Category: Life in Tanzania Page 2 of 3

You Just Never Know When a Coconut Might Kill You

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On February 25, 2016

In Life in Tanzania

Gil took this picture, but he wanted me to make sure to tell you that I took all the rest of the pictures in this post.  So don’t blame him for my lousy pictures, okay?  

Today’s lesson:  Never underestimate the importance of backyard safety.

A quick Google search reveals important safety precautions such as:

  • Clear up small pools of water that can breed mosquitoes.
  • Be careful not to leave out hot charcoal in a grill.
  • Have a fence separating the driveway from the play area.
  • Don’t leave children unattended with dogs.
  • Make sure children always wear shoes outdoors.
  • Never ever have a trampoline.

I was surprised though, that not a single internet list considered this one:

  • Beware of falling coconuts.

These backyard-safety-list-makers must not live in the tropics.  Everyone around here knows that you never intentionally stand under a coconut tree.

Our neighbors had a coconut tree that angled itself into our yard, so that the coconuts hung precariously over the area where we hang our clothes out to dry.  My house helper, Esta, told me that she was often nervous to spend any time out there, working on the laundry.  And after watching a few coconuts fall directly into the area where my kids had been pulling down clean clothes, Esta and I decided that was final: The tree needed to come down.  

Don’t mock me.  

So what if falling coconuts may or may not kill only 150 people per year?  Sharks kill less people than that, and people are still afraid of them.  If you had a shark hanging out where you put up your laundry, I’m sure you would ignore the statistics and get rid of that too.   

Gil, of course, rolled his eyes.  A falling coconut can deliver a force up to a metric ton, I told him. He asked me how many people I know who have died from falling coconuts.  It doesn’t matter.  Personally, I don’t want my laundry experience to be so stressful.

So yesterday, the tree came down among a crowd of neighborhood onlookers.  We hired a couple of guys to climb it, hack off all of the coconuts and palm fronds, and then cut the trunk down.  With only a machete.  You want to see skills?  These guys got skills.  

AND I was completely vindicated, you mockers.  As they were cutting down the coconuts, one of them fell onto a metal cover on our water tank, and SMASHED IT.  Yep, it smashed a metal cover.  Into pieces.  Did I mention that it smashed a metal cover?  See?  That could have been my head.

However, now that I look at the list of backyard safety issues, I guess I better turn my attention to the mosquitoes breeding in our septic tank.  Or my barefooted children, unattended dogs, un-fenced play area, zip line, un-netted trampoline, or the large pit of burning trash.  

But hey, at least no one will die by a falling coconut.

For those of you non-tropics dwellers, those hairy brown things in the grocery store do not actually start out like that.  Coconuts have a three inch deep husk.  Like I said:  The force of a metric ton.
Comin’ down.
Skills, People.

The tree cutter.  He asked me to take his picture; he was pretty proud of himself.

Never Trust a Dead Chicken

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On January 30, 2016

In Life in Tanzania

Josiah and Johnny came running into the house, slamming the door behind them.  “Leo killed a chicken!”  they yelled.

Not again, I thought.  I peeked out the window, and sure enough, the proud dog had deposited his prize right at the front door.  He looked at us hopefully as it lay there in a heap of feathers.  Um, sorry, Leo.  I’m not as excited about this gift as you are.

Since Gil was out at a training session, and I am quite convinced that disposing of dead chickens is men’s work, I sent a text to our gardener (who lives on our property), asking him to come help.  The chicken most certainly belonged to one of our neighbors before it made the unfortunate appearance in our yard, and would most likely want to be eaten by said neighbor.

The children continued to examine the chicken from the window, and Leo picked it up and started playing with it.  Not wanting chicken guts all over my front porch, I opened the door to tell him off.

In that moment, the dead chicken came to life!  Leaving a trail of feathers and squawking loudly, it headed right past me, through the open door, and into the house.

Bedlam ensued.  I screamed; the kids screamed; the chicken ran one way and the kids ran the other.  I grabbed a broom and headed after the chicken, hollering at Grace to come help me.  We cornered it in the pantry, where it managed to fit itself into every possible nook and cranny.  We finally managed to shove it out the back door, while I hollered at Josiah to tie up the dogs.

In pure chicken-like intelligence, it still ran towards the dogs that had already killed it once.  Grace opened the gate, and while I tried to prod it towards freedom, it promptly keeled over and died.  Again.  Now its head was under its body while I attempted to sweep the lifeless chicken towards the gate.

The chicken, who should be commended for its remarkable tenacity, once again sprang to life.  Thankfully our gardener showed up, and in one deft move, grabbed it by the legs.  He put a ladder up against our outside wall and peered over it, looking for the owner of the infamous chicken. The owner thanked us for rescuing it, but I’m guessing that dead-alive chicken is still going to end up in someone’s pot tonight.

I, however, would be very reluctant to try to put that death-defying chicken into a pot.  Boys and girls, we learned a very important lesson today:  Never trust a dead chicken.

How My Cell Phone Changed My Life in Tanzania (And Not How You Would Expect)

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On January 25, 2016

In Life in Tanzania

In Tanzania, paying bills used to be a colossal pain.

First of all, this is an entirely cash-based society.  Credit cards are slowly starting to show up, but still very rarely.  So in order to pay any bill, I needed to find cash.  That meant finding a working ATM, which used to be quite a challenge.  ATM’s are more plentiful now, but almost everything still requires cash.

Electricity comes through the LUKU box in our house. Electricity is pre-paid; you get a receipt with a number on it, which you enter into the LUKU box, which recharges your house with electricity.  In order to buy LUKU, I used to have to drive to find a LUKU shop with a working computer.  Sometimes that would require two or three stops.

Paying for internet required a 40-minute drive into town.  Paying the water bill meant a drive to the water company.  Getting airtime on my phone meant picking up phone vouchers at a shop.  Sometimes I felt like my part-time job was paying bills.

I wasn’t sure what it would take for this to change.  Most Tanzanians don’t have a bank account, so the idea of a checking account or credit cards wasn’t going to take off any time soon.  The only postal system is through post office boxes, and again, most Tanzanians don’t have one.  Thus, the traditional western system of bills in the mail would never be an option.  The modern western system of on-line banking is generations away.

So without bank accounts, mailboxes, or credit cards, how would the bill-paying system change?  There is, however, one thing that almost every single Tanzanian does possess–a cell phone.  You can go out into the deepest, remotest reaches of Tanzania (and most of Africa), and find cell phones.  You’ll see the Masai herdsman out in the middle of nowhere with his cattle–and his cell phone.  Even in villages with no electricity, you’ll see shop keepers with a generator or a solar battery, making a business out of charging people’s phones.

Source:  here

So some brilliant people–I don’t know who–established a method of cell phone banking.  Every cell phone in Tanzania–and most other African countries–is connected to a sort of virtual bank account.  It’s not really a bank account–there’s no central institution and no interest accruing.  But I can go to any “Wakala” (Agency)–and they are everywhere–and deposit cash onto the account connected to my phone number.  For my phone service, this is called M-Pesa.  



This system, which has been around for a few years but has become increasingly easier and more accessible, has changed everything.  

Last week, I received my water bill as a text message.  I then went into my M-Pesa account and paid the bill through my phone.  I can purchase LUKU through M-Pesa.  I can pay for internet through M-Pesa.  I have sent money to local newspapers to run advertisements for our training program.  I have paid a hotel bill and an airplane ticket.  I have sent money to an electrician.  Last week, I was collecting money for a group birthday gift, and a bunch of people sent me money through M-Pesa.

And let me get one thing straight.  I have a completely dumb, $25 Nokia phone.  Smart phones are plentiful here; I just have no desire for one.  An American might pay for his water bill on his phone as well–but in reality, he is not using his phone–he is using the internet.  This is not on-line banking; it’s an entirely different system that is totally based on the cell phone.

It’s absolutely brilliant.  This is the kind of innovation that is changing the developing world.  Pay attention.

Wailing

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On October 21, 2015

In Life in Tanzania, Poverty

Last week, the wailing crept through our open windows.  I instantly recognized the sound:  Someone nearby had died.

The funeral proceedings, which last for a few days, were set up right outside the wall around our  yard.  A hundred people sat on mats and plastic chairs.  Sometimes they sang.  Sometimes they wailed.  Sometimes they just chatted quietly.

Eventually, I got the story.  A young woman had died.  She was only 32 years old, was married, and had four children.  She lived a bit down the street from our house, but her father and sister live next door to us.  We didn’t know her, but her children had played in our yard with our kids.

She died suddenly, of a strange illness that came on very quickly.  They described it to me as “pressure” in her chest.  Her heart?  I asked.  Yes, they said.  I’m not sure what to make of that.  Maybe a heart attack?  But at age 32?  She had been healthy, they said.  They just shook their heads sadly and shrugged their shoulders.

It’s a story I’ve heard over and over again.  The lunch cook at HOPAC died suddenly this past July.  She had only been married two weeks.  A student from our training program lost two baby boys when each was only 9 months old.  A friend lost twin babies.  Another friend lost two sisters within two years.  And on.  And on.  All from strange, unexplained illnesses.

In Swahili, when someone gets better from an illness, you use the expression Amepona.  Since it was always used with illness, I assumed it meant He has recovered.  For example, if your friend was down with a bad cold and misses a couple of days of work, when he comes back, you might ask him how he is doing.  Nimepona, he will respond.  I am better.

One day, Lucy (my language tutor) and I were working on the story of Noah’s Ark.  When we got to the part about Noah and his family living through the flood, Lucy said to me, Walipona.

Walipona! I repeated in surprise.  But Noah and his family were not sick!  So I got out my dictionary and looked up kupona.

The literal translation is not to recover.  The literal translation is to survive.

In English when someone is sick, we would only say He survived if we were talking about a victim of cancer or a heart attack.  But when referring to recovery from a common cold, a headache, or the stomach flu, we say, He recovered or He got better.

So what I discovered is that in Swahili, when you recover from any illness, the response is literally translated as I survived.

After living here all these years, after hearing of person after person dropping dead for unknown reasons, listening to the stories of almost every mother losing a child, I am beginning to understand.

Of course, I don’t really understand, because I have access to the best health care in Tanzania, and if that doesn’t suffice, I have access to better health care anywhere in the world.  I really know nothing of the fear and apprehension of imminent illness and death.

The United States has 2.3 doctors for every 1000 people.

Tanzania has .02 doctors for every 1000 people, one of the lowest ratios in the world.

Once again, I am reminded of how privileged I really am.  Once again, I ask what else God expects of me for blessing me so much.

Today, thank God if you live in a country where recovery is expected and survival is the norm.  And pray for four young children–Vale, Tony, Aaron, and Jackie, who have just lost their mother and may never know why.

After This, American Bridal Showers Will Always Be Boring

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On October 29, 2014

In Life in Tanzania

It all started when Alyssa and I asked Lucy (our language helper) to teach us
about ndoa—marriage—in Tanzania.

And out of that discussion, we learned about The Kitchen Party.

The Kitchen Party is called Kitchen Party in Kiswahili. Yeah—not so hard to translate that one. Except you say it with an accent—Keechin
Pahty.  It’s sort of like a Bridal Shower and sort of like a Bachelorette Party- sort of.

As she was telling us about this, suddenly she brightened.  “My neighbor is having a Kitchen Party next month.  Do you want to come?”

Umm….but we don’t know her.

“That’s okay!  She will want you to come anyway!”

Umm…okay!

So we got our Required Clothes.  Friends are to dress alike.  So Lucy bought us our dresses, so that we would all match.

And last Wednesday, we were off.

We decided to take a taxi.  Neither of us like to drive at night here, and neither of us knew where we were going.  So we found a taxi, and handed the driver my phone with Lucy on the other end, who told him where to go.

We ended up at a little hall in a neighborhood that is mostly poor, completely full of life, and definitely not a place you see many white people. We were, to put it bluntly, the talk of the neighborhood.

The invitation said the party would start at 6; we arrived at 6:30.  We poked our head into the hall.  Large piles of trash were being swept up and decorations were being hung.  Not a single other guest was there.

 We teased Lucy about this, since she is the one who told us to arrive on time.  “This is Tanzania!” we told her.  “Why did you think it would start on time?”

So we found a bench and waited for an hour or so.  We took selfies and told ourselves that we would only speak in Kiswahili that night (which was mildly successful).  After a while, we attracted all the neighborhood children, who stared at us and pointed and practiced their English.  “Good morning. What is my name?” they would ask us.  And then giggle until they fell down.

At about 7:30, we wandered back over to the hall.  The decorations were up, some guests had arrived, and the DJ had his music going at one level:  LOUD.  However, the Bibi Harusi–the bride–had yet to arrive.

But everyone was dancing.  So we did too, trying to be inconspicuous.

We realized very quickly that being inconspicuous wasn’t going to happen.  Perhaps we were clued in when at least half dozen of the guests asked to get their picture taken with us.

Then, the MC approached Alyssa on the dance floor.  “I like you,” she told her.  “I am looking for someone to open the champagne.  I want you to do it.”

First of all, you should know Lucy told us that everyone thought we were sisters, and that Alyssa was the dada (older sister) and I was the mdogo (younger sister).

I was perfectly okay with this.  It allowed me to hide behind my older sister while people asked her to do things like open the champagne.

Alyssa, however, was horrified at the idea of opening the champagne, considering that it was a ritual we knew nothing about, and because the one and only champagne bottle was perched in front of the Bibi Harusi’s throne.  Oh yes, it was indeed a throne.

Alyssa begged Lucy, “Please don’t let them make me open the champagne!”

Lucy ran off to take care of it and came back satisfied.  “Don’t worry.  I told her you are mshamba and you don’t know how.”  Mshamba–literally means ‘farmer;’ colloquially means ‘backward.’   Um, okay.  If being mshamba means getting out of opening the champagne, go for it.

Finally, at 8:00 (two hours after the scheduled start time), the bride arrived in all her splendor.

And she was indeed beautiful.  By this time, I think there were about 80 women in the hall.

After the MC introduced everyone, she said, “And now I want to call up Mama Alyssa.”

Alyssa and I looked at each other in absolute horror.  Alyssa turned white as a sheet.  Lucy whispered, “Oh yeah, when I told her you couldn’t open the champagne, I suggested she ask you to pray.  That’s what she wants you to do.”

Zombie-like, Alyssa got up from her seat.  Lucy added, “Just pray in English.”

But that amazing friend of mine got up there, took the microphone and prayed….in Kiswahili.  She had no warning, yet she totally rocked it.  Oh yes—I will gladly call her my sister.

The next part of the evening was the “advice giving.”  Various women got up and advised the bride on all sorts of matters pertaining to marriage, including the X-rated parts.  Which could be considered a little amusing in this circumstance, considering the bride already has two children and is pregnant with a third.

After each woman gave her advice, everyone came up and danced.  There was a lot of dancing.

Which brings to me to my favorite part of the evening:  the presentation of the gifts.  Seriously, American women, we’ve got something to learn from these ladies.

Lucy had instructed us not to wrap our gift.  “If you wrap it, they’ll just think you have a tiny present in a large box,” she told us.

Oh no…no wrapping allowed.  Because when you present a gift in Tanzania,  you show it off.  Just like this:

And what had Alyssa brought as our gift?  Knives.  Oh yes, my friends.  She knew we would have to dance with our gift, so she bought knives.  That’s why I like her so much.

So there we were, two white women and one Tanzanian woman, all wearing matching dresses, dancing with knives above our heads.  I’m so sorry you weren’t there to take pictures of us.

Since there were quite a lot of women present, and each gift was presented with quite a bit of fanfare, this went on for a while.

At 10:30 pm, dinner was served.  Lucy whispered, “They don’t serve the food until the end so that everyone has to present a gift before they can eat.”

The professional photographer, who had taken our picture with all those strangers earlier in the evening, had run out, printed them, and was now selling them to the ladies for 60 cents each.  We tried to buy one of the pictures with us in it, but they had already all been sold.  Our picture is now on unknown ladies’ walls all over Dar es Salaam.

We left for home at 11:00.  Our taxi driver was asleep in his car while he waited for us.

It was a completely fascinating and fun experience.  Lucy was incredible to take us, and she took such good care of us.  And Alyssa–well, there’s no one I would rather do life with here than her.

The next day, Lucy came for my Kiswahili lesson and we talked all about the evening.  I told her about American bridal showers.  I didn’t bother telling her about the game where you win safety pins by catching people with their legs crossed, because she already looked a little bored.  I don’t blame her.

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