Friday, September 13, 2013

A Hot Time in Old Dar

Went to Dar a while back looking for teachers. As usual, Dar was interesting, too hot, and more than a little frustrating. I stayed at Safari Inn, deep in the 'hood. But this time I got a room with a fan and AC. My attitude toward Dar has changed over the years. While I still dread the trip in general, I've decided to focus on the good parts, i.e., the food, the bookstores, and the AC. I like to go out at night, despite all the tourist warnings. It's cooler, and everyone is out, kids included, so it's actually very safe. And everything looks so much cleaner in the dark, a good thing when you dine al fresco.


Garlic butter naan made in a tandoori oven. To die for.
My current favorite greasy spoon is Mamboz Barbecue. It's just a hole in a corner, but at night they block off part of the road and put out plastic furniture and grills. Real classy. The grilled chicken is excellent and they make their own garlic naan in a tandoori oven right there on the street. While you eat, guys come around and try to sell you DVDs, kids toys and assorted crap. Folks call in their orders and drive up, honk and pick up their food. McDonald's has arrived.

I spend a lot of money when I'm there, mostly for food and transport to places with AC. For getting around town I like a bajaji (a big golf cart.) Taxis are expensive, and charge more for AC. So I go with the open sided bajaji. About half the price, and a good breeze.

On Sunday I went to Sea Cliff, aka Wazungu Heaven, where I sat in a coffee shop for a good long spell, enjoying an iced coffee and of course the deliciously cool air. On the way back to the hood, I caught a bajaji, with a driver who was concerned that I hold onto the sides at all times because "hamna mlango" there is no door. None of the bajajis have doors, but if you brace your legs against either side, you can balance well enough to take pictures while you weave in and out of traffic. 

There is very little offered for folks with missing parts, so mostly they work
the median. A tough job on a good day, but worse when the traffic is heavy.

All was well until just outside of town, when we were stopped by the police. I knew I hadn't done anything, so I figured the driver had somehow transgressed, and settled down to watch the show. First the cop stood in front of the bajaji and looked at all the insurance stickers, but everything was in order. Next he shook the bajaji back and forth for a bit, I have no idea why. So then they asked for his driver's license and bingo, let the bargaining begin.

The driver got out, but I stayed in the backseat, at the curve of the road, watching this unfold and hoping not to get rear-ended. The driver said he in fact had a license, but sadly for us all, it was with his boss. Nobody believed him, and rightly so. It's all too common for drivers to be unlicensed, or hold a fake license conveniently purchased from a friendly DMV employee for about 10,000 tsh (roughly 6 bucks.)

Local market selling rice and beans, with a liberal sprinkling of flies.

It was Dar hot, and the bargaining was taking forever, so I decided to weigh in. Me: "We know why you're here, you know why you're here, so can't we just name a price and move on?" Apparently not. The fine for driving without a license is 30,000 tsh, about 20 USD. So why can't he pay it? Because that's the legal price, if the cops actually give him a ticket. Which means the cops don't make money. What we need to do now is find out how much it will take for these guys to go away. By now I had exited the bajaji, thinking the longer I sat in the backseat the sooner I would be hit from the rear by yet another unlicensed driver, necessitating further bargaining with the cops....

Local bajaji, with cops inside, preparing to haggle.

Eventually Dar's finest decided to take the negotiations to a more private place. They got into the backseat, and off they drove to "talk", promising to return in 2 minutes. I walked around the beach and sure a mavi, a few minutes later they drove back, got out, and the driver and I were free to go. I asked him "Ulilipa shillingi ngapi?" How much did you pay? He said 1000 tsh/per cop. About 75 cents each. All that drama for 75 cents? We all know what's happening. Only an idiot doesn't know what's going on. But that's how it's done here.

So on to the real reason for my visit. We wanted to start a program for student teachers from a teaching college in Dar. We get free labor and they get experience. Good all around. I met up with Victor, the coordinator, and we walked to the school. It was blazing hot, and I was weak, flushed, and soaked to the skin when we arrived, at which point he told me the interviews would be conducted near his office ON THE EIGHTH FLOOR. There is an elevator, but pole sana, imeharibika. It's broken. I've been here too long to be surprised, and I know also that broken things generally stay broken for a good long while. Maybe they've rented the dead elevator to students from out of town.

Hitching a ride, Dar style.

Not wanting to look weak and pitiful I soldiered on, and climbed what was the longest eight floors in the history of the world. The good news is that when I did get to Victor's office, it had AC. Asifiwe Bwana Mungu! After a short recovery period I went into the interview room to find about 30 student teachers, of which 3 had enough English to make the eight floors worthwhile. It's sad to talk to these new teachers. They all want jobs, they've worked so hard in school, but they just don't have the English. I usually begin by asking their names, which is no problem. Then I ask where they come from, and it's downhill from there. I picked three lovely young teachers and they will start soon.

The problem is that English is taught from a book, with exercises. Questions and answers. Not much time is spent just speaking, so when students leave school they have little practical experience conversing, and can't put what they learned in the book into actual face to face dialogue. Added to this, if you change the wording of a sentence they've memorized, they're totally confused. It's rare to find a village kid with any real command of the language, so when I do, I hire them or pay their school fees so they can finish.

This guy hangs around my hotel. One leg, a bundle on his head which he never drops,
and clearly insane. I gave him 2000 tsh to take his picture (About $1.50.) I generally don’t
 take pictures of the beggars, but this guy was so unusual I couldn’t stop myself.

We have hired Sylvester, a young man who recently completed Form 6, and is waiting for his results. His English is so good I was convinced he was schooled in Iringa or Dar. Nope, right here in Berega. So he's working at the school till he goes on to teachers college, and at night he teaches me Kiswahili. I spend so much time speaking English that my Kiswahili is barely adequate, so three nights a week he comes to my house and is my mwalimu. We speak Kiswahili for 45 minutes and then switch to English. He wants to polish his skills, and 45 minutes of Kiswahili is more than enough for me. My poor brain is swimming with ambayos, ambachos, ambapos and all the other ambos. The only way for me to be fluent in this language is to actually be imprisoned for 6 months. That should just about do it. It should also strip away the baby fat I've been carrying around since my kids were born. I have grandkids so that should tell you how long this baby fat has been hanging around my waist and hips.

Nakupenda,
L

Update: Sadly, the student teachers didn't work out. Their English was bad enough that the kids were correcting them. Added to this, one left for a week without notice and another left for a funeral and stayed gone for a week. We have since found two good teachers, experienced and motivated. All is well, but I doubt that we will attempt another student teacher program. Such is life.