An Indian Beggar in Dar es Saalam - Didn’t See That Coming!

The Lovely View from the Econo Lodge - Was My Temporary Home for 2 Weeks

It was either comedian Chris Rock or Dave Chappelle who used to use a monologue that went something like, “I was robbed by a white man in the New York subway in 1984…..didn’t see that coming, didn’t see that coming.”  Well a few weeks ago I had a sort of similar experience, as I had an elderly Indian gentleman approach and beg me for some food twice in one week in my neighbourhood. “Napenda chakula kaka tafadhali (I would like some food please brother)?” was the phrase used.  My Swahili is terrible as everyone  knows,  but even I figured out what he meant, and I certainly did not see that coming at all.  Now I know what you might be thinking and the answer is no! I did not run away from Tanzania and relocate to Channa Market in New Delhi where the incidents took place.  This happened right in Dar es Salaam city centre close to my apartment, where by the way, I have also started noticing Indian vagrants.  You see I live the city in an area that I call Little India – but more on that later, let me relate to you how I got there.

Reception Area at the National College of Tourism

You see four months ago I moved from Zanzibar to Dar es Salaam to take up my new placement with the National College of Tourism located in the heart of the city. And what an adventure, culture shock and education it has been. I must say up front though that the dusty, crowded, dimly-lit, rat infested city I landed into last year July has grown on me immensely and have actually become fond of living here, as everyday is a different adventure.  My first adventure was finding a place to live in the city centre within walking distance to the College where I work.  Finding a decent reasonably priced place to live in Dar is as easy as finding a sober and celibate Catholic priest in the Boston diocese.   One real estate agent told me that she was taking me to see a flat, which she confidently exclaimed, “was THE place to live in Dar.” This turned out to be a neighbourhood that would make the back streets of Bratislava look like Park Lane in London.  Also, as we were opening up multiple grid iron gates to get up the stairs to the apartment, the neighbor came out to complain to the agent that the water pump had been stolen again. She pointed to a metal cage at the base of the stairs with the unbroken lock still on but no water pump inside. I guess the free magic show featuring the disappearing water pump must be the reason my agent thought it was a hip place to live.  By the way that place was going for US$1000 per month plus utilities, and 1 year’s rent paid upfront is the norm here.  These days the asking price for a broom cupboard with rats in City Centre is around US$400.  I exaggerate – it $400 might actually get you a coat closet.

Food from Cook Shops Such as These in the Fish Market is Very Cheap

You see the Tanzanian economy is growing at around 8%, with the precious metals, oil, gas, tourism and agriculture sectors all expanding rapidly.  Heavy foreign investment has resulted in a huge influx of mainly wazungu (whites) expats.  This coupled with an expanding middle-class and significant rural-urban migration has created a serious shortage of good housing.  Through friend of a new friend I met during the Kilimanjaro Marathon, and good fortune, I found the place I currently live at.  Good thing the College pays for the rent or else I would never be able to afford it on my VSO accommodation and living allowances.  Let’s just say it is twice as expensive but not nearly as nice as my 2-bedroom/2 bathroom fully-furnished house with a sea view that I left behind in Montserrat last year. I am very happy with it though – the apartment is on the top floor, has AC, some cable, regular water and electricity supply, and a pool and gym on the ground floor.  I can also get half a tandoori chicken with fries, salad and 3 sauces for US$3 close to the entrance of my building.  And when they say half a chicken they don’t mean a portion size – it is literally a chicken split down the middle from the neck to the foot.

The Spirit of Tanzania - It Comes in Bottles & Sealed Plastic Packs

I do have to share the flat with Dai, a Japanese volunteer who also works at the College. Prior to moving in, Dai was taking the dala dala (local bus) to work and back for about 3 hours everyday, so he is extremely happy to be within a 15 minute walk from work.  With his commute time drastically reduced, he now spends most of his newfound free time learning English, imbibing  nightly copious amounts of Konyagi (local papaya gin) mixed with beer on ice, while watching Ally McBeal with Japanese subtitles on his laptop.  I am teaching him English by the way and most of our subject lessons revolve around food and booze.  Well he is a trained sushi chef and both of us love to lime.  Poor guy though, he is learning English with a Trinidadian accent.  By the time he gets back to Tokyo he will be saying things like “Whaddie Ass,” “Where we liming tonight?” and “One fuh de Road”.  He is a great house share and hopefully soon I will be mastering the art of Japanese cooking and also will improve on the 8 words of Japanese that I know, which I am sure are dirty words.  I learnt them from a “crazy” Taiwanese girl (she had the Guinness world record for the shortest bathrobe in the world) who lived on my floor at University in the UK in the mid-1990s. But that is a whole other blog in itself.  

An Indian Was Even Miss Tanzania Once

Well getting back to this Little India story now.  Now I always knew that East Africa had a sizable East Indian population – and not the kind that just came in the last decade to develop computer software, set up Taj and Oberoi Hotels or start curry houses on every corner.  These are Indians who have been on the continent for over 200 years.  They came mainly as traders or as “coolie” labourers that were brought by white settlers to build the Kenya-Uganda railway line. This is from a piece called Indians of East Africa by Rudy Brueggemann which explains it well.  “….many stayed on to work as "dukawallas," the artisans, traders, clerks, and, finally, small administrators. Excluded from colonial government and farming, they straddled the middle economic ground above the native blacks. Some even became doctors and lawyers. Despite animosity from native Africans and restrictions by colonial whites, Africa still provided more opportunities than crowded, caste-rigid colonial India. East Africa became America for Indians in the first half of the 20th century, and their resourcefulness cannot be understated or discounted.” 

Islamic Influenced Architecture in My Neighbourhood

Of course all of this sounds all too familiar to me – being a 4th generation Trinidadian of East Indian descent.  In our case my forefathers were indentured labourers who were brought to the Caribbean to work the sugar plantations after the abolition of slavery in 1834.  The first ship called the Fatel Rozack arrived in Trinidad in 1838 and the trade continued until the start of World War I.  Ironic isn’t it.  I am a 4th generation West Indian that moved to the other side of the world for the African experience and end up living among 4th and 5th generation African Indians.  The area I live in Dar is probably about 95% Indian populated, and other than my Japanese housemate and one African tenant, the rest of the occupants my building are all head bobbing Indians.  The lobby area looks like the set of The Kumars at No. 42, there is the smell of grilled tandoori (from the BBQ place at the base of the building), curry and geera (cumin) smell in the elevator most days, and  seemingly daily pujas (prayer services with lots of singing and loud music) on the 12th floor that I live. 

The Slightly Chaotic, and Smelly, Fish Market on a Sunday

There are a lot of differences though between our diasporas though.  Not to generalize, but my African Indian friends do not say good morning in the elevator, are generally quite crass and rude in their shops, and seem to lack even the faintest sense of humour.  Oh well – we can’t all be gregarious, fun loving and jovial West Indians. Growing up in the warm, friendly and boozy Caribbean, this is all alien to me.  They look at me strangely, and then in the usual Indian-standoffish way, wait for the other person to start the conversation.  If any conversation gets started, they look even more perplexed when they realize I speak English with a funny accent, I cannot converse in Hindi and my Swahili is kidogo (little).  Like when I was travelling in India a couple years ago, if I say I am from Trinidad or the Caribbean they give me this constipated look – the kind that George Bush Jr. used to have when the word he had to pronounce had more than 5 letters or a country name ended in something-STAN.  But if I say I am from the West Indies or mention Brian Lara, their eyes light up, the head bobbing starts and they even crack a smile – albeit an unnerving one, the kind Wednesday Adams cracked in a scene from the Addams Family Family Values movie, when she came out of the harmony house.  Well at least the West Indies cricket team is still good for something these days. By the way with the English weather conditions and half of the real team in India in the IPL or not playing because of West Indies Cricket Board petty politics, look for England to put a good cut-ass on the West Indies cricket team in the series this summer.  Which reminds me – I need to teach my housemate Dai the word cut-ass.

A Bajaj (Tuk Tuk in India) - A Cheap Transport Means for People & Goods

Other than enjoying my daily adventures in little India, my other favourite thing is reading the Tanzanian Guardian and Daily News English language newspapers.  Aside from numerous grammar and spelling errors, I think they also have an Alzheimers-dyslexia afflicted staffer doing the layout.  Every single paper seems to have a news story that appears twice in the same paper.  Recently though I had a good chuckle while reading the April 27th edition of the Guardian about how Alessandro Benetton is trying to revive the “colours” of the famous Benetton brand. When I got to the last three paragraphs of the story, it started with the sentence “Can’t Say No entered the British singles chart at No. 2…” What the hell – didn’t see that coming! This section was actually from another news story in the paper about singer Conor Maynard, who is considered to be the UKs version of Justin Beiber. Incidentally, I would not consider this news, and also, if I were Conor Maynard, I would not be proud to be compared to Beiber.  It is like telling Adele she is the next Celine Dion.

Church Close to the Harbour in Dar

But wait –it gets better.  In the same paper in the Business and Foreign section there is a story and photo of a Brazilian prostitute who is suing the US embassy for damages.  And then in the Entertainment and Sport section, a picture of the same picture of the Brazilian woman appears next to a story entitled “Filipino Singer’s Journey to the Tribeca Stage”.  Well maybe Brazilian lady-of-the-night carries two passports like me. Or, maybe the editor could not decide which section of the paper to put the Brazilian prostitute story - Business News, International News, or Sports & Entertainment, so he/she slotted it in as many sections as possible.  To be fair to him/her, Ms. Braizil was engaging in an entertaining international sport that is big business. I might have actually missed one of these errors if the layout editor had mistakenly mixed in the “Can’t Say No” Conor Maynard bit into the Brazilian prostitute story, like he did with the Benetton story.  Well perhaps not - because I guess she did say no unlike Conor, and was now suing the American Embassy.  Gosh, I really need to stop spending so much time critiquing the daily papers.  But no chance of that happening anytime soon as I found a gem in today’s paper.  The daily “Sayings of the Wise” on the Opinion page is from all people the tied-tongued mouth of Mike Tyson.  I rest my case about the questionable editorial practices of the Guardian.  

A Good Reason to Sponsor Me -  Struggling Women Street Vendors

In addition to scrutinizing the Guardian these days for editorial faux-pas, I am trying to get some training in for the Kigali Peace Marathon in Rwanda in less than two weeks on May 27th.  And, one of my blog entries would be complete with me mentioning the words Running, Marathon, Sponsoring and Good Cause.  I am leading a team of over 30 VSO and CUSO International volunteers from Tanzania, Rwanda and Kenya, as we try to raise funds for the economic empowerment of women in East Africa.  You can support my efforts and modest fundraising target of US$1000 by going to this webpage and donating - CUSO and VSOs Run for The World Every contribution  small or large will make a big difference in the lives of many underprivileged women, as in the picture above, in the countries we are volunteering in. 

If You Can’t Climb It, Run It – Kilimanjaro Conquered, Kigali Next!

11 Hour Bus Ride - Felt Longer for Some People with Me on the Bus

After months of preparation, and expending all my social capital badgering friends, family and foes for sponsorship money, I conquered Mt. Kilimanjaro.  I didn’t attempt to trek to its snow-capped summit, a journey that that takes about 5-7 days and can result in severe altitude sickness.  I choose to run Kilimanjaro, or Kili as it is commonly referred to here in Tanzania.  I completed my 6th full marathon in 4 hours and 39 minutes and in the process I also raised the incredible sum of US$5,300 for education programmes in Tanzania.  Yes it was a full hour slower than my best marathon time, which I achieved in Reykjavik a few years ago, but I am just glad to have completed the course.  The Kili Marathon is not for the faint hearted.  I thought the crazy, hilly, volcanic, ashy landscape of Montserrat where I lived and ran for 5 years was bad, but this is in a special category of its own.  The second half of the race starts with a seemingly endless uphill climb that goes on forever.  Heartbreak doesn’t even begin to describe what runners experience on that climb.  But before I get into the actual race day, let me start with a recap of the weekend.

Endless Miles of Sisal and Mountains

We started our trip from Dar es Salaam Friday February 24th at around 8 am in what was supposed to be an 8-9 hour bus ride.  About 20 of us, VSO staff and volunteers piled into the bus and set off to Moshi, a major town in the foothills of Kili.  Our first stop was by the police for speeding – I think we were doing about 30 mph in a 25 mph zone.  They had a speed gun and everything, so to get things moving, the driver had to bribe them while we looked curiously at the transaction from the back window of the bus.  They actually saw us looking so they moved the payment of chai money (money for tea as they call it) payment to the back of the police car.  After 5 hours, with me providing much of the amusement for the occupants at the back of the bus, we finally stopped for lunch and an opportunity to drain the lizard.  I took a bit of everything that was on offer at the lunch buffet – a decision that came back to haunt me that night and for the next couple days.The ride resumed through beautiful plains littered with sisal plantations, which looks like a giant pineapple plant and is used for rope making. Incredibly beautiful mountains, reminiscent of Table Mountain in Cape Town, framed the plains.  I got excited every time I saw a herd of animals in the distance, thinking they might be a migrating herd of something exotic like wilder beasts or zebras.  Alas they were only weathered cows that looked as if they had already run a couple marathons earlier that day.

Anything to Break the Monotony of the 11 Hour Bus Ride

You know how West Indians will tell you something is just around the corner when actually it is about 4 hours away or they will tell you they coming to see you in a few minutes and will show up the next day.  Well we have the same kinda thing here in Africa.  Earlier someone had told me it was only 20 more km to the lunch stop it turned out to be 200km.  True to form, when they told it was going to be an 8 hour bus ride – it turned out to be an 11 hour ride to get to Moshi.  By then everyone on the bus had had enough of me chatting incessantly; whining about insufficient pee stops; remarking about how the tourist board should tie some big game animals to trees along the route to entertain us during the long journey; not to mention my eclectic music choices on my Ipad.  One occupant who had given up alcohol for Lent, started back drinking immediately upon disembarking from the bus, remarking to someone, “Jesus Christ would understand, he did not have to spend 11 hours on a bus with Ishwar.” Good times!  If he only knew he spent 11 hours with God on the bus – but more on that later.

View of the Majestic Kilimanjaro from Outside my Room  

On entering Moshi we caught our first glimpse of Mt Kilimanjaro, the highest free standing peak in the world.  We found our way to the beautiful but affordable Honey Badger Lodge, named after one of the most ferocious animals in the world.  Similar to a weasel, lions and other large predators have been known to be killed trying to mess with these creatures.  The Lodge is home to a number of blue-balled vervet monkeys who are quite fresh and randy – one of them was caught peeking at one of the volunteers while she was having a shower – which might explain its testicular coloration. The first thing everyone noticed though was the inviting swimming pool, which we all ended up getting thrown in over the next few days, mainly because of our over-exuberant gregarious VSO country director.  “Do you have a phone or wallet in your pocket?”, followed by a loud splash was the most common sounds on the weekend. We met up with two UK Kenyan-based VSOs, Dan and Eddie and their partners, who I had been communicating with over the past 6 months.  They were also crazy enough to be attempting the marathon.  A group dinner, a few cold kilis and an early night meant we were all fresh and ready for the next day.  

With Some Keynan Runners During Registration Day

On Saturday morning we headed to the town of Moshi to pick up our registration kits.  One of the first things that strikes you about Moshi, especially coming from Dar es Salaam and Zanzibar, is how clean the streets are.  They are very strict on tossing garbage and litter, for which you can be fined 50,000 Tanzanian Shillings.  One of our fellow volunteers, who in addition to backsliding on the no-drinking alcohol during Lent, also fell off the wagon with the no-smoking pledge, decided to test the vigilance of the local authorities by tossing a cigarette butt on the street.  He was promptly accosted, and ended up in the police station.  Claiming ignorance of the littering law, he eventually got away without the fine, much to the relief of the others accompanying him.  The actual race registration site was a bit chaotic and confusing, but we all got our race kits consisting of basically a bib and some pins – absent were things like an electronic timing chip, and a gift bag with granola, lip balm, deodorant, Vaseline, bagel and other giveaways.  I had to remind myself I was not in Toronto or Reykjavik.  When I got to the desk to pick up my kit the South African Indian guy asked for my name, to which I responded “Ishwar.” He immediately looked and pointed to the heavens, leaving a couple of my friends looking perplexed.  OK – I will fess up – my name means “God” and I’ve even been told sometimes that is means “God of all Gods”.  I have never been able to live this name down.  Once when I was in University in the Bahamas we went to a magic show at the Cable Beach Casino.  I got asked to come on stage to help the magician with one of his apple juggling tricks.  He asked me my name, and then surprisingly what it meant, to which I blurted out “god.”  He then turned to the huge audience, with a smirk and said, “Everyone, meet God!”

The Strategy - You Can't Get Thrown in if You are Already In the Pool

That night at dinner, a betting pool was started by a fellow volunteer, as to whether I would finish before my country director or whether he would beat me to the finish.  The overwhelming majority bet on him - I guess my month of training in Dubai and anthroponomical (related to my name) considerations were not compelling enough reasons to put their money on me.  The plan for race day was to have a solid good night’s sleep, be up at 5am, get ready, have some breakfast and then at 5:45 a.m. take the bus we had chartered to the stadium for a race start of 6:30 a.m.   As fate would have it, and is usually the case when I am doing a marathon, things did not go to plan.  One year heavy volcanic ashing in Montserrat closed the airport and I nearly did not make it to Toronto.  Another year when I was in British Virgin Islands, the door of the aircraft would not close, and I eventually got to Toronto the day before the race.  This time it was a combination of mishaps.  First of all I got eaten alive by mosquitoes all night.  Then the abdominal discomfort and “fallout” from the lunch buffet a couple days ago, reared its ugly head several times during the night.  Then at about 3am the loudest thunder I have ever heard, apart from the erupting Soufriere Hills Volcano in Montserrat, started cracking and rain came pouring down.  My roommate had not locked front door properly, so I eerily awoke to a wide open door, a yellow burst of light and thunder.  My immediate thought was that the real god was coming to get me for impersonating him or her for the past 40 years.   After a few more hours of restless sleep I got ready and headed out to breakfast.  This is where the good news continued.

A Muddy Affair - The Bus Got Stuck the Morning of the Race

Our bus was stuck in a ditch on the muddy road leading to the hotel and could not get out.  We trekked in the drizzly darkness up the muddy road to where the bus was stalled, and valiantly tried to push it out of the ditch to no avail, which resulted in most us being smothered with red mud and my sneakers felt like lead. We decided to give up on the bus and made it to the main road, where miraculously a small dala dala (local bus) appeared with enough cramped space for the 12 of us who needed to get to the stadium for 6:30 a.m.  Despite the bus driver getting a bit lost trying to find the stadium, we made it on time, feeling like we had already ran a full marathon.  The good thing with this part of the world is that nothing really starts on time and the race would now start at 7:00 am., which was ample time to take care of my stomach issue which was flaring up again.  I did find a loo, but it turned out to be of the squatting variety, and notably absent were toilet paper and water.  My predicament reminded me of my friend Rod Stewart’s (all my friends have cool names) story about being in Reggae Sunsplash in Jamaica in a thick crowd, and getting a case of the runs.  It took him half an hour to get to the facilities only to realize that he had only 30 Jamaican dollars in his pocket and they were selling toilet paper at 10 Jamaican dollars per square, with the two-ply being split into one.  Rod isabout 6’3” and over 250lbs – 3 squares of toilet paper was not going to cut it.  Urgently needing to “go”, he pleaded with the vendor for some more tissue for his J$30 to no avail.  She did provide him with an option which was to use his hand, and then she would sell him J$30 worth of disinfectant to wash his hands.  Rod never told us what he eventually decided. Well I didn’t even have that option to consider so I chose to bear with the discomfort and hoped that when I started running the problem would go away.

My Country Director and I Battle it Out with a Bet on the Line

At 7 am about 250 marathon runners set out on the course.  It was drizzly and overcast, which turned out to be a major blessing since we never had to face a blazing hot sun.  Although the clouds did block out Mt. Kilimanjaro for most of the day.  The first 16 km of the 42.2km course was relatively flat and comfortable and then we hit the hellish portion.  Basically we had to run a 13km section, all uphill, mainly through coffee plantations to an elevation of 1300 metres.  In Montserrat where I trained for years, there were steeper hills to climb, but they were not that lengthy and usually you would encounter a nice flat section which would help.  No such luck here, it just kept going up and up and up, and to add to the misery my stomach started acting up again.

The Hills Didn't Seem to Have Bothered Him Too Much

The organizers did not help my situation with their offerings at the refreshments stations.  In any normal race, water, Gatorade, gel packs, bananas and even Vaseline are the norm, plus multiple porter-potties. Not this race.  It was a choice of water or tepid Coca Cola, and worse yet, chappatis (greasy Indian flatbread) at one station at the top of the uphill climb.   I racked my brain to try to recollect whether old folks from the Caribbean said that hot Coke was good for stomach ailments and hot Guinness was an effective morning-after fixer for women, or was it vice versa.  Dropping that thought, I started giving cut-eye to the coffee trees and their lush green leaves with serious excretionary intentions. Dammit, I should have paid more attention to that documentary on which leaves are safe to use as toilet paper in Africa.  Alas, I decided this would be unbecoming of someone whose name signified the omnipotent.  Well actually, the truth is I really didn’t want to lose valuable minutes to my running nemesis (my Director) crapping in a coffee plantation, after all I had a bet to win.  So I plodded on, surprisingly running without stopping about 12.5 km of the uphill climb. I only walked a short portion to get some rest, and then resumed the arduous climb, trying not to be disheartened too much by the other runners coming down the hill, heading for the finish line.

I Actually Sprinted to the Finish Line With This Guy - I Lost

You would think reaching the top would mean the worst was over and the next bit would be a leisurely 10km downhill descent to finish the race. It wasn’t to be.  My quad muscles were tighter than Joan River’s face and I had to resort to running backwards down the mountain to the amusement of many.  At one point I leaned up on a tree next to a refreshment station and almost gave up.  But then I saw my competition coming around a bend at a hurried pace and I summoned all the will in those achy muscles, reminded myself what my name signified, put my sneakers back on and took off like Forrest Gump.  What did help immensely was that an Aussie guy started running next to me at the same pace, and also some magic spray on my quads from the lady at the First Aid station.  I actually picked up the pace and left the Aussie with 2km to go, and entered the Moshi stadium to the cheers of my fellow VSOs in 4 hours and 39 minutes. By the way the Kenyans dominated, with the winner coming in 2 hours and 13 minutes and they took 18 of the top 20 places.

We Did It - Dan, Eddie, Me & Jean and Cold Kilis

After picking up my medal and t-shirt, I had a quick stretch and then came the treat which makes it all worthwhile – a cold Kili beer.  I then cheered on my competition who came in 6 minutes later and also Dan and Eddie who came in shoulder to shoulder in exactly 5 hours, but somehow in the official results Dan was ahead by 2 minutes. You can’t beat African timing.  I spent most of the afternoon trying to avoid getting thrown in the pool and collected about 25,000 Shillings as the winner of the bet with full bragging rights. I am not particularly religious, but maybe someone should have told my colleagues that when you bet on God, you can never lose. Next morning it was saying goodbyes to most of the group, as a couple of us were staying on for a few days.    Anyway it was a super experience and in the process I raised US$5,300 for education programmes in Tanzania, thanks the generous sponsorships from many friends and family.  Next up is the Peace Marathon in Kigali, Rwanda in May - now that’s a place that could have done with having me (God) around in 1994.  I say this in jest by the way.

You Can’t Win A Marathon Without Putting Some Band-Aids on Your Nipples

Having the Right Accouterments are Essential to Marathon Running

“Life’s a marathon – you can’t win a marathon without putting some Band-Aids on your nipples" is the most memorable line from Horrible Bosses, the funniest movie I have seen since The Hangover 2.  If you are male and have trained for a marathon you will understand why.  Unless you have man-boobs which wiggle around as you run, or you have proclivities for wearing bras, you basically have two choices in avoiding painful nipple chafing and even bleeding– applying globs of Vaseline petroleum jelly or Band-Aids to your man-tits.  I find the Band-Aids uncomfortable so I stick to the petroleum jelly.  There are other places on your body that you also need to apply Vaseline to prevent abrasion and chafing, but I will leave that to your imagination.  I must admit, I have the utmost amount of respect for chafing and have no qualms about going up to the cash register in the pharmacy with just a large tub of Vaseline or travelling with my supply.  As titillating and slightly greasy as this subject may seem, minimizing friction when running is serious stuff.  I have been known to scream like a girl in the shower after a long run because I forgot to apply my Vaseline, and was even once seen in Garry Moore’s Wide Awake Bar in Montserrat with a blood spots on my white T-shirt.  Good thing Gary is always asleep or else he might have thrown me out of the bar – well probably not because then he would not have a DJ.  Well enough talk about nipple burn and Vaseline – people reading this for the first time might get the wrong idea about this blog. This blog entry is supposed to be about my build up to running the Kilimanjaro Marathon in Tanzanian for charity in a few weeks.

The Best Airline I Have Ever Flown

Well as some of you know or have guessed by now, I am no longer in Zanzibar.  After 6 amazing months in the spice capital of Africa, I decided to leave my placement in early January and move to Dar es Salaam, the mainland capital of Tanzania.  I know some of you are thinking it is mainly because a Serengeti or Kilimanjaro beer on the mainland can be had for Tsh 1500 (less than US$1) or half the price of what it is in Zanzibar.  Well that’s not the main reason - although it does factor in significantly in terms of my lifestyle and also the limited VSO living allowance.  Let’s just say I had some personal and professional differences with the partner I was working with, and felt that is was best for both parties that that I left, which my employer (VSO) fully supported.  A few good friends that I have made in Dar helped me with the transition and with settling into what is one of the liveliest capital cities in Africa.  Well I use the phrase “settling into” loosely, since I spent only a week there before I was on an Emirates (best airline I have flown) flight bound for Dubai, where I have been for the past few weeks.  Before you think I am such a bad volunteer (and I have heard that from a few people recently) let me elucidate on my reasons for temporarily abandoning Dar es Salaam.

Phil & Karyn Making Sure I am Well Fed - Dishing Out the Delicious BBQ

As you all know I am the team leader for the VSO group running the Kilimanjaro Marathon on February 26th for charity.  I therefore have to be in tip-top shape, which requires being in a place with good running conditions.  While the Peninsula area of Dar is not bad for running, it is really hot and dusty, and can be dodgy with the crazy traffic and early onset of darkness – not to mention the killer potholes.  Secondly, since I didn’t have a permanent place of abode (I had been living in the VSO office accommodations), I need to be somewhere where I could have warm Epsom salts infused baths and a comfortable enough bed to sleep off those achy muscle pains after my long runs.  Finally, I have to nourish my body properly in the weeks leading up to the marathon.  My almost daily diet of friend kuku and chipsy (tough chicken and greasy chips), anorexic fried fish with white rice and cassava leaves, or peas-less pilau with a couple pieces of some sort of meat which reminded me of calf leather, was not going to cut it.  So to make sure I don’t embarrass myself on marathon race day, and at the invitation of two of my bestest friends in the world, I decided to temporarily relocate to Dubai (with VSOs permission) for a month.  I also figured that I would be able to use my time in Dubai to do some networking and get some more sponsorship funds for Team VSO.

In Front  the World's Tallest Building After Running the Dubai Marathon 10K

So here I am in the pearl of the Middle East, trying keeping up with a regular training regime, which is not too difficult since the sunny cool conditions are perfect for running, the roads are wide, and have parking shoulders on both sides. Dodging the crazy drivers is not so much fun, especially the female ones.  I must say I can really appreciate why Saudi Arabia bans women from driving and I mean this in the most non-sexist way.  The niqab (face covering) that the women wear is a driving hazard people and seriously restricts your peripheral vision.   I also do have to actively try and not be too distracted by all the spectacular sights and social activities that Dubai has to offer. It helps that I was here a of couple years ago, so the amazing architecture, the tallest building in the world, the amazing Dubai Mall, the world’s only 7-star hotel, the indoor ski slope and penguins in Emirates Mall, the modern Metro system that is so clean you can eat of the floor, the amazing weekend brunches, incredible sushi, and the good vino, has not disrupted my training too much.  I have been committed to my training and in fact even ran the Dubai Marathon 10K about on January 26th, which started and finished at the Burj Khalifa, the tallest building in the world.  I finished in 50 minutes, placing 149th in my age group.  It helps that I am now classed in the 40 to 49 bordering-on-geriatric age group, or else my placing would have been in the in the 1200s.  I have also been able to make a couple new friends, including a Trinidadian couple (we are everywhere) who have been helping me with my fundraising, for which I am very grateful.  I am actually proud to say that since being here I have now raised close to US$4,000,  not far from my fundraising goal of US$5,000.  So if you haven’t donated already and want to help me reach my goal, you can still donate at: http://my.e2rm.com/personalPage.aspx?SID=3217800&langPref=en-CA  

The Burj Al Arab-The World's Only 7-Star Hotel

I have to tell you that while the United Arab Emirates (of which Dubai is one of 7 Emirates) is stunning and an incredibly prosperous place to live and work, it is a sort of strange place to be.  Native Emiratis (which comprise about 20% of the total population) flaunt their wealth so blatantly that it makes the behavior of the latest batch of nouveau riche Russians seem way too staid.  There was a story this week of how vehicle number plate AB11 DBH is poised to be bought at an auction for close to US$500,000 because it spells out Abu Dhabi.  Mind you this is not the record – an Abu Dhabi businessman bought the number plate “1” for over US$13 million in 2010.  What are these people smoking? The President of the UAE also recently agreed to write of about US$600 million worth of debts accumulated by Emiratis to help them get a fresh start.  Man I was born in the wrong country.  Emiratis tend to keep to themselves and treat the majority expat and guest worker population, who have actually ensured their high level of prosperity, as expendable commodities and with quite a bit of disdain. Overworking and underpaying household workers, and also skimping on safety measures at construction sites are normal and almost seem acceptable.  You read daily about construction workers falling from scaffolding and dying, or of rocks falling and fatally injuring workers in quarries.  I guess I was born in the right country.

One of My 4 Plates of Food During Brunch at Jumeriah Beach Resort

What I find most interesting is their attempts to reconcile their enormous wealth, decadent lifestyle and fervent drive for modernity with their traditional Islamic beliefs.  This is all too apparent when I read the daily free paper called 7 Days (it is not an Adventist paper as I like to call it).  You see front page stories such as an Emirati teenage boy was being sent to juvenile detention for one month for kissing two sisters, even though they invited him into their house to do it.  Or, of an Indonesian housekeeper being sent to jail for one year along with her baby for becoming pregnant out of wedlock.  After serving her time she will be deported back to her home country.  Getting pregnant out of wedlock is a big no-no here and some female guest workers are so scared of going to jail and losing their jobs that they hide their pregnancies, deliver the baby and then abandon it.  One of the headlines in this week’s paper was actually about an Asian baby being left in a plastic bag outside someone’s house in the Mirdif area, where I am actually staying.  So not only I have to look out for crazy drivers and battle some blowing desert sand, but now I have to be on the lookout for abandoned babies on my running route.

Will Miss the Food but Mostly Karyn, Phil & their Little Genius J'ouvert 

Mind you with all of this, the men do not seem to be penalised for their infractions and in fact, Emirati men are allowed have up to 4 wives.   Well maybe the more than one wife is penance enough.  Recently the paper reported that one Emirati had to divorce 3 of his 4 wives because he claimed they were constantly arguing about who should move into the spare bedroom that had become available in their house.  See what I mean about the penance thing – he had not one nagging wife but three.  God bless him - maybe he should invest in some Band-Aids or globs of Vaseline for his ears.   This is not the sort of content I am accustomed to seeing in the newspapers that I am used to.  Nor was the huge advertisement for a Male Circumcision Project Manager I saw in the Guardian newspaper in Tanzania just before coming to Dubai – but that’s another story. Dubai is what it is though, and don’t get me wrong it is a great place to visit.  It is super safe, has excellent infrastructure and superstructure, mind blowing attractions, and for someone who has been around, you experience a level of service here that still  makes one go “wow”.  I have a couple more weeks here and will definitely miss Dubai, especially my two dear friends and their daughter, and most importantly their live-in housekeeper. Soon I will have to go back to eating chipsy and kuku, making up my own bed, fetching my own newspaper and doing my own laundry (I am such a bad volunteer). They did spoil me, but then again this is the place to be spoilt.

Xmas Over – Kilimanjaro Marathon Training Restarts

Xmas is Not All About Turkey (or Jesus) in My Family

For several years my Trini friend Karyn in Dubai has been trying to get me to run their marathon to no avail.  Every year I give her the same response.  “Thanks eh, but no thanks – it is too close to Xmas and that would be suicidal.” It is the same reason I have never attempted the Trinidad Marathon.  You see the month of December is sacred to most Trinidadians – well in my Hindu family not so much because of the religious aspect – we like it for the parties. We celebrate Xmas for a full month with parang (Spanish influenced music), tons of Xmas parties, and endless family get-togethers. And of course culinary and beverage treats such as pastelles (our version of tamales), curried duck, black cake, turkey, ham, punch-de-crème (eggnog) and ginger beer to name a few, are given elevated status.  Whether the celebrations are in Trinidad, Miami, New York or Toronto where most of the family are, the theme of the celebrations are always EAT, DRINK and BE MERRY.  Midnight Mass is more like Midnight Mas’ (carnival) in our family and the only items of religious importance we might encounter over the holidays are bottles of Blue Nun wine and when someone blurts out “Jeeessssus Christ - this food taste good eh”.   

This is Not the Zanzibar I Work at People!

Xmas 2011 was no exception – at the cost of my volunteers living allowance for the next 12 months and having to deal with multiple flights over 3 days of flying, I flew home.  There was another special reason I wanted to be home – I was turning 40 a few days after Xmas and did not want to miss out on any many presents or parties that would be held in my honour.  And it was a great Xmas - particularly thanks to Grey Goose and Vin Rouge and an endless supply of food from my big sister and other relatives.  I was also especially glad to be home in order to clarify to some of my family and friends that the Zanzibar I had moved to last year for work, was not the infamous strip joint on Yonge Street in Toronto.  I remember a couple years ago walking past that place with my nephew just before Toronto hosted the G8 and G20 Summits and the sign outside said "World leaders - forget about G8 and G20 and focus on G-Strings...Most of the World's Problems get solved in our Private Booths".  I had to chuckle then and chuckled again as I walked past it a few weeks ago on my way to the dentist. While in Toronto, I even had a mini reunion on Xmas day with two fellow Canadian volunteers who were in Tanzania – Venessa and Samantha. It was so good to see them, and Venessa and I were able to dish out some of our limited Kiswahili to each other, to the amusement of others.

Mt. Kilmanajaro Frames the Marathon Race Starting Area

With all of the holiday distractions and being a pragmatist, I have all always run my marathons and half marathons in the second part of the year, when I am fully recovered from Xmas and have done the requisite training. So how come I am doing one in a mere 7 weeks, right after 3 weeks of Xmas celebrations with family and friends? It is a risky proposition.  But I didn’t want miss a Xmas with my peeps, nor did I want to pass up on an opportunity to run the Kilimanjaro Marathon. Race day on Sunday February 26th will be my judgment day (now I wish I had gone to mass on Xmas Eve), as I attempt the 26.1 mile race on the foothills of the snow capped Mt Kilimanjaro, the highest free standing mountain in the world. I must say I am highly motivated for several reasons.  I am the team captain for the CUSO International and VSO volunteers taking part in the race so I have no choice.  I will be one of a handful people in the world who have ever attempted the Kilimanjaro marathon.  I might be the only Trini that has ever run the race.  Turning 40 in December will help my placing immensely in the race since I will now be in the 40-49 age category.  Kilimanjaro (the beer company) is sponsoring so there will be free beer for sure.  It is for a really good cause.  There are free T-shirts involved – one from my employers and one from the race organisers. 

Future of Tanzania Lies in Their School Bags

The most important reason why I am running the race though is because it is for a very good cause, supporting our education programmes in Tanzania. This program is managed by the Ministry of Education with the support of VSO and aims to improve the quality of education in both primary and secondary schools in 6 districts of the country.  Tanzania is one of the least developed countries of the world. Although the Government has made significant progress in terms of improving access to education, the quality of teaching is still very low.  As a result, a large proportion of children fail their exams and finish formal schooling with limited opportunities for employment, which in turns impact on the socio-economic development of the country. Our program aims at strengthening in service and pre service training of teachers, working with Teacher Centres, Teaching Training Colleges, and the Directorates of Primary and Secondary Education of the Ministry of Education.  The program aims at training 3,000 teachers, which will result in improved teaching for more than 42,000 children.

My Personal Fundraising Page Where You Can Donate

A lot of people have donated and supported my attempt to raise US $10,000 for our education programmes in Tanzania. So far I have raised about $1700 or 17% of my goal, so I have a very long way to go.  So hear is where I need you.  Please go to my personal running page and sponsor me and support our efforts.  All you need is a credit or debit card or pay pal, and any donations small or large would be welcome.  Think of it as a 40th birthday present to me and how it will make a significant improvement in the lives of over 42,000 Tanzanian children.  Also, please feel free to forward the link to this blog and my fund raising page to as many of your friends, family, work colleagues and contacts. Asantini sana (thank you all very much). My fundraising page can be found at http://my.e2rm.com/personalPage.aspx?SID=3217800&langPref=en-CA 

2012 Kilimanjaro Marathon Here I Come!

So you are asking yourself WHAT IS HE UP TO THIS TIME? Well will be running the Kilimanjaro Marathon on February 26th, 2012 for charity and need your support.  Your next question IS HE NUTS?

Logo for the Race Next Year

The jury is out on that one as I do eat Marmite and the mountain's name does seem to suggest that it can kill man (Kili-Man...).  But I have done 5 marathons before and health permitting this will be my 6th and perhaps the most special one. I was one of the founding members of the Montserrat Running Club, which organizes an annual Volcano Half Marathon (www.volcanorunner.com) on the tiny volcano-devastated island in the Caribbean in support of various charities on the island. Sadly I was not able to make the 3rd edition on November 26th, 2011. 

WHY IS HE DOING IT – DOESN’T HE HAVE A DAY JOB?

Finishing & Giant Free Beers!!

It will curtail my social life a bit in early 2012, but as you all know, I relocated to Zanzibar in Tanzania about 4 months ago to work as a VSO (Voluntary Services Organisation - www.cuso-vso.org) teacher at a Hospitality and Tourism Institute.  In order to send volunteers such as myself overseas and support its work in developing countries, VSO Canada depends heavily donations from the public.  For this particular event we will be raising monies for VSOs education programmes in Tanzania and Zanzibar, something very close to my heart.  

IS HE THE ONLY CRAZY ONE DOING THIS?

Nope.  I will be joined in by a team of other volunteers and supporters and I have been appointed coordinator and team leader for the group. Me-Team Leader! Wow, now you know they are also nuts. 

WHAT DOES HE REALLY WANT FROM ME?

Mt. Kilimanjaro

Open your wallets and please make a donation to this worthy cause through my personalized RUN FOR THE WORLD fundraising webpage that has been set up by VSO.  The link to this webpage can be found at http://my.e2rm.com/personalPage.aspx?SID=3217800&langPref=en-CA All you need is your VISA, MasterCard, American Express credit card or a Paypal account and all donations made through the website will go directly to VSO. I have set a lofty target of raising US$10,000 for VSOs Education efforts, so any donation small or large would be appreciated.  Also, as some of you know I will be 40 on December 29th this year.  So in lieu if any extravagant Xmas/Birthday presents and parties, you can donate to this worthy cause instead.  Still though, a new Blackberry Torch would also be nice!!

You can continue to follow my build up to participation in the race on this blog at http://trininomad.blogspot.com/ and also on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=672160432&ref=tn_tnmn  

A Bit of Montserrat (and Marmite) Makes a Visit

My Farewell Rum Shop Tour in Montserrat - Red Theme

As much as I am loving the African experience, I do miss living in the Caribbean and Canada (except bloody Arctic-type winters in Ottawa).  In particular, I miss being on The Big Smoke - Montserrat - the tiny British Overseas Territory in the Caribbean with 4,600 inhabitants, an active volcano, 10 days of celebrations for St. Patrick’s Day, and a crime rate so low, that the Her Majesty’s Prison is commonly referred to as the “Three Seasons Hotel”.  I spent 5 of the last 6 years of life there painting the town red (black and white) every weekend and sometimes during the week; organising rambunctious Rum Shop bus tours for charity; playing Sparrow's (and sometimes even singing) music in every bar; most importantly supporting the beer economy by keeping the price of Amstel and Heineken up.  By the way, Montserratians are apparently per capita, the highest consumers of Heineken in the world.  The flour boat may not come for weeks and thus no bread, and the volcano might be erupting for 6 months in a row covering the island in grey snow, and these cause far less panic and frenzy than when the boat loaded with the Heineken from St. Maarten cannot dock at the port because of rough seas.

My Montserrat/UK Care Package Arrives

I was also gainfully employed while there, being responsible for marketing the island overseas, or as one of my friends in the business termed it, the most difficult job in the world. I had to grapple with very limited room stock and infrastructure; a tiny airport with a 600 metre runway (think 9-seater planes with one pilot); an intermittent ferry service from Antigua which usually had more buckets of KFC than it had passengers; frequent volcanic explosions; and constantly having to battle with the colonialist mentality of a plethora of bureaucrats and consultants from the “mother country” that did not know their ass from their elbows as we say in Trinidad. That being said, I really loved the people, and working and living there.  I am especially proud of being one of the founders of the Montserrat Running Club, which organises an annual Volcano Half Marathon (www.volcanorunner.com) in support of various charities on the island.  Now in its 3rd year, the next half marathon actually takes place this Saturday November 26th, and I won't be there to help manage or run the race (or drink the cold Guinness).  Last year I famously collapsed over the finish line and had to use the cold Guinness that was waiting there for me to ice my legs, rather than drink it.  I eventually got into the ambulance that nearly collided with a water truck on the way to the hospital, where I ended up being treated by Dr. Bootun.  She is a lovable, well spoken certifiably mad woman on the island, who occasionally dons a stethoscope, sneaks into the wards, and dishes out diagnoses to unsuspecting patients.  She once broke into the Montserrat Cultural Centre, built by former Beatles producer Sir George Martin, and threw her own one-woman concert, and then chopped and made off the bottom of part of the velvet stage curtains.  The manager of the Centre was confused as to how part of the curtain went missing, until someone pointed out that  Dr. Bootun was wearing a beautiful velvet dress on the streets that week.

With Jean-Jacque and Pat at Zanzibar Coffee House

Anyway I am digressing about the main point of this story.  Last week a bit of Montserrat came to Zanzibar via none other than the king of liming himself, Dave Campbell.  Dave and his lovely Montserratian wife Trish were living in Montserrat for a couple years while I was there and moved back to the UK just before I had left.  Both of them were in Montserrat for a wedding last month (the former manager of the Cultural Centre was tying the knot…hopefully not in a velvet dress) and Dave was given a 2011 Montserrat Volcano Half Marathon t-shirt by my friend Henry to bring for me, since he mentioned that he would be coming my way in November.  Dave was going to be in Botswana for a few weeks, and decided to do a side trip with one of his best friends (another Dave who is a Judge in Botswana) to Zanzibar.  A few days before he arrived, I hurriedly sent him an email asking if he could also bring me some good dark chocolate (a rarity here) and of all things, a bottle of Marmite!  Not sure how many of you have experienced the "pleasures" of eating this pungent, salty, yeast-extract, that looks like Nutella but is a far cry from it.

Modeling my Montserrat Shirt with Dave in Front my House

I got introduced to Marmite while at University in the UK - served on crackers with crisps at 4 am after a night out.  You either love it or hate it. And I happen to love it. But then again I also love salted cod, smoked herring, pickled herring, Solomon Gundy (smoked herring pate from Jamaica and sometimes referred to as West Indian caviar) and canned sardines, so that would kinda explain the fixation with Marmite.  When Botswana Dave met me for the first time he said "so you're the Marmite guy" - in other words, so you’re the nutter with the Marmite festish. For those of you who are not au fait with Marmite, it is vegetarian, a by-product from making beer (and as you know I am a big supporter of the beer economy), is loaded with B vitamins, and importantly, can be applied to skin to prevent malaria mosquitoes from coming near you...mind you no one else might come near you but that’s another story.  Aside from a few rainy days and the fact that hot water from a running tap and air conditioning seems to have eluded them for most of their stay, Dave and Dave had a really good trip.  I got them addicted to Zanzibar Coffee House, and I got my Montserrat fix and caught up on all the Jus Wonderins’ (news) from Montserrat from Dave, so much so that the other Dave pleaded at dinner one night for us to declare a moratorium on mentioning the word Montserrat. We honestly tried....but that would only last a few minutes and somehow we would manage to weave something about Montserrat back into the conversation.  I guess at the end of the trip Botswana Dave realised that Montserrat is a really special place and when it gets under your skin it is hard to shed and get rid of....kinda like me and Marmite during mosquito season.

What Do Daladalas, the Dalai Lama, and Dead Rats Have in Common? Bienvenue a Dar!

The Calm Before the Storm - Heading to Posta

So I had been here for a couple months and still had not been on a Daladala (local “buses”) either in Dar or Zanzibar.  All of this changed in the last few weeks as I had the “pleasure” of travelling on both.  First  in Dar about 3 weeks ago when attending VSOs In Country Training (ICT) for a week, with the newly arriving volunteers.  I had arrived at the end of July “out of cycle” and so had missed the ICT then, including all the “pleasures” such as learning to take a Daladala, staying at the Econo Lodge or dodging rats and roaches on the streets of Dar.  The newly arriving group of 15 persons was mainly Canadian, British and Dutch, mostly couples and quite keen to get to know Dar…the sort of keenness one displays when arriving in an exotic locale.  Encountering a dead rat on the pavement close to Econo Lodge within the first few hours of arrival, just as the rigor mortis was setting in, was surprisingly taken fairly stoically by the newbies – including a very British “Owh” (must have been the jet lag).

Hanging Out the Door - Jam Session

For the first day of actual training we had the pleasure of taking an air conditioned bus to the VSO office and everyone was a pleased as punch (if this was the Caribbean and I was ten years younger there would have been some actual punch on that bus).  This temporary bit of luxuriousness soon evaporated upon entering the VSO compound.  While the bus was at the gate waiting for the security guard to open it, just outside my window I noticed an Indian crow had dissected a dead rat and had it sprawled across a branch on the beautiful flamboyant tree, and was hungrily picking at its legs.  Lots of thoughts rushed through my mind – how come I could never dissect like that in Biology class; was this part of the ICT training welcome; if that crow was West Indian might there have been some pepper sauce and ketchup on the branch as well; why is there a crow eradication programme in Tanzania (for another blog) as they seem to be doing a darn good vermin control job; was the crow also staying at the Econo Lodge and had the pitiful breakfast we had every morning and thus had to resort to drastic culinary measures to supplement his calorie intake; and finally, should I alert the others.  It was early in the morning and my stomach was still adjusting to the greasy coffee and spartan breakfast at the Econo Lodge (2 slices of white dry toast, a dab of butter and jam, a piece of watermelon smaller than my palm and if you are early, a banana so small it must have been bred for pygmies), so I stayed quiet.  Vanessa (Greek-Canadian volunteer and my liming buddy for the next week) did notice crow’s le petit dejeuner de rat,  and we had a good laugh about it later on – more on her later.

Amen! - Wer're off the Daladala 

Day 2 was D-Day…we had to walk to Posta - the bus stop, and take the famous Daladala to the VSO office.  In total 18 of us were going to attempt to learn the art of pushing, weaving and fighting our way onto a mauve striped bus, designed for about 25 passengers, but which easily carries 50 to 60 persons.  Instructions were issued by Robert and Claire (our ICT leaders who were also volunteers and patient as Job with our lot) and I given the unenviable task of trying to cordon off the entrance to the bus with my body and then push all our people on board.  I guess I was chosen because I looked like I had done this before or because I was West Indian – where lines and orderly queues are not one of the English traits that we adopted under hundreds of years of colonial rule.  When we got to Posta it is not so bad.  There appeared to be a few people milling about by the roadside and everyone looked calm… and then bus came, and all of a sudden people appeared from nowhere.  The passengers exiting were being crushed against the hordes of people boarding.  

My Water Bottle Had No Chance

Me cordon off what entrance? This was like rushing a PTSC bus on San Fernando Wharf when I was in High School…chivalry was dead and each man (and woman) for himself was the policy then and so it was now.  Some people were even climbing through the window to get in, and while all this mayhem was taking place, the passengers already on the bus were looking at us killing themselves with laughter….if you read their minds I am sure they were saying “Look at those poor Mzungus (white people)…like they don’t they have taxi money or what?”.   Miraculously we all got on the same bus – all 18 of us.  Most of us had to stand – more contorted than a Cirque de Soleil performer, packed liked sardines and inhaling a scent of what I can only describe as Eau de Toilet, coincidentally, the same fragrance as the towels at the Econo Lodge.  The ride was fun though…and just when you thought the bus could not pick up any more passengers, they would stop and another 6 or 7 persons would board.  So this is what is must feel like in a WASA fete in Trinidad or Soca Monarch Finals (well if I ever went to those).  I was packed in so tightly that you could tell how much coins the person standing behind you had in their pocket – well I hope that was a roll of coins.  The water bottle in my knapsack pocket crumbled under the pressure and looked like it had just come back from space.  But for 300 Tanzanian Shillings (about 20 cents US$), and the free jam session, it was worth the experience.   The icing on the cake though with this whole jokey experience, was that some people had apparently confused the word Daladala with Dalai Lama, and thus their Facebook update later that day read something like “I rode the Dalai Lama in Dar all the way to VSO Office this morning….it was hot and sweaty but so worth the price….can’t wait to do it again tomorrow.”

Dar es Salaam Skyline from the Red Onion Rooftop Bar

The rest of the ICT training went well,  and here’s a summary of the highlights of the rest of the week.  We took the Daladala a few more times (although some of us cheated and paid for taxis sometimes).  We faked a birthday for Margaret at the Badminton Club and got free wine and lots of attention. Vanessa had a roach run over her foot in front of the Econo Lodge and then someone tickled her heel in the lobby and she screamed like Little Richard and jumped into Margaret’s arms – guess she did not see the “No Immoral Turpitude in This Hotel” sign at the lobby at the Econo Lodge (no alcohol is permitted either). Vanessa tore her trousers before the cocktail lime at the Canadian High Commission compound’s social club (guess she really didn’t see that immoral turpitude sign) and had to cover it with a scarf so we called her a gypsy (well to be honest I did).  I accidentally spilled beer on the High Commissioner’s feet (it was bad Peter’s fault) so he bypassed Peter and I during his “hi, how are you” rounds.  We had a couple more memorable nights at the Badminton Club and also at the rooftop of the Red Onion Bar, where we once sat calmly while literally a rat race going on behind the outdoor AC units – where are those damn crows when you need them.  Or, by the way the actual ICT classroom training was very good as well.

Zanzibar's Daladala - What Can I Say? Nice Roads Eh!

Last Sunday I did my second Daladala trip. This time it was from Stone Town to Jambiani where I live.  I had spent the night in Stone Town after attending our VSO Zanzibar Volunteers Meeting at Chwaka Bay Resort.  The free lunch buffet was excellent, the free beers were cold and the pool was nice and warm.  Or, and the actual meeting was very good as well.  Anyway, after a day of mostly lazing around imbibing,  and a rowdy bus ride back to Stone Town, I met up with a VSO Canadian group that were in Tanzania for a few weeks to interview myself and other Canadian volunteers for VSOs 50th anniversary celebrations in December.  After an excellent night out on the town with them, I struggled to the Darajani Market the next morning to catch the Daladala.  Unlike Dar, I did not have to fight my way into the bus, as it was virtually empty and was parked for an hour waiting to fill up.  I thought to myself – this ain’t so bad.  But it was.  Whereas in Dar where the vehicle was an actual bus, this Daladala was more like a large pick-up truck with a roof, and a line of vinyl covered seats around the periphery of the tray (think taxi BVI).  Standing was not an option and as it went along its way, it kept picking up more and more people and cargo, and I had to fight to keep the few inches of space that I occupied.  This Daladala I estimated had space for about 15 people.  At one point I counted 36.  Not to mention we had a wardrobe on the roof, ten boxes of groceries, 3 bicycles, 2 x 4 planks and steel rods for someone’s house, bundles of firewood, containers of petrol and of course there was that famous Eau de Toilet parfum scent.  A drive that normally takes us 1 hour with the school jeep, took about 3.5 hours, including the waiting period at the stand.  Again, it was an interesting experience and cost a mere 2000 Shillings (about US$1.30) compared to US$50 for a taxi.  Also, the contortion practice I received on the Dar es Salaam Daladalas amply prepared me for the trip. For when I came off the Daladala in Jambiani, the natural curvature of my spine returned immediately and I did not look like the Humpback of Notre Dame – a position which I assumed continuously for almost 2 hours.  So now I can tick off “Ride the Daladalas” off my “Need to Experience in Africa” list.  Up next – drinking homemade Konyagi (gin made from papaya), which I am pretty sure does not come with tonic water!