable programming to NBC or CBS)
8 Indian stations (7 of which are in Hindi, and I’m guessing the 8th is a Tamil station. I have to say that the Hindi soap opera I saw yesterday was even more fun to watch than Mexican ones- more slapping, more supernatural events, more explosions- they’re great. And did you know that there’s a ‘Big Brother’ for India? And a ‘Who wants to be a Millionaire’ too?)
A Pakistani channel
3 Arabic channels (one being Al-Jazeera at least part of the time)
An Egyptian channel
A Kenyan channel
A Turkish channel
A religious channel where people call in and have their problems solved by God. (Though I’m not sure which God is solving the problems.)
and I think the last channel is a Tanzanian station
So as you can see, there’s both nothing and tons to watch. I’m sure the TV would become much more interesting if I learned Hindi, but at the moment I’m having enough trouble with KiSwahili.
13 January 2007
headlamps and bed bugs
Well, it’s been an interesting week, to say that least. The good news is that either it’s gotten cooler or I’ve started to get used to the heat. It’s quite bearable if you’re not in the sun and if you’re near a ceiling fan. When you walk outside it’s a different story, but for the most part is seems to be pretty bearable.
At the moment I’m sitting on my bed – it’s about 7:15- and I’m working on revising case report forms. Which is relatively easy to do, just time consuming since they have to be formatted and checked for coding errors. However, the catch is that there is no power- it went off about 30 minutes ago. I have about two hours left of my laptop battery, so I though I would take a break and update this blog. (Though seeing as there’s no power, there’s also no internet. So this will get posted eventually.)
Power- yes, the power does in fact go off here. So far the outages have been relatively short- an hour on Wednesday night and about 2 hours on Thursday night. Both of those outages where between 1 and 4 in the morning and the only reason I knew about them was because of joyous jetlag. But seeing as I slept 14 hours Friday night, I’m about adjusted to the time here.
So yes, what does one do when they’re no power? Good question. The first step is to grab your headlamp and look like a total and complete dork/idiot. A headlamp is one of those lights that people who go hiking/caving attach to their foreheads. And I have to say, it’s the coolest thing right now- so practical. The light automatically shines in whichever direction I want to look (it being attached to my head an all) and it leaves both my hands free for typing. Kudos to the person who though this thing up- I owe you one.
After grabbing the headlamp I discovered that there is one major drawback- when you turn it on, you suddenly become the only light in a pretty wide area, which means that previously confused bugs which had no light to hover around now get excited and decide to hover around your head. Not cool, trust me. But since they are now your captive audience, it does make it easier to kill them in quick succession. Unfortunately for each one you kill, 3 more appear (no, make that 5). Killing bugs here is the most futile exercise.
So on the whole, the headlamp is a pretty cool invention, though I know that if any of you saw me right now you would laugh really hard, and probably keep laughing for at least a few hours. I know how bad I look, but I don’t care.
Bugs… I imagine that I’m going to have a few entries on them over the next few weeks as I alternate between hating them and learning to ignore them. But let’s talk today about bed bugs. I bet you didn’t think they were real- that they were just the end of that bedtime rhyme your parents told you. (goodnight, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.) Alas, I have to break your bubble regarding bed bugs... 1- they exist and 2- they do in fact bite. Now of course since I’ve discovered that bed bugs are real, I now have to reevaluate the status of the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, and of course the jolly guy in red. Could they be real too?
At the moment I’m sitting on my bed – it’s about 7:15- and I’m working on revising case report forms. Which is relatively easy to do, just time consuming since they have to be formatted and checked for coding errors. However, the catch is that there is no power- it went off about 30 minutes ago. I have about two hours left of my laptop battery, so I though I would take a break and update this blog. (Though seeing as there’s no power, there’s also no internet. So this will get posted eventually.)
Power- yes, the power does in fact go off here. So far the outages have been relatively short- an hour on Wednesday night and about 2 hours on Thursday night. Both of those outages where between 1 and 4 in the morning and the only reason I knew about them was because of joyous jetlag. But seeing as I slept 14 hours Friday night, I’m about adjusted to the time here.
So yes, what does one do when they’re no power? Good question. The first step is to grab your headlamp and look like a total and complete dork/idiot. A headlamp is one of those lights that people who go hiking/caving attach to their foreheads. And I have to say, it’s the coolest thing right now- so practical. The light automatically shines in whichever direction I want to look (it being attached to my head an all) and it leaves both my hands free for typing. Kudos to the person who though this thing up- I owe you one.
After grabbing the headlamp I discovered that there is one major drawback- when you turn it on, you suddenly become the only light in a pretty wide area, which means that previously confused bugs which had no light to hover around now get excited and decide to hover around your head. Not cool, trust me. But since they are now your captive audience, it does make it easier to kill them in quick succession. Unfortunately for each one you kill, 3 more appear (no, make that 5). Killing bugs here is the most futile exercise.
So on the whole, the headlamp is a pretty cool invention, though I know that if any of you saw me right now you would laugh really hard, and probably keep laughing for at least a few hours. I know how bad I look, but I don’t care.
Bugs… I imagine that I’m going to have a few entries on them over the next few weeks as I alternate between hating them and learning to ignore them. But let’s talk today about bed bugs. I bet you didn’t think they were real- that they were just the end of that bedtime rhyme your parents told you. (goodnight, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.) Alas, I have to break your bubble regarding bed bugs... 1- they exist and 2- they do in fact bite. Now of course since I’ve discovered that bed bugs are real, I now have to reevaluate the status of the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, and of course the jolly guy in red. Could they be real too?
09 January 2007
first impressions
My first impressions of Tanzania aren't that insightful, but I just wanted to let everyone know that I still have internet access and haven't fallen off the face of the Earth.
So my first impression after less than 24 hours: it's really humid and hot.
So my first impression after less than 24 hours: it's really humid and hot.
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