Firsts

Just got back from 5 days in Arusha, aka wazungu paradise. I've never seen so many white people in an African city. Apparently Arusha is the seat of international relations and tourism in Tanzania. But the real draw is an actual coffee house with muffins and everything, which is what I ate, everything. Plus great Indian food. I did other things besides eat, but I will admit it was a major focus.

Soko Kuu picture taken at waist level, the best I could do.

My purpose was actually twofold, to explore the big city book market and to visit my friend James. Also wanted to see a man about some walls but the internet was so bad I couldn't  contact him. Hard to believe that the seat of international relations and tourism has such spotty electricity, we do better in Berega with our little solar panels. I'm told it's a political issue, but I'm willing to bet the president and all his cronies have a reliable connection.

A store in Arusha. Interesting sign, I almost 

went in to investigate but decided on a 

coffee instead, the American lubricant.

It's about 10 hours by bus from Berega to Arusha, big buses, no goats or chickens, but packed tightly enough with humans. The seats are almost big enough for the average sized African, which I am not, but I had a book so was fine. The hotel was mzuri sana. Very clean, self contained, and affordable, much classier than my usual lodgings when I'm  in Dar. I could have gotten into a backpackers hostel for about 1/3 the price but Been There Done That, and if I can't afford a room with a toilet at my age then something has gone horribly wrong.




Spent most of the days walking the streets looking for book shops. I was looking for books to help my adult students, plus novels for the library.The actual stores were great, lots of variety and reasonably priced, but the street vendors are the mother lode. Some have a small wooden booth, others a table on the sidewalk or down an alley, still others a big cart with all types of books thrown in. They're like potato chips, I can't pass by and I can't just visit one. In the stores the prices are set, and written on the cover, but on the street it's all about bargaining.

Walking home

At one cart I picked about fifteen books. The vendor was never far, gently offering me this and that, but when the bargaining began a dozen guys appeared, all wanting to weigh in. Just random guys on the street, other vendors, passing Massai, whoever. I offered a lump sum, but evidently the vendor wanted to extol the merits of EACH book and dicker till the goats came home.

Where the goats sleep

I don't mind bargaining, it's the culture, but there's a limit. Plus, every time I tried to talk him down I got mafuta mafuta (petrol).This is the usual crap I get when they want to jack up the price because I'm mzungu. My friend calls it the skin tax. Apparently the cost of transporting books into Arusha is factored into the price as though each book is brought into town in it's own car. I kept telling him siyo mtalii (not a tourist) and it finally sunk in and I got a decent price. As this entire transaction was conducted in Kiswahili, you'd think he'd have realized I wasn't new to the bargaining table, but they see my white skin and figure I've got a load of money on me, which by their standards I absolutely do. In the end, I paid partial skin tax and everyone was happy, including all the extra guys hanging about.

In between the bookstores I visited the coffee shop. Yes, I've been talking a lot about food, but in the village my choices are limited, and that's putting it kindly, so when presented with actual variety I'm like a prisoner on death row. They have black forest cake there too, even better than in Morogoro. And shakes, shakes of all varieties. I will return occasionally till I have eaten my way through the menu.




Had a great paneer tikka at a small Indian place in the middle of town, and spent most of the meal talking to the owner, Albert, who has a cousin in Morogoro working in education. So he will call her and she and I will meet. Also the sweet lassi was great.

Massai market, again at waist level.

I talk to everyone, it's just the way I am, you never know who you're going to meet. I was hanging around the soko kuu (big market), just looking around, surreptitiously taking pictures. I usually hold my camera at waist level and hope for the best, asante Mungu for the delete button. Markets are so alive, lots of vendors, noise, things to buy and sell. While I was there I was talking to a shop owner and he invited me home to lunch with his family. What's nice about being my age is invitations to lunch are usually just that. I met his family, and had a wonderful lunch. Her samosas were terminally delicious.




I was complimenting her on the food, and mentioned that I generally avoid cooking, which she thought was hysterically funny. Their family is originally from India, where women cook, and she spends a good part of every day doing just that. I really need to go to India siku moja (one day). I got karibu tenaed (welcomed again), and will hopefully see them next trip. I'm sure she'd delighted to show me how to make vegetable samosas, convert me into a proper cooking woman and all that.

James village, a nice place to live

Africans of any origin are probably the most welcoming people on the planet. They generally have little, but are more than happy to share. When they say karibu, they don't mean "let's have lunch sometime", but now, and stay awhile if you like. Bring some luggage.

Massai BBQ, note hanging meat in background.

My friend James worked in the lab at Berega Hospital, and now lives and works in Arusha. He's the same age as my kids, likes music as much as I do, and we got to be friends. He's very forthcoming about African culture, and very curious about mine. Plus he's fluent in English so we can and will discuss any topic.




I had heard that there was a theater in Arusha, and spent an inordinate amount of time locating it. Having done that, I asked James if he likes the movies and he said he'd never been. Imagine. So we went.

There were 2 options, a Bollywood film and Hangover 2. I'd never seen Hangover 1, would never have seen it if I was in America, but there's only one theater and it shows only two movies, so we chose Hangover. Had a burrito first, also a first for James. The movie was a hoot, and we had popcorn too. James was astounded by the whole experience, and vows to go again. He also had his first Indian meal. Another hit.

Burros are used widely in this area, for 

carrying everything, especially water

Ladies in this area carry loads in this fashion,
looks hard on the neck.

James is half Massai, and comes from a village "not far" from Arusha. I've mentioned before that wazungu and Africans differ in our concept of distance. "Not far" entailed a cab ride, 2 daladalas and a pikipiki, but it was well worth the trip. His village is in the hills, so it was nice and cool, and as it was Saturday, there was the weekly Massai market. We wandered around and then went to his house, further into the hills where they grow maize, and millet for beer.

James shucking mahindi for ugali.

This was just a day trip, but James' mom karibued me for a week next time, and I'd love to go. This village is beautiful, interesting and new. Massai have an entirely different culture, and I'd love to tramp around in it for a week. He knows every one in the village, so I can take a million pictures.

Not sure this is why God made nostrils, 

but if you have to cook a goat head...

Local Massai house made of dirt, cow manure and ash.

Many Massai have left the village to get educated and find better jobs, after which they support their relatives. I asked if it's difficult straddling two cultures, and he said it's ok, because the world has changed so he has also. He said he wants an educated, uncut wife, and will do his best to educate his kids and teach them English. He wears western clothes, but he's still just another moran when he's in the village.




Most Massai recognize the need for some to go out and do what James and others have done. But he said next time we go to his village he'll take me further back where they live in the truly old style.

Going home from the market

Moving into the first world is a balancing act, you get the good with the bad, and in the end, each culture will pick and choose what suits them. But it will be a sad day when I see fat, diabetic Massai eating take out pizza and watching Hawaii 5-0 reruns.

We visited with his mom and sisters, then headed back to the market to catch the daladala. It was the end of market day, getting dark, and there was a crowd. When the daladala came, there was the usual last helicopter from Hanoi pushing and shoving. They offered me a seat, cause I'm mzungu, but I really hate that, and it's never a good ride when you sit in the front while everyone else sits packed like a can of dagaa in the back.




So while we waited, James and I exchanged war stories about shoving our way into various African transports. Eventually you have to, or else you just stand there till you die. To my shame, I once elbowed a kid so I could get into the bus. In my defense, he was a medium sized kid, and he was looking to shove me too, I just beat him to it.

The last daladala arrived, and as people were exiting the bus, folks were entering. It's a mad rush. We were in the front of the entering group, and were more or less pushed into the front seat, which was just fine. We just got settled in when my door opened and a very tall Massai teenager with baggage jumped in and sat on my lap. No hello, no do you mind, just plop, there she was. I love this place.

It was a good trip, but after five days I had spent and eaten more than I had planned, and was starting to get headaches from the exhaust fumes and general city pollution so am now back home, where the sky is clear, the food is way too predictable, and I don't have to pay the skin tax. Life is good. Always good.

Nakupenda