Karibu Tanzania

I am writing this inside a compound surrounded by a 10 ft tall concrete enclosure topped with 3 ft of high-voltage electric wire where three vicious security dogs are let out at night and the only one who can handle them without being eaten alive is the 24-hour security guard.  I also have to hand wash my underwear.  This means one of two things:
I am either in a jail just outside Guadalajara, Mexico or in a very nice house in Moshi, Tanzania.

Fortunately for me and my man-hood, I am sitting comfortably in my house in Tanzania, as you probably guessed from the title, where dropping the soap in the bathroom isn't that big of a deal.  I have caught up on my blog and am finally writing from the actual country I currently reside in.  I arrived in Tanzania at the end of last October and settled into Moshi, a quaint town at the base of Mt. Kilimanjaro.  I'll write more about why I am here in a later post but wanted to write about something I did recently for a change instead of months ago.

Karibu Tanzania - Welcome to Tanzania

Masai Easter
The Masai are a semi-nomadic people who originated in northern Kenya around the 15th century and over the years migrated south to central Tanzania.  They are well known for their distinctive jewelry, bright clothing, and enthusiastic dancing, and well recognized since they reside in the most popular wildlife parks in the region:  Serengeti and Ngorongoro Crater National Parks in Tanzania and Masai Mara and Amboseli National Parks in Kenya.  They survive on the vast plains throughout the Great Rift Valley in extremely modest huts made of earth and dung where they herd goats and cattle for subsistence.  It is a common site when driving through these parts, especially out on safari, to see a young boy of just 7 or 8 herding his family's livestock across the barren land to patches of green grass or watering holes with just a long stick to protect the herd and himself from the same predators tourists  are eagerly hoping to spot.  That would include hyenas, leopards, and lions.  I wouldn't classify it as a truly traditional Western upbringing.

Of course some of the Masai have gradually assimilated into modern society.  Many work as night watchmen for private homes in nearby towns where they may live permanently in a small room separated from the main house or they may just come in the evening and leave in the morning.  Some are great and some are useless as with any employees.  Some sleep on the ground at night in a drunken stupor when they should be awake and alert but you really can't blame them because staring out into pitch black surroundings for 10 hours each night would drive me to drink as well.  Some are extremely diligent and very charismatic becoming great friends with the owners/renters of the house they watch which is the case for some friends I know.  Their 'Masia-guy' is Msafiri and he invited a group of us out to his house in Majimoto for Easter weekend.

In Africa, half the fun is getting there.
Please allow me to introduce you to the dala dala, the main mode of local transport in Tanzania.  At first glance it is a seemingly innocent looking mini-van with seats for fifteen that is usually packed beyond clown-car capacity making it a human sardine tin.  The most I have personally been involved in was 28, as much as I could see.  There is the driver up front and the conductor at the sliding door, who is usually a young man hired by the driver to get the van as full as possible in the shortest amount of time.  I have seen them physically drag a man resting under a shade tree on the side of the road into the vehicle while convincing him he wants to go wherever we are headed.  And somehow he obliges them.

The conductor is at least lucky enough to able to keep half out of the dala dala for  fresh air.
The guy in the back is one finger short of the peace sign.

There appear to be little if any safety standards imposed on dala dalas aside from the seemingly random regulation that they must have a fire extinguisher present somewhere inside.  If it works or has any juice left is a different story.  The drivers will literally drive these things until the tires fall off as I witnessed while waiting for one when the last bolt on a right-rear tire decided it couldn't hold on any longer and gave the passengers an abrupt jolt as it let loose and sent the tire down the road continuing its journey while the van came to a slow stop with sparks shooting from the axle.  Hence the fire extinguisher doesn't seem so random at this point.

Once inside, the seats and interior are arranged however the driver thinks will produce the highest occupancy.  This means that there are lots of sharp metal edges from modifications both new and old the least of which can slice clean through a vein or at worst impale you.  If you are lucky enough to get a seat, however unlucky enough to be a tall foreigner, your knees will spend most of the time in the volume of the back of the seat in front of you.  Sometimes they may actually go through.

It is important to hold your ground while the dala dala is being loaded and keep space for a pocket of air to breathe.  Hopefully it is not near someone's face, underarm, crotch, or rear but don't hold your breath because chances of this happening are rare.  On second thought, holding your breath until you pass out is a completely viable option and may make the entire experience less painful.  Once everyone is packed in, the conductor also presses in, slides the door shut if able and gives a click on the roof to tell the driver we are ready to proceed down the bumpy road ahead to our  next stop.  This doubles as good preparation in the event you are trapped in a collapsed building on a boat in rough seas.

More often than not the person who needs out first is the farthest in the back which means everyone has to get out and then re-jostle for position when getting back in.  The conductor usually waits to collect fares until the mess of human origami cannot move any more.  I think they do this for their own amusement.  Of course my wallet is in my back pocket.

Heading out to Msafiri's village, we had a total of eight going and one car that could fit five, with actual seats.  I drew the short straw and was left to take the dala dala.

Everyone's obviously excited in anticipation for the ride and we aren't even half-full yet.
I snagged a seat in the back.  I only hit my head on the roof 17 times.

Dala dalas seem to only travel on one road, back and forth, all day.  If you need to turn, you must get out of the dala dala you are currently in and wait at the intersection for one heading in your new direction.  So the more turns you need, the longer it takes.  We, fortunately, had only one turn and it was at a junction with an extremely busy market.  It appeared everyone was out to prepare for an Easter feast.

After we bought our vegetables, we headed across the street to pick up a couple of chickens.  Since power is sparse to non-existent in the rural areas, everything is sold live and butchered when needed.  The chickens are brought to the market in baskets on the backs of motorcycles, in boxes on peoples heads, or stuffed inside jacket pockets.  Their legs are tied together usually in series with other chickens making for a very uncoordinated chain gang.  One wily rooster somehow escaped temporarily from his 'shackles' and it took a group of about ten grown men and a few times across the highway before they cornered him and got him back in line.

An ideal place to use the 'Chicken Farmer' pick-up line on the correct lady.
For those who don't know it, my cousin would be disappointed if I didn't share:
-  Are your parents chicken farmers?
- No or Yes.  Why?
-  Because they sure taught you how to raise a cock.

I could insert another bad joke about a chicken crossing the road but will refrain.

In the end, they weren't willing to bargain on the two chickens we wanted, most likely because we were mazungu (the Swahili word for white-skinned people).  Msafiri said not to worry.  He had a friend in his village who would sell us a goat for cheap.

We loaded back into a new dala dala and went as far as the road would take us.  It had been raining the night before and the vans couldn't proceed any farther.  Thus we now hopped on the back of a boda boda or piki piki which is a motorcycle taxi.  We had to wait a few minutes until enough drivers and bikes could be rounded up to take the three of us.  My driver was the last to show up and appeared to be the most drunk or high or a combination of the two out of the drivers, which made for an adventurous ride over slick muddy roads, through herds of goats, and across flooded streams.  To make it more exciting, I decided to film with one hand for insurance purposes in the likely event of an accident and held on with the other:

Majimoto
Some groups of Masai have settled more than others.  Majimoto is like a large neighborhood with plenty of space between each house for the family farm.  There are permanent houses made of concrete but still very primitive.  It was easy to spot Msafiri's house since his brightly hued paint scheme stands out among the other drab colored houses but the inside is like most houses there.  They have a main front room for guests then four smaller rooms down a narrow hall.  One for storing goods and the other three are bedrooms for him, his wife, and three children.  There is no electricity nor running water but everything is kept clean, even the dirt outside is swept.  The one drawback is the outhouse.  It is around the side of the house and I was told it is occupied by very large cockroaches after sunset.  Luckily I never had to verify their existence.

More important than greeting the elders when you arrive is bringing candy for the kids.

Life is simple and most things you need are right around you.  The fence to protect the goats and cows at night from hyenas is assembled from thorn tree branches.  Cooking is done by digging a hole in the ground for a fire and setting the pot on top.  Hot pads are quickly plucked large tree leaves when needed.  Kids fill an old sock with small rocks and old seed to make a ball.  And if someone slips in the mud on the way to church in the morning, you just walk to the nearest puddle of water and clean off.  This may have happened to me.

Msafiri's daughter, their two cows, and pen for their goats.

Once settled in and unpacked, we had a bite to eat and then headed off for a tour of the village with Msafiri.  He showed us his brother's place who is a veterinarian and working on breeding a certain line of goat that produce chocolate milk.  (The chocolate milk part is a complete falsity but maybe someday dreams will come true.)  After his brother's place, we went to his other brother's place, his father's place, his cousin's place, his other cousin's place, and one more cousin's place before ending up at the local pub.

The local watering hole.  No line, dress code, or cover charge.

There were already a few gentlemen drinking on this Holy Saturday afternoon so we decided to join them for some warm beers.  I ended up sitting by the eldest of the group and somehow we hit it off even though my Swahili only got us to "How many daughters do you have and what are their ages?" and his English got us to "Hello".

He turned out to be the pastor of the local Catholic church and invited us to his mass on Easter Sunday.  I asked him if he always drinks on Saturdays before mass and he said just one packet of K-tan.
[Side Note:  The local drink of Tanzanians, aside form beer, is Konyagi which is a really bad gin.  K-tan is the off-brand Konyagi if that tells you anything.  They are both served in bottles or for those on a smaller budget, in clear packets similar to a large ketchup sachet.]
After he told me had just one, I asked him about the three empty packets on the ground by his feet.  This caused everyone to laugh out loud for the next five minutes and give the pastor much ribbing.  Once we settled back down, he told me he wanted to come to America, emphasizing just for a visit, not to stay.  I told him if he bought an airline ticket I would be more than happy to host.  He didn't quite understand how much it cost in US dollars so we converted it to goats and told him it would be about 16 goats to which he responded that he could have that many for me in 3 weeks.  Still waiting.

The pastor locked onto my arm after one to many.

Anticipating the taste of warm beer.

While we were there, Msafiri had called his friend with the goat to sell.  They brought it to the pub, of course by motorbike, so we could have a look at it and approve our transaction.  The goat seemed to be enjoying the field trip unbeknownst to him it would be his last.

It looked like a swell goat to us, so the gentleman drove the goat to Msafiri's house where we found it tied to the tree enjoying the shade without a care in the world.

For those who have never butchered a live animal, this maybe a bit much so close your eyes.  We gently lead the goat to the back of the house before grabbing it by its legs and flipping it on its back.  At this point it figured something was wrong and struggled quite vigorously.  Msafiri took his long Masai knife from the sheath on his hip, held the goats head still, and quickly slit the goat's throat.  It didn't take long for the goat to pass and as soon as he did the men deftly skinned him out and not a part was wasted.

From alive to skinned and butchered in less than 15 minutes.

Now you think you are a really funny guy when they ask you what your favorite part of the goat is and you say "The face." and they in turn reply quite seriously "Ok."  Before I could express that this was a joke, I was handed the goat's head and told to go start cooking it on the fire.  The kids could see I had not the slightest idea of what to do next since I was just standing there staring at the goat while it stared back at me.  They took me over to the fire and broke off a couple of sturdy branches that we shoved up the goats nose to use as handles.  The process was to place the head over the fire to burn the hairs, scrape them off with a knife, and repeat until most of the hair was gone.

This picture would seem pretty normal except for the fact that I am holding a goat's head on the end of a stick.

After I had perfected this process and was covered in burnt goat hair, Msafiri came and split the head with his knife and tossed it in the pot to boil.  While we waited, nothing draws a crowd in a Masai village like the smell of a goat roasting over an open flame.  Friends and family started filling in with drinks in hand until we numbered around 20.  As soon as something was ready, it was taken off the fire and passed around so everyone could have a taste.  The menu included kidney, liver, intestine soup, cooked blood, and of course the face.  As soon as the head was ready Msafiri passed it to me to do the honors but again I was a bit unsure of where to start when eating a face.  With the help of a few others we dug in quite well and I ended up eating some of the cheek and an ear.  Wasn't too bad but think next time I will say the shank which was delicious.

Eating order is adults, children, dogs.  That is for who gets to eat not who is eaten.

Once the goat was finished, the drinks began to flow a bit more liberally.  The clouds moved in as the sun set and turned the night completely black.  Msafiri began to lead the men in their traditional songs.  They are sung in a low throaty style with high pitched yelps thrown in.  Each person plays a different sound as they take turns jumping in the middle of the human ring while everyone around them dances a calm, stuttered bobbing of the head and body.  The women join in as well and have us all on our feet dancing with them.  Being out in a Masai village, dancing on the damp earth, listening to centuries old tribal songs while barely being able to see the person next to you was quite surreal.  After at least an hour of celebration, the skies opened up and the rain began to pour down.  We headed for the porch while the others scattered to their own homes.  The noise on the tin roof was deafening and the lightening brilliantly lit up the surrounding countryside for just mere glimpses at a time.  I have never seen it rain so hard for so long.  Eventually we all settled in on the concrete floor in the living room while the rain on the roof became a background noise as we drifted to sleep.

Surprisingly, in the morning everything was still there.  The cows and goats looked like they had had a rough night but they survived.  We had a quick breakfast, washed up in the rain water that filled all the buckets to the brim, and began our walk to church.  On the way, we ran into Msafiri's brother, the vet, who was elbow deep in a cow's vagina trying to help a calf out that was wrapped on the umbilical cord.  After a few minutes, the calf was out albeit a bit exhausted as well as the mother but both were healthy. His brother washed off his arm in a puddle (not the same one I used), rolled back down the sleeve of his button-up shirt, and walked with us to the church.  Just your standard Sunday morning.

Although Masai have their own traditional religion, many of them have folded it into Christianity.  The women showed up in shiny brightly colored dresses while most of the men have button down shirts and slacks.  They all seemed to have managed the slippery mud better than me.  Msafiri's wife sang in the choir and his daughter sang and played the drum.  The choir's enthusiasm and singing put most choirs I've heard to shame.

Waiting for the crowd to fill in and mass to start.  The children use the free time to stare at the mazungu.

After mass, we were snagged by my friend, the pastor, for one more quick chat before saying goodbye.  We had lunch and headed back to Moshi.  This time I got a seat in the car and for a ride that took 4 hours getting there by public transport, it only took 1.5 to get back.

Once back home I am sure we all thoroughly enjoyed our Easter weekend but also appreciated the shower and comfortable beds we slept in that night.  I had to shave my beard to get the goat out.

Hope everyone is well.
Cheers,
Jb