Malawi

It's a shame I had leave Tanzania on a sour note, having been scammed out of $20 ... then again, it was a small tuition to pay for a valuable lesson in "trust your gut" logic.

Here's how it went down:

Arriving at dusk in the quaint, hilly town of Mbeya in south-west Tanzania, I slipped passed the throng of taxi-hustlers into the almost-empty office of the bus company to gather my wits and get oriented. After sitting for 13 hours, I was hoping to walk to the hotel recommended to me by some other travelers. So I asked the man behind the counter where the hotel was and he pointed me in the right direction. Noticing it was getting dark, he offered to walk with me. His English was clear and he seemed harmless, so I accepted. Walking up the hill to the center of town he introduced himself as Patrick and told me he was from Malawi. It just so happened that I was trying to get to Malawi the next day, so I asked him how I might get to Malawi, which is when I let my guard down.

Long-story-short, he ended up selling me a bus ticket for a bus that didn't exist on the Malawian side of the border. All along I didn't feel right about the paying up front, but he said he was going as well, and the hotel manager at Hotel Sombrero (yes, like the Mexican hat) vouched for him: "This is your man," he said, when I told him Patrick was helping me get to Malawi. But half way to the border, Patrick slipped out of the mini-bus when I wasn't watching.

As I crossed the bridge over the Songwe River into Malawi, I was still hopeful. But learning that there hadn't been a bus in days pretty much confirmed my suspicion, so I decided not to wait or ask around for "my" bus. Again, it was an important refresher course for the over-confident traveler: never let your guard down, especially in port towns (Mbeya was the main junction for all rail and land transit coming to and from Zambia and Malawi, connecting both countries to the Indian Ocean).

If nothing else, the experience made arriving in Malawi all the more rewarding. Crossing the border, the difference was almost instantaneous: people were more relaxed, more friendly and everything was less expensive. Even the domesticated animals (goats, pigs, chickens, cows and dogs) were more at ease around people (often a little too much at ease near the highway, I later experienced). Making my way south, I admired the many farms among the green hills and fishing villages along the giant Lake Malawi. Sure there were the usual annoyances, like the smell of rotting fish juice dripping on my shoes in a minibus, or the horrid squeal of the goat shoved under the back seat. But Malawi was different. Besides, I had a new language to fail at learning: Chichewa.

After a little rest and recreation in the Caribbean-esque oasis of Nkhata Bay, I made my way towards Malawi's charmless capital. In Lilongwe I was to meet Tim and Scott, two brothers from Arizona, both good friends of mine since childhood. In fact, the impetus of this whole journey to Africa was to visit Tim, who is now in his third year of the Peace Corps.

Scott and I had been discussing a visit before Tim even departed in 2006, but we kept putting it off. Fortunately for us, Tim signed up for another year after completing the required two, but time was running out, again.

Now the three of us were converging in Lilongwe on a given day: Scott flying from South Africa, myself via Tanzania and Tim (probably hitch-hiking) from some remote village. After a brief but cordial reunion, we set off on our much-anticipated African adventure, which began in the least expected way: playing a friendly game of softball with a group of other Americans (mostly USAID workers) at a country club. It had been several years since I last swung a bat or put on a baseball glove, but the experience, however surreal, was good, reminding me to let go of my expectations and sense of reality.

The next day we sat on the edge of the main road to Blantyre on the outskirts of Lilongwe, waiting for a lift (AKA hitch-hiking). For over an hour we watched the vehicles passing us with no regard; semi-trucks and buses spewing diesel exhaust; cars and 4x4s racing down the road. Trying not to show my impatience, I sat. Scott asked how long he typically waits: "Sometimes five minutes. Sometimes five hours," Tim replied, gesturing inquisitively at the next vehicle to zip passed us.

As a volunteer living on a couple dollars a day, he was required to live like most Malawians do: simply and frugally. Hitch-hiking helped save money, which was limited, but not necessarily time, which was somewhat unlimited. The previous night I felt a bit guilty that a USAID worker bought us beer for the softball game, another ex-pat gave us a ride across town to another USAID worker's house where dinner was prepared for us; guest rooms and showers with hot water were also part of the deal. When I asked if all this was OK, Tim's nonchalant response was difficult to argue with: "Take what you can. Don't ask questions."

Back on the side of the road, we were soon picked up by a Malawian driving a new LandCruiser. Enjoying the luxury of seatbelts and air-conditioning, the driver cruised passed all the trucks, cars and buses that previously ignored us, arriving in Blantyre in what must have been record time. But upon disembarking I made a mistake, breaking the poor-man's vow of silence, and asked the driver if he'd like 500 Kwacha ($4.00) for gas. "So little?" he responded ... I'm a slow learner.

Two weeks later, sitting beside the same road, now hoping to find a ride in the opposite direction, we waited more than two hours before a semi-truck grunted to a halt, fitting 5 people in the cab and taking us only half way. The second half, we found ourselves tensely braced in the back of a pickup traveling 140km/hour. The pickup driver, from Portugal (not a good sign for those who know of their driving reputation in Europe), said he drove the road several times a month and assured us he knew it well. He also knew where to stop, made evident by insisting we stop for "a drink at a nice little place I know just outside of Lilongwe ... There are three sisters there ... They are very nice!" It was kind of awkward to be drinking lukewarm beers in a dingy whorehouse, but he was paying ("Take what you can...") We soon insisted we be on our way after the second round because a friend of Tim's was expecting us for dinner ("... Don't ask questions.").

After 2.5 years of living in (in my view) extremely humble conditions as a Peace Corps Volunteer, I was surprised to find that Tim hadn't changed much at all, physically. Granted, he could walk barefoot with ease on very rough surfaces, but I was expecting dreadlocks and a shaggy beard, maybe even some traditional native garb ... or even children! But Tim was still Tim. However, over the two weeks we meandered around Mozambique and Malawi, I noticed significant (admirable) changes in his person; changes which I assume to be the result of all the cold splash-baths and Black Momba encounters.

Though I didn't stick around long enough to see Tim's current project: managing food for the World Food Programme at a refuge camp north of Lilongwe. I did have a chance to see the village where Tim was based for two years, in the dusty, neglected, southern tip of Malawi called the Nsanje district. I'll limit my description, so as not to overly misrepresent his experience, but considering he had to walk 3km to get water and never had electricity, I think it's safe to say he had it tough. Adding to the challenge, Tim's original project, working with the local wildlife preserve, fell through early on (due to flaky local counterparts). So instead of insisting Peace Corps officials bail him out, he managed to get a lot done with very little. Among the accomplishments he mentioned were establishing a tree nursery, managing a village jam-jarring project, pig farming, bee farming, guinea-fowl farming, teaching, working with HIV/AIDS sufferers, constructing classroom benches and ultimately coordinating the construction of a couple sturdy new classrooms (doubling the size of the village's school).

The reactions of community members upon Tim's return to the village explained very clearly that he was a valued member of the community; perhaps a symbol of hope, or perhaps just an interesting "mzungu" (white man). We were received as special guests of the school's headmaster, enjoying a traditional meal. This was after a special encore dance and song was performed for us on the dirt "stage" of the mud-brick church. While the paint was still fresh on the recently completed classrooms, most of Tim's other accomplishments were slowly coming undone. But it was most sad to see Tim's frustration upon returning to the hut he called home: finding many of the trees he planted dead and repairs to the structure undone. But I suppose that's the point of the experience: not to change things, but to change minds (and I don't mean just the locals' "minds").

I've often heard people say that volunteering for the Peace Corps is a "cop out" for the "real world." In fact, notions like this have even discouraged me from pursuing such an experience. Exceptions there surely are, such nay-sayers couldn't be more wrong. From what I can tell, these volunteers believe the goodwill of humankind is greater than themselves, transcending borders. These volunteers are not out there to save the world; they're saving America, one village at a time. It's a shame our country cannot afford to recruit and fund more efforts such as these. Then again, "peace" is not as easy to sell as "terror."

Tanzania - Arusha and safari

It's difficult to do anything in northern Tanzania without spending a little time in Arusha. And it's difficult to get anything done in Arusha. So one must prepare for a bit of difficulty.

But there are some who have faith in Arusha, such as foreign nations as Arusha has become a hub of international activities for East Africa. For example, the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda is being held in Arusha. If anyone anted to follow up on justice as it applies to the real-life "Hotel Rwanda" story, check out www.ictr.org

I also learned why there were no hotels available in Arusha when I arrived: because a very large business and political summit was underway, called The Sullivan Summit. Though I was oblivious, this was big-time for Tanzania, mostly because it drew some big names from America. According to the Arusha Times the names included "Reverend Jesse Jackson, Kelenna Azubuike of the 'Golden State Warriors' basketball team, actor Lou Gossett Jr. (of the film credit 'A Good Man in Africa), a team from Black Entertainment Television (B.E.T.), Frank Ski of CBS Radio, TJ Holmes of CNN Television" and and I'm also told that Chris Rock made a surprise appearance.

The reason I heard about Chris Rock was from overhearing chatter that he broke the news of Obama's clinching the Democratic nomination. A few days later, back in Arusha, I was sitting at a restaurant while a crowd of Tanzanian (black) men were watching Hillary Clinton on an Al-Jezeera broadcast. Everyone, including myself, watched intently. The words coming out of her mouth were measured, and when she declared her support for Barack Obama, people broke out in cheers. It was amazing. I even got a bit of a lump in my throat. For reasons beyond the obvious, Africans like Obama. It also helps that his grandmother lives but a few hours north in Kenya.

As I was saying, Arusha for tourists is difficult. This is because there are so many tourists, which draw many hustlers, who flock to the incoming bus terminal for their chance to get a commission from a hotel or a safari company. Being the "slow" season, the odds weren't in my favor.

Having shaken several touts, I walked briskly towards a recommended hotel. When I found out that they were full I had to eat crow and ask the tout who'd followed me, despite my impatience with him, for help. He pointed across the street and there I found my bed for the night. Somehow in the time it took to walk from hotel A to hotel B I was suckered in to booking a safari. Well not entirely, but I was on my way and in one hour I will have followed the text-book wrong-way to book a safari. But much to my pleasant surprise, all worked out.

Though the vehicle that showed to pick me was on time, it had a different company's name. And the people who joined me were of different nationalities than I was told. And their itineraries were a little different than mine. But by 9am we were on our way: a Canadian couple, a Norwegian couple, a cook, a driver and myself, rambling down the road towards Lake Manyara in a noisy diesel Land Rover. Our trip was a three-day, two-night camping safari. We were all anxious to share our concern and relief as the trip materialized.

I'll spare you every detail as there are many books and movies that describe African wilderness much better than I, but I will say it's grand and impressive. Especially having now seen four of "the big five" in Ngorongo Crater, Tarangeri National Park and Lake Manyara National Park. So that's lions, elephants, rhinos, cheetahs but no leopards (I think that's "the big five"). Add giraffes, zebras, water buffaloes, wilderbeasts and a myriad of other animals we've all seen in National Geographic and that was our safari. It seemed so strange to be able to drive around and see these animals in their natural habitat. Then again, all the safari cruisers made it seem less natural, though the animals didn't seem to mind, and in the end I didn't either.

There wasn't enough time for the Serengeti, and for the price I was paying I didn't want to push my luck. In fact, the third national park took some arm-twisting to get. Even to the last day, when our driver and Land Rover where no where to be found, we had to keep reminding the safari operators that they had to fulfill their end of the bargain ... and a bargain it was! … Let me back up.

Having booked a too-cheap-to-be-true safari I knew I was in for a ride. But the two other couples (from two other companies) had similar situations. The driver and cook were from another company and the vehicle was from yet another. Being the slow season it took FIVE companies to get this safari underway. Granted, it was all last-minute, but FIVE companies? This worked to our advantage as we played each company off each other and got the full tour in the end. Thank goodness for cellphones (the Norwegian couple had just bought one for Tanzania), as we were able to call the agents back in Arusha, even from our "remote bush camp", and keep everything on track. So on that last day, they were going to have us take a local bus back to Arusha, but we made them send the guide back and show us Tarangeri. An African adventure indeed!

Back in Arusha, I booked the next bus to make my long-awaited arrival to the Dar Es Salaam, followed by a time-traveling excursion to Zanzibar. But that'll have to be the next chapter as I need to get moving again.

Tanzania - Lang'ata

A lot has happened in the past couple weeks since I left you hanging in Moshi. I am well and continue to enjoy my travels, though I've returned to my old habit of moving at a fast pace. I now have a couple spare hours to catch up on emails, so I'll send a couple "chapters" your way.

When I last wrote, I had just accepted an invitation to visit the small village of Lang'ata, a place that is not on any map, and I only learned of an hour before. But I was guided by an American Peace Corps volunteer named Ethan who I had just recently befriended.

We soon hopped in a "dala dala" (the minibuses that zip around like flies and pack people in like sardines - notoriously dangerous). Quickly I was reminded of my language deficiency as the toddler next to/on me kept grabbing the hair on my arm, repeating something like "wei-wei paka, wei-wei paka." Fortunately Ethan, sitting behind me and fluent in Swahili, understood and when I asked him what this child wants he smiled, "he's calling you a cat". I guess the child hadn't seen too many blond people so closely. So I jokingly told Ethan to tell the child I'm actually a lion and eat small children with no manners. He repeated this and the adults nearby laughed.

The child let me alone for a while until he announced he had to go to the bathroom. Evidently they'd been traveling a while and the child, who often wanted to get out of the minibus, had used the bathroom excuse before.

His mother, calling his bluff, told him to go ahead. I was oblivious to all this and would have moved the child off my knee had I understood, but I soon understood as my pant leg was getting wet and the child turned to me and grinned - I could not tell if he was embarrassed or proud. I assumed the latter. And so began the adventure into rural Tanzania.

My pant leg as dry by the time we pried ourselves out of the dala dala, and we were now covered head to toe in orange dust as the other passengers opted for dusty air instead of suffocation. I was amazed by how quickly we had transitioned from the lush Sub-Equatorial forests to a low, dry desert. I felt somewhat comforted as many of the thorny trees resembled the Mesquites and Acacias of Arizona. But I was soon reminded how far away from home I was as we had moved from the foothills of Kilimanjaro to a distance where I could now see an unobstructed view of its massiveness directly to the north.

Lang'ata is a small fishing town along the shores of the Nyumba na Mungu resivoir south of Moshi. Most houses are made of mud bricks, while some are concrete. Nothing elaborate, nothing wasted. With occasional water and sporadic electricity, the residents fill tanks when there's water and plug in refrigerators when there's electricity. Ethan's house was newly constructed for the purpose of housing teachers should the volunteer program continue. Again, a basic construction, with a basic furniture collection, but lacking any furnishings (like a kitchen). The bathroom consisted of a small sink, a tank of water, the floor of a shower basin and a long-drop toilet (in other words, a hole in the floor).

After unloading my pack, Ethan said we'd have a walk through the town, which would be a great introduction to a minimally adulterated, authentic Tanzanian culture.

With several tribes forming the community, the people of Lang'ata were cheerful and welcoming. Women wear traditional clothing and have traded the colorful baskets they were known for carrying on their heads for colorful plastic buckets. Men wear a mix of traditional and western clothing. Many men/boys wore T-shirts from the States (for some reason many T-shirts had prints of the rappers Eminem and 50cent - I guessed that they're either popular in Tanzania, or so unpopular in the US that leftovers got sent abroad). And it seemed everyone over the age of 10 wears sandals.

As we walked through the meandering trails along the houses that make up the dusty village, friends of Ethan would greet us and invite us in to their houses. Ethan explained that he'd been teased for being rude when he first arrived because he'd would not stop and greet people, so we stopped often. However, greeting people is more than a cordial exchange of words. I soon learned that the custom was for guests remove their shoes, enter the home, exchange a script of pleasantries and sit in the living room while the host (most often hostess) brought us a drink - a Pepsi or tea. My Swahili hadn't improved much beyond four or five words, but many of the people had studied English in school, remembering enough to make a basic conversation - I'd just resolved to tell everyone that I'm from California because everyone knows California ("California? Yes. Yes. Arnold Swarch-negar. Ha! ha!", is far more pleasant than anything they might know of current/former political icons from Texas or Arizona!).

Even the Maasai family (traditionally the nomadic, cattle herding tribe famous for their walking sticks, colorful robes and jumping) on the outskirts of town, brought out some piping hot milk and some stools for us to sit on while we joked about the English they knew and the Swahili and Maasai I didn't. They also got a pretty big kick out of the view-finder on my digital camera.

Ethan's situation was pretty good. He was well respected as a teacher and as a community member. I asked him a lot of questions about his life there and as he explained the in's and out's of the community, I learned that things are much more complicated than can be understood in a couple days.

But I did gather a few impressions and ideas: This town was not only home to a fishing village, but also home to a primary and secondary school, which were rather large (but not large enough) for the size of the community. As part of the Tanzanian public school system, children came from all corners of the country to study there. Many boarded, and some stayed with distant relatives or friends of family, which is a customary way of raising children: passing them on to someone who can better provide. The school in Lang'ata was not an especially renowned school. In fact, it was just above dirt poor, requiring children to buy their own desks (some brought buckets, while most sat on the floor), providing only a dozen text books for a hundred students and feeding them the most basic of basic foods.

It was explained that the Tanzanian Ministry of Education explicitly wanted quantity over quality in education. That said, only a few students, no matter how bright, actually had a chance for a good education and most end up trying to finish the equivalent of high school into their late teens and early twenties. Making things even more challenging, all materials are in English. This is meant to help the students, as English is also a compulsory course, but not all can understand English well enough. So classes end up being taught in Swahili and the exams are in English. A successful class is one with 25% passing. Ethan, who teaches math and physics, had high hopes of reversing that number, but has come to realize that he may not make much (statistical) change at all. Without a doubt, he his helping the community, especially the students because he teaches well. Other (Tanzanian) teachers teach through fear, as corporal punishment is common in classrooms. That is, teachers are still permitted to beat students with sticks.

While Ethan said it took him a while to accept that this is the way things are done, he has never thought of using corporal punishment, and has stopped other teachers in extreme situations. Being the first foreigner to work in Lang'ata , Ethan has certainly set a precedent, and hopefully the school will continue to draw talented help.

After a few days I decided to resume my journey. Departing the village as much smoother than my arrival as a Tanzanian Peace Corps official and her driver stopped by one morning to give Ethan a bicycle. They offered to take me back to the main road at Mwanga, but from there were headed the opposite direction to Dar Es Salaam. Zipping down the dusty road in an air-conditioned Land Cruiser, I also experienced a small example of the opposite extreme in lifestyles found Tanzania.

http://wikitravel.org/en/Swahili_phrasebook

Tanzania - Moshi

I was still undecided even when the plane landed--whether to get off the plane to start my trip in the north of Tanzania, or to continue to my official destination. I was a little concerned that if I didn't stay on the plane that the flight attendants might notice, and report this to the airline, and maybe cancel my return flight home. But at the the last minute, I decided to take a chance and get off at Kilimanjaro Int'l Airport in Tanzania instead of continue through to Dar Es Salaam. I'm glad I did because it was already 8pm, which would have meant I would have arrived in the large city of Dar later than 10pm, with no place to stay yet.

Then I had to make another decision: which town to go to, Arusha or Moshi (the airport is between the two). Fortunately, I found myself chatting with this American lady who works in Tanzania part of the year. As we got off the plane and walked across the tarmac in the dark she recommended Moshi because she heard Arusha was completely booked due to some conference.

I paid the required $100 for a 1 year visa and wandered into lobby of the small airport to be greeted by a wall of people holding signs with names of hotels and safari companies greeting their clients. It seemed I was the only one without a pre-arranged ride, so I had to settle for an overpriced taxi to the quiet town of Moshi, a half-hour away.

After a bit of a wander, I found a nice clean single room in a modest hotel and made myself go to sleep, though my body was very much awake, especially after the cold shower!

Nothing too crazy happening yet, though I still have to get used to looking right to cross the street, as they drive on the other side of the road.

Looking back, the roughly 24 hours in transit went surprisingly well, with minimal wait time (In fact, I had to run across the Atlanta airport, catch the train to another terminal and have them open the doors to plane as I was the last one to board). In the Amsterdam airport I had enough time to spend $5.00 on a cup of coffee and $8.00 on a small juice-smoothie (the devalued dollar makes Euro prices quite expensive!). News that Obama clinched the Democratic nomination was already on the headlines in Europe and is news here and Kenya (My little radio picked up a Nairobi station in English).

From the air I could see Germany, Venice, the coast of Italy and some snow-capped mountains, the Mediterranean, the vastness of the Sahara in Lybia and Sudan, the Nile, lush land in Kenya, then it got dark so I couldn't see Kilimanjaro as we arrived. It's cloudy to day, but I'm told that Mount Kilimanjaro is just over there, in the backdrop of Moshi.

After a walk around town, I find Moshi to be a pleasant place, but nothing spectacular. The buildings are all a rather stoic, modern masonry construction with equally dull color. But the people seem lively and friendly, smiling at me and saying something like "mambo" I just smile back in give a thumbs-up. It's quite a humbling position to be in, without language, though I'm picking up the essentials: "asante" is "thank you" and "see-a-ta-gee" seems to work for "no" (I can't believe the stupid Lonely Plantet phrase book I bought doesn't have those three essential words, "no" and "thank you" - but I could book a safari if I needed. !)

I checked out the local open-air market as it was opening. A familiar scene: bags of grains and legumes, piles of fruits and vegetables, squawking chickens, the smell of spices and meat lingering in the air. There are a lot of vehicles passing through town, as it looks like this is one of the main routes from Tanzania towards Kenya. I'm told that this is one of the launching points for treks up Kilimanjaro, but I haven't seen many tourists. I've ruled out the hike as being way out of my price range (at least $1200 for permits and guides, not including the burden of getting all the gear here). So I'm resolved to being more of a traveler and less of a tourist, but not either exclusively.

I just met a Peace Corps volunteer while eating breakfast at at cafe. I picked his brain about the Swahili language and places to see. He, Ethan from California/Oregon, later invited me to check out his village a few hours away. Since I don't have any plans, I think I'll take him up on it instead of paying $700 to safari the Serengeti. But that also cancels out the possibility of Kenya. Strangely, the prospect of no running water and sporadic electricity actually appeals to me. Then again, this is just Day 1.