Several of our readers have asked for our experiences about Sunday services here. Iringa, like much of Tanzania, is a population of the churched and the mosque-d. Whether Muslim or Christian, it's apparent that folks here are serious about faith. Many of our students are very open about their religious life and affiliation, although as you can imagine with Tumaini being a Lutheran university, most profess Christianity. Still, it's not unusual to see headscraves among the group, and on Fridays the Muslim men come to class wearing their white robes.
There are many Christian churches in Iringa representing quite a number of demoninations, including the large Lutheran Cathedral, which we have attended on two occasions. The Cathedral looks and, for the most part, sounds like a Lutheran church in America; substitute Swahili for English, but it's easy to follow the gist of a service. They have several fine choirs, an organ, and lots and lots of instrumental accompaniment tapes.
The only other church we've attended in Iringa itself is the Assembly of God with our Tanzanian friend Hellen. True to form, it was full of music and drama, lasted over three hours, and had many charismatic features, including a session when the full congregation prayed aloud in various tongues.
But our usual Sunday experience is to tag along with the Bega Kwa Bega folks to one of the rural Lutheran congregations in the outer Iringa District. I can't explain this adventure without first giving a short description of Bega Kwa Bega. The Swahili translates to "shoulder to shoulder," and it's a partnership organization between individual Lutheran congregations in the States (mostly Minnesota) and Lutheran congregations surrounding the Iringa District. The partnerships provide scholarships for secondary students, clean water, agricultural training, vocational training, and many other projects, depending on the needs of the communities. Leadership is equally shared by Tanzanians and Americans with the local community here leading the efforts.
A typical morning begins by leaving the BKB apartments about 7:00, driving through the countryside over some of the worst roads imaginable (many are just dirt tracks, single lane), and arriving at our destination one to two hours later. Once at the village, we're always invited to the pastor's home for breakfast served by the pastor's wife. Breakfast is mendazi (a type of donut), chapati (flat bread), boiled eggs, tea, and Coca Cola. Without fail.
After breakfast, it's time for church. We make our way to the nearby sanctuary--often accompanied by singers and dancers--and process to the front. We're seated in places of honor with a translator. Services are on average 2 1/2 hours long, but with the singing, dancing, drumming, a certain amount of whooping and hollering, and an entertaining sermon, it never feels like more than a service in the States. (On one occasion, Russ and I discovered we were expected to deliver the sermon 20 minutes before the service started. We did it! We preached on "sin.") At announcement time, we're always expected to get up and introduce ourselves and say a few words. We never know what's going to happen until the actual service begins--baptisms, services of reconcilliation where a wayward former member is welcomed back into fellowship, multiple offerings taken (money, yes, but also assorted agricultural products like vegetables, eggs, and chickens), etc. At one service, five people came forward for baptism spontaneously--two Muslims and three Masai.
(For a Muslim or a Masai to join the Lutherans often takes real courage. Muslims risk being thrown out of their homes and families--and they end up at the mercy of their new congregation. Both Muslims and Masai practice poligamy which is legal here, so the agreement when they join is to not take on additional wives. Although Christians don't condone having multiple wives, to divorce them would be to leave them without support. Other more minor practices are accepted as well, such as Muslim women retaining their special clothing.)
In the States, once the blessing is given, everyone is ready to go home. Not so in Tanzania. First, there's more singing and dancing in the churchyard. Then everyone gathers for the weekly auction (remember the offering?). At one church, a man turned to me to explain the auction: "This is the American part!"
Once the service is complete, we either return to the pastor's home for lunch or meet with special committees to discuss digging wells, donating corn, running sewing schools, educating the children, or other projects shared between the Bega Kwa Bega partnerships. One way or the other, we're fed a second time: chicken, rice, peas or beans, mustard greens, spaghetti and tomato sauce, white bread (this is a more formal meal), maybe goat or beef, and Coca Cola. Sometimes mutual gifts are exchanged; certainly lots of photos are taken.
By the time we've completed another bumpy ride home, it's 5:00.
A few particularly delightful memories stand out:
*The service when a man from the Masai community was baptised so that he could enter the seminary;
*Meeting Pastor Paulo Korapach, a Masai from Matebete, where Russ and I had spent the prior weekend;
*Listening to a deafening musical combo of electric guitars, keyboard, and microphones for all the soloists--all powered by the single solar cell in the churchyard in a village with no other electricity;
*Spending an entire lunchtime in front of a deafening Gospel television program because the pastor's home had a satellite dish--again, in a community with no other electricity;
*Watching a pastor actually answer his cell phone in the middle of a service;
*Babies breastfed by their singing moms during choir performances;
*Choirs usually perform dances when they sing, and last Sunday a "full congregation" choir ranged in age from four years to eighty years--no one missing a beat or a move.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Teaching at Tumaini Lutheran University
One hundred eighty students in a class, no text books, minimal computer access, and no audio-visual aids: that pretty much sums up the first class I taught here. Within two weeks, the administration had allowed me to divide the class into two separate sections, each meeting twice a week. Many of the students had managed some computer access. And I had been given a blackboard.
Teaching here is full of challenges I'd not experienced before. I teach six sessions per week, four in first year Communication Skills and one in second year Research Methods, both in the Department of Law. That's a total of 315 students. Although each class meets twice per week for 90-minute sessions, they all meet at different times and in different rooms. To explain, that means Monday at 9:30 (102) in CH, Tuesday at 8:00 (102) and 3:30 (211) in CH, Wednesday at 12:30 (102) in MPR, and Friday at 8:00 (211) in CH and 3:30 (102) in MPR. Confused? There are still days even now near the ending of the semester when Russ and I look at each other and say, "Which class am I going to?"
So much is different from the American experience:
1. A baccalaureate degree here is three years of study.
2. Law is an undergraduate degree from a regular university with a compensory fourth year added on by the government before being certifitied to practice.
3. A semester is fourteen weeks long, but no one attends classes the first two weeks because of the registration period.
4. Three sets of holidays are observed by cancelling classes: Christian, Muslim, and national. That cuts the length of a semester by another two weeks, minimum. To complicate it further, some Muslim holidays are decreed by the moon the night before they happen, so you may not know more than a few hours in advance that classes are cancelled.
5. Students cannot generally afford to buy text books. Mostly we teachers rely on books from the Tumaini Library collection, especially those in multiple sets. In some cases, my students only have to share with six others! In other cases, we rely on their ability to check out a book and photocopy what they need.
6. Sometimes there are chalkboards in the classrooms for lecture notes. Sometimes the boards mysteriously disappear. It's Africa.
7. Tumaini has some projectors that can be checked out and used for power point presentations so long as you have your own computer and keyboard. However, between the lack of screens, the frequency of power outages, and broken machines, it's not advisable to rely on this method of delivery.
8. If students fail or miss an exam, even a final exam, they can schedule themselves for a supplemental. If they fail or miss the supplemental, they can schedule a second supplemental. Etc. The result is that there are students still enrolled and even graduating who have almost never attended class and have virtually failed all their exams, but because of money or family connections or other extenuating circumstances, they "succeed."
9. There is a fairly generous loan program from the government. However, there is leniency in checking financial records. Hense, its possible for students to get both tuition money from their parents and a loan from the government. ( The extra money finds its way into entertainment, clothing and electronic devices, not textbooks.)
In spite of all this, I like teaching here. For the most part, students in university here have the same hopes and dreams as students everywhere. They're eager, enthused, and wanting an education. They'd like a chance to make their world better. In a population where malaria and tuberculosis still claims too many (I get daily notices about students missing class because they're in hospital) and where there's a 16% infection rate for HIV/AIDS (almost daily is the notice about funeral attendance), life is appreciated. In addition, there aren't enough jobs to go around, and the reality is that many Tumaini graduates won't find positions in anything but menial jobs (although Tumaini's employment success is better than most).
A singular experience I had yesterday might sum things up. At the end of the period, I returned a group of papers I'd just finished grading. Several young men were unsatisfied with their results--and well they should have been; they'd done very poorly--and they began arguing for a chance to do the assignment over again. I refused, but they kept badgering me, hounding me at every turn, giving me all the excuses they could manufacture for why they'd failed and demanding they be given higher grades. I stayed firm, even though I'd begun to feel that they were becoming threatening in nature. I can't say I was frightened, but I was unnerved. My walking out of the classroom finally broke the tension. Once outside I heard a chorus of male voices behind me, "Madam. Excuse me. Madam." When I turned to see who it was, there were about a dozen other young fellows from the class who surrounded me. "Madam. We just want to tell you thank you for being firm. Those guys didn't work hard. They didn't do the assignment, and they didn't deserve another chance. We appreciate you."
Teaching here is full of challenges I'd not experienced before. I teach six sessions per week, four in first year Communication Skills and one in second year Research Methods, both in the Department of Law. That's a total of 315 students. Although each class meets twice per week for 90-minute sessions, they all meet at different times and in different rooms. To explain, that means Monday at 9:30 (102) in CH, Tuesday at 8:00 (102) and 3:30 (211) in CH, Wednesday at 12:30 (102) in MPR, and Friday at 8:00 (211) in CH and 3:30 (102) in MPR. Confused? There are still days even now near the ending of the semester when Russ and I look at each other and say, "Which class am I going to?"
So much is different from the American experience:
1. A baccalaureate degree here is three years of study.
2. Law is an undergraduate degree from a regular university with a compensory fourth year added on by the government before being certifitied to practice.
3. A semester is fourteen weeks long, but no one attends classes the first two weeks because of the registration period.
4. Three sets of holidays are observed by cancelling classes: Christian, Muslim, and national. That cuts the length of a semester by another two weeks, minimum. To complicate it further, some Muslim holidays are decreed by the moon the night before they happen, so you may not know more than a few hours in advance that classes are cancelled.
5. Students cannot generally afford to buy text books. Mostly we teachers rely on books from the Tumaini Library collection, especially those in multiple sets. In some cases, my students only have to share with six others! In other cases, we rely on their ability to check out a book and photocopy what they need.
6. Sometimes there are chalkboards in the classrooms for lecture notes. Sometimes the boards mysteriously disappear. It's Africa.
7. Tumaini has some projectors that can be checked out and used for power point presentations so long as you have your own computer and keyboard. However, between the lack of screens, the frequency of power outages, and broken machines, it's not advisable to rely on this method of delivery.
8. If students fail or miss an exam, even a final exam, they can schedule themselves for a supplemental. If they fail or miss the supplemental, they can schedule a second supplemental. Etc. The result is that there are students still enrolled and even graduating who have almost never attended class and have virtually failed all their exams, but because of money or family connections or other extenuating circumstances, they "succeed."
9. There is a fairly generous loan program from the government. However, there is leniency in checking financial records. Hense, its possible for students to get both tuition money from their parents and a loan from the government. ( The extra money finds its way into entertainment, clothing and electronic devices, not textbooks.)
In spite of all this, I like teaching here. For the most part, students in university here have the same hopes and dreams as students everywhere. They're eager, enthused, and wanting an education. They'd like a chance to make their world better. In a population where malaria and tuberculosis still claims too many (I get daily notices about students missing class because they're in hospital) and where there's a 16% infection rate for HIV/AIDS (almost daily is the notice about funeral attendance), life is appreciated. In addition, there aren't enough jobs to go around, and the reality is that many Tumaini graduates won't find positions in anything but menial jobs (although Tumaini's employment success is better than most).
A singular experience I had yesterday might sum things up. At the end of the period, I returned a group of papers I'd just finished grading. Several young men were unsatisfied with their results--and well they should have been; they'd done very poorly--and they began arguing for a chance to do the assignment over again. I refused, but they kept badgering me, hounding me at every turn, giving me all the excuses they could manufacture for why they'd failed and demanding they be given higher grades. I stayed firm, even though I'd begun to feel that they were becoming threatening in nature. I can't say I was frightened, but I was unnerved. My walking out of the classroom finally broke the tension. Once outside I heard a chorus of male voices behind me, "Madam. Excuse me. Madam." When I turned to see who it was, there were about a dozen other young fellows from the class who surrounded me. "Madam. We just want to tell you thank you for being firm. Those guys didn't work hard. They didn't do the assignment, and they didn't deserve another chance. We appreciate you."
Friday, May 22, 2009
Matebete
Two years ago, when Marie was spending three months in Iringa, Tanzania volunteering at an orphanage, she made a trip with a Minnesotan named Keith Olson to do some exploratory drilling for a possible cattle well in Matebete, a remote Maasai village. She had a fascinating visit, and emailed back to New Hampshire many extraordinary pictures from the trip, including one of her sitting on top of the auger (probably eight feet in the air) while several tall Maasai men were turning it. Much to my delight, I had an opportunity to visit that same village.
We were met there by a welcoming party of half a dozen men and one woman, who greeted us warmly, and told us we were welcome to “rest” in the guest house until the “activities” began at 4:00 p.m. Some time was spent negotiating the actual services we were going to receive, and the price; all this was settled amicably.
During the introductions, I asked them if any remembered my daughter’s visit two years before, and they all exclaimed about Marie, her height, and her visit with Keith. Thereupon, any rest was abandoned, and we (all11 of us) piled into the van to go visit the well site. I had understood that it was close by, but that turned out to be a 45 minute ride through the bush (no roads, just cattle fields covered with trees, brush, brooks, and other obstacles). We all took delight in visiting the spot where Marie’s famous photograph had been taken.
It was just about 4:00 p.m. when we returned, and we were immediately led into a treed area, where we found three Maasai men with a goat. The activities were about to start. We had received some advance knowledge regarding the goat, but you cannot fully appreciate this without experiencing this first-hand. Let’s just say that we watched a traditional Maasai preparation of a goat for roasting.
All of the Maasai elders and leaders had cell phones, which were in use frequently. Some had the phone discreetly tucked inside the robes that they wear, others had them on lanyards around their necks, and still others had them on the opposite side of their waist belt from a sheathed knife. Having noticed that the electric lines ceased when we turned off the main road to head several miles through the countryside to the village, I asked them how they kept the phones charged. They answered -- solar power. I then noticed a solar panel near a building next to the guest house, with the wires running into a utility room. There were many things such as this that were interesting to ponder.
Back at the main village, a large group of women were singing to greet us, and all of the young men, with their sticks, were chanting and simply taking turns jumping vertically into the air, extremely high. After many greetings and welcomes (and I do mean many, many greetings and welcomes), all sincere and all very warm, including by the village commissioner who was in regular clothing (he turned up later that evening in his Maasai clothing, traveling by motor bike with helmet), we finally took our leave and returned to the area where now the edible portions of the goat were being roasted by a big fire. This was being done by “indirect” grilling, as the large pieces of meat were on sticks placed into the ground next to the fire, with the meat being turned periodically to cook on all sides. At this point, it became apparent that only the Maasai men (about 25 of them) were now with us, all of the women having disappeared to other places for the evening.
As the meat was cooking, we sat under the tree and, through our driver Peter as interpreter, had wonderful conversations with many of the men about their tribe, their village, and our “tribes” and “villages.” Ultimately, we broke into three groups to sit in circles under the trees and eat the roasted goat. A younger man would hold the stick, and an elder would use his large knife to simply cut off bite-sized (actually pretty big bites) pieces of meat, and just distribute them by hand into our hands, going around the circle to each. We began with the liver, and then moved on to the ribs. Perhaps because I had such low expectations, the meat actually tasted very good, and seemed to be cooked very thoroughly.
There was no silverware, no plates, no napkins, no nothing – we were given small branches with leaves to wipe our hands after we finished eating the goat meat. After talking a while longer under the trees, as it was getting dark and to avoid mosquitoes, about a dozen of us moved our chairs to the open courtyard outside the guest house, and then sat in a circle under the half moon and stars of a clear African night (again, which you can only appreciate by being here).
What ensued for the next hour or so was a remarkable discussion about the world economy, American politics, and all manner of current events. For individuals living such isolated, and by our standards, primitive lives, they were quite knowledgeable and extremely interested in discussing all of these issues, and it was an absolutely delightful evening on a beautiful night.
A few of the men had pealed away from the group, and it turned out, were inside preparing our dinner – rice, gravy, and more goat meat. An unexpected surprise, and so the party simply moved indoors and spent another hour or so eating and talking further. At about 10:00 p.m., all of the Maasai folks had left, and we were left in the guest house to ponder the events of the day and get some sleep. It was very dark.
Morning broke early, and very rapidly there were fires going in the courtyard outside of our guesthouse, and we were served a wonderful breakfast of tea and chapatis, a corn pastry somewhat like a soft tortilla shell that you roll and eat. The breakfast included many welcomes and thanks.
Next followed the presentation to each of us of pieces of Maasai jewelry, including a very nice bracelet for me. By this time, we had developed some pretty warm friendships with this small group of people, and it was a joyous time, and we almost hated to leave at that point. Long goodbyes preceded most of us piling into the van again, to head to the “office” back in the main village to settle up on the bill. They were quite formal about the financial aspects of the transaction, and we did have to go to the office to actually receive and pay the bill. The village chairman, Nateo Kesota, the general secretary, his brother Elia, and the treasurer (whose name I cannot remember) all presided over the payment of the bill and it was all very formal.
We learned that the village has a “perpetual” lease to 32,000 hectares (what’s a hectare?), on which they have 4,000 head of cattle. They are wealthy in those terms, but lead quite simple lives. They were an extraordinarily warm, funny, and wonderful people to visit.
We were met there by a welcoming party of half a dozen men and one woman, who greeted us warmly, and told us we were welcome to “rest” in the guest house until the “activities” began at 4:00 p.m. Some time was spent negotiating the actual services we were going to receive, and the price; all this was settled amicably.
During the introductions, I asked them if any remembered my daughter’s visit two years before, and they all exclaimed about Marie, her height, and her visit with Keith. Thereupon, any rest was abandoned, and we (all11 of us) piled into the van to go visit the well site. I had understood that it was close by, but that turned out to be a 45 minute ride through the bush (no roads, just cattle fields covered with trees, brush, brooks, and other obstacles). We all took delight in visiting the spot where Marie’s famous photograph had been taken.
It was just about 4:00 p.m. when we returned, and we were immediately led into a treed area, where we found three Maasai men with a goat. The activities were about to start. We had received some advance knowledge regarding the goat, but you cannot fully appreciate this without experiencing this first-hand. Let’s just say that we watched a traditional Maasai preparation of a goat for roasting.
All of the Maasai elders and leaders had cell phones, which were in use frequently. Some had the phone discreetly tucked inside the robes that they wear, others had them on lanyards around their necks, and still others had them on the opposite side of their waist belt from a sheathed knife. Having noticed that the electric lines ceased when we turned off the main road to head several miles through the countryside to the village, I asked them how they kept the phones charged. They answered -- solar power. I then noticed a solar panel near a building next to the guest house, with the wires running into a utility room. There were many things such as this that were interesting to ponder.
Back at the main village, a large group of women were singing to greet us, and all of the young men, with their sticks, were chanting and simply taking turns jumping vertically into the air, extremely high. After many greetings and welcomes (and I do mean many, many greetings and welcomes), all sincere and all very warm, including by the village commissioner who was in regular clothing (he turned up later that evening in his Maasai clothing, traveling by motor bike with helmet), we finally took our leave and returned to the area where now the edible portions of the goat were being roasted by a big fire. This was being done by “indirect” grilling, as the large pieces of meat were on sticks placed into the ground next to the fire, with the meat being turned periodically to cook on all sides. At this point, it became apparent that only the Maasai men (about 25 of them) were now with us, all of the women having disappeared to other places for the evening.
As the meat was cooking, we sat under the tree and, through our driver Peter as interpreter, had wonderful conversations with many of the men about their tribe, their village, and our “tribes” and “villages.” Ultimately, we broke into three groups to sit in circles under the trees and eat the roasted goat. A younger man would hold the stick, and an elder would use his large knife to simply cut off bite-sized (actually pretty big bites) pieces of meat, and just distribute them by hand into our hands, going around the circle to each. We began with the liver, and then moved on to the ribs. Perhaps because I had such low expectations, the meat actually tasted very good, and seemed to be cooked very thoroughly.
There was no silverware, no plates, no napkins, no nothing – we were given small branches with leaves to wipe our hands after we finished eating the goat meat. After talking a while longer under the trees, as it was getting dark and to avoid mosquitoes, about a dozen of us moved our chairs to the open courtyard outside the guest house, and then sat in a circle under the half moon and stars of a clear African night (again, which you can only appreciate by being here).
What ensued for the next hour or so was a remarkable discussion about the world economy, American politics, and all manner of current events. For individuals living such isolated, and by our standards, primitive lives, they were quite knowledgeable and extremely interested in discussing all of these issues, and it was an absolutely delightful evening on a beautiful night.
A few of the men had pealed away from the group, and it turned out, were inside preparing our dinner – rice, gravy, and more goat meat. An unexpected surprise, and so the party simply moved indoors and spent another hour or so eating and talking further. At about 10:00 p.m., all of the Maasai folks had left, and we were left in the guest house to ponder the events of the day and get some sleep. It was very dark.
Morning broke early, and very rapidly there were fires going in the courtyard outside of our guesthouse, and we were served a wonderful breakfast of tea and chapatis, a corn pastry somewhat like a soft tortilla shell that you roll and eat. The breakfast included many welcomes and thanks.
Next followed the presentation to each of us of pieces of Maasai jewelry, including a very nice bracelet for me. By this time, we had developed some pretty warm friendships with this small group of people, and it was a joyous time, and we almost hated to leave at that point. Long goodbyes preceded most of us piling into the van again, to head to the “office” back in the main village to settle up on the bill. They were quite formal about the financial aspects of the transaction, and we did have to go to the office to actually receive and pay the bill. The village chairman, Nateo Kesota, the general secretary, his brother Elia, and the treasurer (whose name I cannot remember) all presided over the payment of the bill and it was all very formal.
We learned that the village has a “perpetual” lease to 32,000 hectares (what’s a hectare?), on which they have 4,000 head of cattle. They are wealthy in those terms, but lead quite simple lives. They were an extraordinarily warm, funny, and wonderful people to visit.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Hospital Visits
Russ and I just returned from an extraordinary five-day excursion to the Southern Highlands with Tumaini faculty...oh, how I wish I could have taken all of you along! Like the Masai village experience (which Russ promised to explain in another entry), this one too is almost indescribable. The difference is that while the Masai involved basically one location, one group of people, and one tribal experience, this one involved many. The scenery of the Livingstone Mountains , the Rift Valley, and Lake Nyaso are breathtaking...there was never a moment that wasn't shrouded in magical beauty. That's the positive point. The negative was that with the sort of road system (if one can call it that) in Tanzania , it was almost always trecherous, and in truth, I feel quite lucky to still be alive. We were following paths along the mountains both on foot and by car where a miscalulation of half of inch plunges one to certain death. One day we trekked to a special place where Kinga tribal executions used to take place by throwing the accused off the path...and it was no different than any other place we walked.
There were contrasts beyond my prior imaginings, one of the greatest being medical treatment. One morning we were taken to a "traditional hospital" in the mountains. To reach it we had a two kilometer hike through forest/cliff paths. It was a carved out place under a rock overhang. There we were introduced to two Kinga midwives, still practicing, perhaps a hundred years experience between the two. Each had served a 7-year apprenticeship in order to be qualified. They explained in Kinga--translated first into Swahili, then English for us--how they delivered babies using aloe vera juice as their antiseptic/lubrication, water boiled over their twin fires, rags and twigs for tying, and various natural herbs. The most modern instrument they have is a clean razor blade for umbilical cords, provided by the Lutheran missionaries in the region. They demonstrated birth and delivery, including turning breach babies in the birth canal. An extra layer to our experience was that these two women had to overcome/violate about a hundred cultural inhibitions to do this for us (there were men in the group...and white folks).
Two hours later, after walking out of the forest and driving through the mountains, we had a tour of a modern hospital facility run by the Catholics that rivals anything in the States. The two are less than twenty miles apart.
There were contrasts beyond my prior imaginings, one of the greatest being medical treatment. One morning we were taken to a "traditional hospital" in the mountains. To reach it we had a two kilometer hike through forest/cliff paths. It was a carved out place under a rock overhang. There we were introduced to two Kinga midwives, still practicing, perhaps a hundred years experience between the two. Each had served a 7-year apprenticeship in order to be qualified. They explained in Kinga--translated first into Swahili, then English for us--how they delivered babies using aloe vera juice as their antiseptic/lubrication, water boiled over their twin fires, rags and twigs for tying, and various natural herbs. The most modern instrument they have is a clean razor blade for umbilical cords, provided by the Lutheran missionaries in the region. They demonstrated birth and delivery, including turning breach babies in the birth canal. An extra layer to our experience was that these two women had to overcome/violate about a hundred cultural inhibitions to do this for us (there were men in the group...and white folks).
Two hours later, after walking out of the forest and driving through the mountains, we had a tour of a modern hospital facility run by the Catholics that rivals anything in the States. The two are less than twenty miles apart.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Our International Community
Iringa has become an International city over the last few years. A day never passes when we don't see and greet other "Musungus" (white folks, strangers) from the US, Canada, Germany, Australia, Holland, or Scandanavia. Many former Europeans now make their permanent homes here as well. Mixed into the local scene are third- and fourth-generation Indians; they're known as the businessmen. Quite a few Mideasterners own businesses as well. Even in our own little neighborhood we often see other white folks when we're out and about.
Though a white face might have become familiar in Iringa, we still encounter a curiousity level, especially from the children. Children sometimes want to touch us, and a few offer their heads to us as if asking for a blessing. Tiny children are wary--Russ and I have made several babies cry. Primary children always greet us when they see us, and "Good morning" is the standard, no matter what time of day.
Language doesn't seem to be much of a barrier here to being friendly. Tanzanian manners include enthusiastic greetings with lots of handshaking and handholding, and if they know you at all, also lots of hugging. They're a very physical society in that sense. It's usual to see people walking along and holding hands if they're friends--woman with woman or man with man.
One thing I have yet to see is a white student at Tumaini. The entire student body is Tanzanian. There are visiting professors from England, Denmark, Finland, and the United States...but no international student presence.
Though a white face might have become familiar in Iringa, we still encounter a curiousity level, especially from the children. Children sometimes want to touch us, and a few offer their heads to us as if asking for a blessing. Tiny children are wary--Russ and I have made several babies cry. Primary children always greet us when they see us, and "Good morning" is the standard, no matter what time of day.
Language doesn't seem to be much of a barrier here to being friendly. Tanzanian manners include enthusiastic greetings with lots of handshaking and handholding, and if they know you at all, also lots of hugging. They're a very physical society in that sense. It's usual to see people walking along and holding hands if they're friends--woman with woman or man with man.
One thing I have yet to see is a white student at Tumaini. The entire student body is Tanzanian. There are visiting professors from England, Denmark, Finland, and the United States...but no international student presence.
Eating in Iringa
A number of people have asked about how Russ and I are eating here. The answer: very well! We cook for ourselves about one night in three, but the rest of the evenings we're usually eating out with various friends. I think we've mentioned that our house is located in the Wilolesi area of Iringa and that the Wilolesi Hilltop Hotel (check it out: wilolesihilltophotel.com) is right next door. How convenient that they have a full restaurant! Even when we're not eating there, we stop often for drinks. Robert is our favorite waiter, and though he doesn't speak much English, he's always friendly. His greeting is always the same: "Red wine and cold Kilamanjaro?" We say yes, and he always answers with, "Ahuh. Foodi?"
Iringa has several good restaurants. There's Hasty Tasty for lunch (run by our friend Shaheen and his mother); there's Lulu's for lunch or supper (run by Abbas and wife); there's Seafood Bites for pizza (we have yet to find seafood on the menu, but it's a good name!); and there's the Neema Crafts Center and Restaurant (run by Susy and Andrew from the Anglican congregation). Just a little way out of town is Riverside where you can have a wonderful buffet. We've even been adventuresome enough to visit a Central Market eatery where we ate beans and rice, no ordering because there's no English and no menus.
When we eat at home it's a mixture of fresh vegies and pasta or rice plus fresh fruits. Our kitchen has only a tiny oven (not big enough for baking) and two burners, but it works. The only meat we've actually cooked has been hamburger ("mincemeat") that we can find frozen at Wingred's, the Lutheran grocer in Iringa.
At noontime during Tumaini days we often eat on campus at the faculty dining room. The fare is beans, rice, pasta, chicken, bananas, avacado, cooked greens, and sometimes beef. Generally speaking the meats are tough and spare, very different from America where meat is taken for granted. Here it's an expensive luxury.
I think the baked goods are our favorites: mendazis, chapatis, and samosas. We buy them for home from either the bakery downtown or a local cooking school run by an Italian nun. Mendazis (like a donut) are deep-fried; we get them daily at tea at Tumaini. Chapatis are mostly for breakfast--especially when we're out at one of the many rural congregations on a Sunday morning--and samosas are meat- or vegie-filled little triangles, also deep-fried.
So you can see, we're doing very well in the nutritional deparment. The fresh vegies are brought in daily from area "shambas" (small farms). We're very spoiled.
Iringa has several good restaurants. There's Hasty Tasty for lunch (run by our friend Shaheen and his mother); there's Lulu's for lunch or supper (run by Abbas and wife); there's Seafood Bites for pizza (we have yet to find seafood on the menu, but it's a good name!); and there's the Neema Crafts Center and Restaurant (run by Susy and Andrew from the Anglican congregation). Just a little way out of town is Riverside where you can have a wonderful buffet. We've even been adventuresome enough to visit a Central Market eatery where we ate beans and rice, no ordering because there's no English and no menus.
When we eat at home it's a mixture of fresh vegies and pasta or rice plus fresh fruits. Our kitchen has only a tiny oven (not big enough for baking) and two burners, but it works. The only meat we've actually cooked has been hamburger ("mincemeat") that we can find frozen at Wingred's, the Lutheran grocer in Iringa.
At noontime during Tumaini days we often eat on campus at the faculty dining room. The fare is beans, rice, pasta, chicken, bananas, avacado, cooked greens, and sometimes beef. Generally speaking the meats are tough and spare, very different from America where meat is taken for granted. Here it's an expensive luxury.
I think the baked goods are our favorites: mendazis, chapatis, and samosas. We buy them for home from either the bakery downtown or a local cooking school run by an Italian nun. Mendazis (like a donut) are deep-fried; we get them daily at tea at Tumaini. Chapatis are mostly for breakfast--especially when we're out at one of the many rural congregations on a Sunday morning--and samosas are meat- or vegie-filled little triangles, also deep-fried.
So you can see, we're doing very well in the nutritional deparment. The fresh vegies are brought in daily from area "shambas" (small farms). We're very spoiled.
Iringa Central Market
Russ and I have just hiked back up the hill to our house from our Saturday trip through the Iringa Central Market. It's really quite an extraordinary place. The Iringa Central Market is one of two historical markets of its kind left in Tanzania-Zanzibar (the other is in Stonetown, Zanzibar). The main structure dates from colonial days under Germany. Picture an openair pavillion about a football field in size--add in about a hundred different vegetable/produce merchants, each little stand loaded with produce in 5- to 6-foot piles, each with its proprietor sitting atop the pile. English is definitely NOT the main language, and many don't speak it at all, so Russ and I use lots of signs and pointing. We have our own favorite dealers...one for vegies, one for avacados, one for bananas, and one for pineapples. Of course every time we arrive we're swarmed by all the other merchants as well, but we remain fairly loyal. When we first met our vegie woman, she was "great with child." A few weeks ago she disappeared with a substiture taking her place. Last week she reappeared, so we're guessing she was on maternity leave!
The Central Market is surrounded on all four sides by hundreds and hundreds of "dukas," tiny little open-front shops, each specializing in its own wares. There are dukas for stationary, baskets, kitchen utensils, fabrics, carvings, clothing, and other foodstuffs. Mixed in there are dukas for cell phones, cameras, and electronics. It's the African answer to the American mall. And it's truly a mixture of time periods. Take away the cell phone booths, and you'd swear you were standing in the middle of a prior century.
Bordering the Central Market area is the Iringa City Park. We love to walk through it...it's really lovely...but I mainly enjoy it because one corner of it is occupied by the Masai. The corner feeds into about two blocks of Masai-run dukas. You can get your hair braided there by the Masai men (their speciality) or buy traditional jewelry, carvings, and batiks. I haven't gotten my hair done--the report is that it's a bit painful--but I've certainly urged Russ to do his!
The Central Market is surrounded on all four sides by hundreds and hundreds of "dukas," tiny little open-front shops, each specializing in its own wares. There are dukas for stationary, baskets, kitchen utensils, fabrics, carvings, clothing, and other foodstuffs. Mixed in there are dukas for cell phones, cameras, and electronics. It's the African answer to the American mall. And it's truly a mixture of time periods. Take away the cell phone booths, and you'd swear you were standing in the middle of a prior century.
Bordering the Central Market area is the Iringa City Park. We love to walk through it...it's really lovely...but I mainly enjoy it because one corner of it is occupied by the Masai. The corner feeds into about two blocks of Masai-run dukas. You can get your hair braided there by the Masai men (their speciality) or buy traditional jewelry, carvings, and batiks. I haven't gotten my hair done--the report is that it's a bit painful--but I've certainly urged Russ to do his!
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