Dar es Salaam Diary

So I’ve gotten in the habit of walking to work. It takes about an hour, which means I have to leave my house at the ungodly hour of before 7 AM, but with the traffic in the morning I really don’t save much time by taking the dala-dala. Plus it’s nicer to arrive at work without the neck cramp and residue of sweaty, awkward embraces that a morning dala-dala ride necessarily entails. It also affords a chance for some daily meditation and low-impact cardiovascular exercise! (Multi-tasking, so American…)

I tend to lose myself in thought as I make my way, whether attempting to determine how my being in Tanzania contributes my (extremely nebulous) “life plan” and the good of the world, trying to make sense of a Larium-enhanced dream, or simply marveling at the fact that I’m awake, out of bed, dressed, and on my way to work at 7 in the morning. These deep thoughts are frequently interrupted since, as I may have mentioned once or twice, I don’t entirely blend in.

The taxi drivers around the corner from my house have eternal hope that I’ll abandon my morning constitutional for a ride to work and are always quick to offer their services. When I politely decline, they commence with a volley of greetings that feels like a Swahili quiz:

Karibu! (Welcome!)
Asante. (Thank you.)
Habari za asubuhi? (What’s the news of the morning?)
Nzuri. (Good.)
Za kazi? (How’s work?)
Nzuri. (Good.)
Mambo vipi? (How are things?)
Poa. (Cool.)
Salama? (Peaceful?)
Salama kabisa. (Totally peaceful.)

In addition to the taxi guys I can count on a few other regular encounters as I make my way to work. First is usually my buddy with the shiny, bald head and bright red tie, who deftly maneuvers his hand-crank wheelchair up the hill, always stopping to give me a grin and occasionally admonishing me for being late. Then there is the tiny old man with who acknowledges my “Shikamoo” (an expression of respect for one’s elders) by clasping his hands over his heart and making a little bow, smiling until his eyes squeeze shut.

Unfortunately most mornings I also have to avert my eyes from the half-naked (yes, that half) junkie who wanders along the side of the road by Selander Bridge, a somewhat notorious spot, if perhaps only due to his presence.

The other day I made a new friend, this one fully clothed, and about 6 feet tall, with a white skullcap and matching beard. As is more often the case than not, I was running late, and thus trying to walk quickly in order to arrive at work somewhere within the realm of on time. One of the men I brushed past caught up with me and said something in Swahili that I didn’t quite catch. When I asked him to repeat himself he did so in English, explaining that he was complimenting me for being a “good walker.” We began chatting and he explained that he had lived in the States during the Johnson administration, having gone to Atlanta, Georgia to study fingerprinting and handwriting analysis! He was quite pleased when I exclaimed, “So you’re a detective!” and explained that he now works “independently” but if I had any problems that could be solved by identifying fingerprints and analyzing handwriting, I should look him up.

This being Tanzania, my new Private Eye friend being a man, and me being a woman, he was quick to ask me whether I was married. I answered with my practiced “Bado.” (Not yet!) He assured me that he didn’t think it would be long because I was a “good, cheap woman.” Um, excuse me? He explained that he could see that because I was walking I wasn’t one of these women who is always asking for money for the bus or a taxi or something else. I laughed and said that yes, I enjoy walking and am in no hurry to get hitched. He seemed to think this was a wise choice, and encouraged me to go and further my studies before settling down with a family. Apparently despite being past 70, he is still supporting 9 of his 14 children… Hopefully he will get a jewel heist or lucrative forgery thrown his way soon!

Not sure if it’s the humidity or the fact that dinner out is often greasy bits of roast meat and fried banana eaten entirely with one’s hands, but living in this country is not good for my skin. However, having gotten over most of my painful adolescent self-consciousness, I was finally convinced that my occasional acne is not necessarily the first thing people notice when they look at me. Well, there goes that milestone of self-actualization.

Acne is apparently another novelty here in Tanzania, and my recent bout of bad skin has been the subject of vocal concern of more than one of my acquaintances. The other day neighbor insisted that I should go to a doctor to get “that stuff” checked out and my manager at work suggested that I might have “malaria of the face.” Sigh.

I know a young woman here in Dar who is pursuing a Ph.D. in Geography, conducting research on the way different groups of people relate to the city. She calls herself an “urban geographer.” Lately I’ve been feeling a bit like an amateur urban geographer, interacting with and observing different subcultures and activities as I seek to expand my social network. This past weekend my research subject was the Hash House Harriers, an eclectic group with a shared fondness for drinking beer, running, singing raunchy songs, and verbally abusing each other.

Hashing is a global phenomenon, started by a British military guy in Malaysia, according to hash lore. Basically, a hash is kind of like a scavenger hunt for runners, except nothing is being “scavenged” and as far as I can tell it’s basically an excuse to drink a lot of beer… The person leading the hash (the “hare”) goes ahead and marks the course, using small piles of flour or shredded paper, occasionally leading the hashers down dead ends (which are marked with X’s). The hashers then go out and attempt to run the marked course to the finish without getting lost. They are rewarded for their efforts with (lots of) beer, which they drink while singing the aforementioned raunchy songs and performing rituals such as pouring beer on their heads and on each other. All hashers have “hash names,” most of which refer to sex, drinking, or, well, that’s about it. (I feel a bit remiss that I did not learn the real name of a new Kenyan friend who said I could stay with her if I ever visit Nairobi. I fear I’ll be a bit too embarassed to ask around for “Global Dick Teaser,” or “Teaser” as she was more affectionately known…)

Anyway, I was afforded the opportunity of observing the hashers in their native habitat by receiving an invitation to participate in the annual Dar-to-Bagamoyo Hash Relay. Actually it was Rachel who got the invitation, since she sometimes joins the more serious Dar running group (many of whom are hashers too) for their weekly Thursday evening run. The 72 km from Dar to the beach-resort town of Bagamoyo were split into 17 legs of running, walking, and biking, which were shared among the 12 or so people on each team. We were accompanied by two motorcyclists, a beer truck, an ambulance, and the “Blunderbuss,” a van that served to transport the athletes to the start of each leg. The driver of the Blunderbuss, like many of the other participants, started drinking at the beginning of the day (7 AM!) Despite his increasingly belligerent state, he was not relieved of either his driving duties or his megaphone, but somehow we all survived… I waited until the relatively late hour of 10:30 AM to pop open my first Kilimanjaro of the day, and it was actually the only one I consumed during the run.

I somehow managed to run/walk nearly 14 km total (something of a feat considering that I’ve hardly been running lately) and I’m proud to report that my team (Hare and Tortoise) came in second out of a field of six.

My fellow hashers were, as noted above, an eclectic bunch. The majority of the participants were wazungu, but there were some Tanzanians, as well as a visiting team of Kenyans. Americans were the distinct minority; many more Brits, and South Africans, with a few Irish and Aussies thrown into the mix. Basically a lot of reasonably sunburned and pudgy folk (beer drinking in copious amounts does not exactly contribute to the most athletic of physiques). A bit vulgar at times, but quite nice. My evening concluded with a British fellow slurredly telling me that while he hated American politics, the “rednecks” he had encountered in the States were “some of the most salt-of-the-earth people” he had ever met.

So, while I did meet some nice people, I’m not sure if I’ll be a regular on the Dar hash circuit. As Rachel put it, the whole scene has a somewhat cultish feel, and while I do enjoy drinking beer, singing silly songs, and verbally abusing my friends (who doesn’t?!) I fear not in quite the quantity that the hash requires…

This past Saturday I was awarded the dubious honor of being asked by my boss to go with him to the annual World Bank/Government of Tanzania meeting on public expenditure monitoring and poverty reduction. Apparently this meeting used to be about a week long, with four days spent discussing public expenditure reviews and two spent discussing implementation of Tanzania’s poverty reduction and growth strategy (or, MKUKUTA as it is more commonly known by its Swahili acronym), which is the joint agreement between the World Bank and the GoT laying out a long-term plan for, you guessed it, poverty reduction and growth. In any case, this year the meeting was condensed into two days, with the stated rationale that public expenditure reviews should inform implementation of MKUKUTA and vice versa. Another view is that the whole meeting is largely a formality, so who cares if it’s only two days long. In any case, a look at the schedule was rather telling in terms of the faciliators’ priorities… Over the two days, “civil society representatives” had about 40 minutes total to speak, whereas there were two separate cocktail receptions, one of which was two hours long…

Unfortunately I did not stick around for the cocktails, but I did get to shake hands with the World Bank country director for Tanzania and Uganda, a somewhat stern but plucky seeming woman… I particularly enjoyed when she pumped her fist in the air in response to a “shout-out” she received during one of the morning. (I suppose the World Bank did just agree to give TZ 200 million bucks this year, so she deserved her props). Another highlight was the inappropriate use of Hanukkah clip-art during one of the Power Point presentations. A Tanzanian World Bank guy was giving a presentation on the Public Expenditure and Financial Accounatibility Review (did I mention this was how I spent my Saturday?!) and got to a section in which he was recounting “highlights.” In order to underline the fact that he was presenting the highlights, he had adorned the Power Point slide with three huge menorahs superimposed on Jewish stars… The humor of his choice was lost on much of the audience but I did hear a few other stifled laughs.

So anyway, I think that there was a lot about this meeting that I didn’t really understand or fully appreciate, but it was an interesting glimpse into the political landscape here in Tanzania. It’s especially interesting being here after working in Washington, D.C. for two years since the scene is so different.

Different how, you ask? Well, perhaps since I’m still in Power Point mode, I will enumerate those differences in three bullet points:

• The lack of a true multi-party system
• The proliferation of donors
• The politicization of “civil society”

Tanzania has a somewhat unique political history in from independence (in 1961) until the 1980s it was a socialist, one-party state. Tanzania’s first president was the much-loved Julius Nyerere (he’s up for beatification, I believe), by many accounts a visionary and an inspiration, but by others the cause of great “backward” strides in terms of economic development. Tanzania only became a multi-party democracy in 1992 and while there are now about 10 political parties, all the three presidents who have followed Nyerere (Ali Hassan Mwinyi, Benjamin Mkapa, and the recently instated Jakaya Kikwete) have been members of the current iteration of Nyerere’s party (the Chama Cha Mapinduzi, or the Revolutionary Party). Tellingly, in the last election, Kikwete received over 80% of the vote, and few people are able to articulate what the differences are between CCM and the opposition parties. The Kikwete regime is also referred to as the “Fourth Phase” government, as in the fourth phase of the CCM’s rule. So, this means that “the Government” is a pretty united entity. Perhaps this makes it more effective since not plagued by the partisan gridlock we suffer in the States, but I’m not sure…

The second point, which I have touched upon briefly before, is the ubiquitous presence of donors (foreign development agencies, such as the U.S. Agency for International Development, or USAID) in Tanzania. Last year, over half of Tanzania’s budget was funded by foreign aid. As I noted earlier, the West is fond of giving Tanzania money since this is an African country characterized by relatively low corruption, stable institutions, and peace. This might at first seem like an unequivocal good thing, but it actually ends up creating significant problems for the Government, since Tanzania does not have the channels for effectively absorbing all the money that is pouring in. To put it in development policy wonk jargon, Tanzania is having significant challenges in terms of “operationalizing” all of the donor funds. Furthermore, since money talks, the Government often finds itself more accountable to donors than to the citizens. In addition, donor support is often uncoordinated and disjointed. In response to this lack of coordination, there is a current push for donors to provide what is called “general budget support,” whereby all aid money is put into one big pot that can be used at the government’s discretion. But this raises further questions about accountability (it might be easier to skim off the top of the pot without anyone noticing, e.g.), and many donors are still not so keen on the idea, since they still want to fund their pet projects.

The government is not the only recipient of donor money, however. The other major beneficiaries are non-governmental organizations (NGOs), such as my own dear employer. Perhaps the fact that the government and NGOs are competing for donor funds is what is behind the politicization of civil society. I was struck at Saturday’s meeting by the level of defensiveness on the part of government officials regarding the role of civil society. There was a lot of harsh rhetoric about how NGOs should stop telling the government to be transparent and should open up their own books, etc., etc. This sort of ire is nothing new after spending nearly two years of D.C., but it’s weird when civil society as an institution is under attack, rather than different political parties facing off against each other.

So, to grossly oversimplify, in D.C. I was used to the “good guys” and the “bad guys” being the two major political parties (you can use your judgement as to which is which). Whereas here the main division seems to be between civil society and government (again I’ll let you use your judgement…) What’s more, the amount of donor money being thrown around makes everything a bit murkier, as does the fact that TZ has a relatively non-confrontational culture and so “advocacy” as we understand it in the States is in its infancy. As I’ve lamented previously, the whole scene reeks of neo-colonialism at times, but I also don’t think it would be the best thing in the world if all the donors just pulled up stakes and left…

OK, I think that’s enough political babble for now, especially as I’ve been sitting in complete darkness for the past hour and a half and the reserve battery on my laptop is about to run out (Apparently they’ve started rationing the power again, which is a bit annoying…)

For proof that I do more than ponder over the political ramifications of the current world order in Tanzania, please see my photos, which have been updated with pics from our recent housewarming party (and my new, it’s-perpetually-hot-and-humid-and-I-didn’t-pack-a-blowdrier haircut!!)

This past week afforded further glimpses into the lifestyles of other Americans here in Dar, which in turn led to further self-reflection on my current role (yes, more quasi-existential musings!), which of course I now feel compelled to share with you, my captive audience.

I’ve never been much of a patriot, and in general do not conceive of my being American as one of my defining characteristics. But I do always notice that I have a much stronger sense of national identity when I’m spending time abroad. As my world-travelling aunt put it to me early on in my stay here, “You’ll be surprised how happy you will be to meet another American, even if he’s a fascist!” Not sure about fascists, but I have found that the people I have clicked with most easily here have also been Americans.

However, I have retained enough discernment (some might say latte-sipping, East Coast liberal elitism) to recognize that there are some pockets of the American ex-pat community in Dar that will remain sufficiently foreign to me despite certain commonalities.

Take, for instance, the scene at the American Embassy this past Thursday. It was my first time inside the Embassy walls and an experience in and of itself. The Embassy is truly a fortress – a reasonably enormous compound with large white buildings, lush green grass, and a miniature version of the Capitol’s reflecting pool! The high level of security is understandable given that the former U.S. Embassy was bombed in 1998 by terrorists. However, some aspects of the Embassy are a bit more difficult to understand – for example the fact that every single thing within the walls is imported from the States, down to the grass seed!

The event which brought me behind the Embassy walls was the weekly happy hour at the Marine house (there are approximately seven U.S. Marines guarding the Embassy). Some of my friends are fond of going, especially because the happy hours usually feature the screening of a recent movie outdoors. (This is a treat since while Dar is home to Tanzania’s only movie theater, the options tend toward outdated action and kids’ movies and 4-hour Bollywood extravaganzas so can leave something to be desired.) This past Thursday, however, there was no movie being shown since three Marines were being bade farewell as they were leaving their post here.

The scene, as my housemate Michelle put it, was like a Midwestern barbeque. I was kind of overwhelmed by all the blondes… Lots of young families and Southern accents. It was also just a bit awkward to be participating in an emotional farewell for three people who I had only just met, one of whom is proudly heading off to guard the U.S. Embassy in Iraq. But, the happy hour was held the day before Cinco de Mayo, so we honored the holiday with the requisite margaritas and Mexican snacks. (Also a treat, as I know that the tortilla chips they were serving retail at the local supermarket for over 7 bucks a pop!)

This past Saturday gave me another chance to see how the “other other half” lives, when some friends and I went over to the house of a U.S. Embassy employee for dinner. I spent a fair amount of time gawking at the contents of his cupboards and refrigerator, which were stocked with American goodies such as Rice Krispie Treats and Kraft Mac & Cheese that are almost impossible to find here, or are ludicrously expensive. Embassy employees are allowed to ship over their worldly goods in huge containers, and it was clear that our friend had done some serious shopping at Sam’s Club before coming to TZ. As we admired the ocean view from the screened-in balcony on the third floor, enjoying some respite from the frigid A/C that permeated the rest of the house, I marvelled at the fact that this guy, like all of his Embassy coworkers, is receiving “hardship pay” – a bump up in in his salary to account for the fact that he is having to “rough it” here. (I suppose 7 dollars for a bag of tortilla chips is a hardship of sorts…)

Our friend is sufficiently savvy of this irony, it seems, and has been known to refer to his experience here as “Africa Lite.”

So, I suppose the point of this somewhat snippy set of anecdotes is to comfort myself that while I am reaping some benefits of my mzungu privilege, I am experiencing a bit more of the “real” Tanzania than many of my compatriots – namely, annoying fluctuations in my power and water, a lack of air-conditioning at home and at work, squishy dala-dala rides, and to top it off, no hardship pay to offset the cost of ridiculously expensive Mexican food!

OK, I'm definitely flattering my photographic abilities, but I just wanted to direct your attention to my photos as I have posted some new ones of my house and my recent trip to Zanzibar.

The house is still coming together, but this weekend we finally got (kind of ridiculous, crushed velvet, overstuffed) couches so it's starting to feel a lot more like home.

Warning: the following post contains quasi-existential musings and academic buzzwords!!

As noted in my previous post, mzungu (plural: wazungu) is the catch-all term used to refer to any white person in Tanzania. In general it is not meant to be derogatory, but the constant reminder of one’s obvious difference can get a bit tiresome. And it really is constant. Children are fond of chanting “mzungumzungumzungu!!” when you pass by; dala-dala drivers will brag loudly should they have an mzungu passenger; and if someone doesn’t know your name, they’ll just call you “mzungu”. (As in, “Mzungu! Habari gani?” which roughly translates to “Hey, whitey! What’s up?” And actually, after my run on Saturday morning, someone did just shout, “WHITEY!!” as I passed by.)

In general I don’t really mind it, perhaps because I’m still enjoying the fact that I’m something of a novelty here in Tanzania. However, there are certainly days when I would prefer to be anonymous, and that’s not really ever an option here. Moreover, I’ve been struggling with the place in society where my “mzungu-ness” necessarily locates me. Basically, the history of wazungu in Africa is a rather sordid one, and while I don’t have any personal links to colonialism, it is difficult to ignore the fact that many of the privileges and comforts that I am afforded here are owed to its legacy. Perhaps more to the point, these comforts and privileges result from the fact that I am a person from one of the richest countries in the world currently living in one of the poorest countries in the world.

Tanzania is one of the biggest recipients of international aid in Africa, since its relative political stability and low level of corruption make Western governments feel good about giving the country money. While I don’t doubt that there are genuine altruistic urges behind these funds, the manifestation of donor money into a profusion of ex-pat “technical advisors” and “experts” creates a scenario that bears an unsettling resemblance to colonialism – that is, a bunch of white folks coming into a country and presuming they know better than the native inhabitants.

Locating myself in this landscape can be tricky, especially as I find myself wondering what tangible skills I really have to offer (or to use the cringe-worthy lingo of the international NGO world, what my “value-add” is…) I mean, I know I’m an Excel maven, but sometimes I’m jealous of people like doctors who can help in more direct, concrete ways.

It’s also just kind of weird to be living in Dar, since the fact that all the embassies, U.N. agencies, and a number of international NGOs are located here means that the ex-pat community is very large, and has the potential for being very self-contained. Indeed the majority of ex-pats in Dar live, work and play exclusively in the mzungu ghetto that is the Msasani Peninsula (though it is far from “ghetto,” with sprawling beach-front estates outfitted with satellite televisions, tennis courts and kitchens stocked with American groceries). My salary – as well as my squishily-defined reasons for being here – precludes my living on the Peninsula, however I do find myself socializing primarily with other wazungu. My (white, American) roommate and I have lamented our lack of Tanzanian friends, and wondered if we might be having a more “genuine” experience if we were rather living in some remote village where ours were the only white faces for miles around.

But anyway, enough self-flagellating over-analysis. Suffice it to say that I am having a “genuine” experience as an mzungu living and working in Dar es Salaam! I may not know what the hell I’m doing here, but hopefully attempting to figure it out will be part of the adventure…