Earthquake

We had an earthquake one day this week.

We live near volcanoes, inactive and active, and also near the Great Rift Valley, so it is an area that has had a lot of seismic activity in the past.  And, apparently, some in the present.  We have noticed cracks in buildings - our house has one across the front porch and another (patched) in the living room floor.  The staff room of the school has a crack in the wall that is as much as 1/4 inch wide.  I didn't know if this was due to earthquakes or merely shoddy construction.  Now, I think it is a combination of the two.

I was teaching one of my math classes when the quake hit, starting to write an assignment on the blackboard.  The tremor lasted 3 to 4 seconds, which seemed like a long time.  Long enough for a flatlander like me to realize what was going on and think, "Oh, ___!"

My 47 students all started screaming and most of them rushed to the door, which was closed.  They knocked over desks and chairs in their panic, and pushed and shoved at the door (which opens inward).  My yelling "Don't push!" went unheeded.  Soon, a male teacher outside managed to get the door open, and they poured out.  I turned to survey the room and saw 2 or 3 boys jumping out of the windows.

There was no damage to the building, and after a few minutes we all returned to the classroom.  I gave my kids a little talk about keeping calm and exiting the room safely, but I don't think my words of wisdom registered.  What this school needs is earthquake drills.  I talked to the assistant headmaster about it on Friday, and he liked the idea.  So, now I have the assignment to research the best way to do it, and to start implementation.

Wedding details

We went to the wedding of one of the teachers at our school last weekend.  In most respects, the ceremony resembled a Christian wedding held in the States -- except for the Swahili, of course.  The bride wore a long white gown with a veil.  She was accompanied by one attendant in a dark pink dress.  The groom and his best man were dressed in black suits with dark pink shirts and pocket handkerchiefs.  The sanctuary was also decorated with dark pink bunting.

The church, in a setting with a beautiful view of Mt. Meru in the background, is a large, plain building made of cement blocks covered with stucco.  It has a tin roof with exposed beams soaring high above the parishioners.  Carved into the end wall of the interior is a 15 to 20 foot tall cross.  Clear windows cover most of the right and left walls of the room.  There are no pews, but white plastic chairs are provided for the congregation.   The church can hold several hundred people.

We settled into our seats before the ceremony was ready to start.  Soon, the groom and best man came through the door, in slow procession with relatives behind them.  Lively recorded music played while all performed what I think of as the Tanzanian processional two-step.  (One foot moves forward, touches the ground lightly, and then forward and slightly outward with a firmer step.  Then the other foot repeats.  Step STEP, step STEP.  It produces a deliberate, slightly swaying gait.)  A few of the female relatives broke into high-pitched ululation as the group trailed down the aisle.

Some delay followed.  The ceremony and reception were photographed and video-taped, and many times the proceedings were stopped to allow the participants to pose for pictures.

The bride and her party appeared at the door.  The groom and best man walked slowly back to meet them and escort them into the sanctuary.  Then, they all moved down the aisle again to the front of the church, this time with the bride's family stepping behind in a joyful crowd.  Everyone then took their seats.

There were songs -- one by the church choir and another by a soloist.  The ceremony that followed was familiar.  A sermon, albeit a long one, prayers, and the wedding vows.  Finally, the couple embraced.  Then, everyone sat down to watch a duet sung and acted, which turned out to be something of a morality tale with the theme of respect for one's husband(!)   Afterward, the bridal party exited the church in the same deliberate fashion that they had entered it.

The reception was as elaborately choreographed as the wedding ceremony.  Each family member of the newly-wedded couple was introduced to the assembled guests.  Then, the "cake" was brought out -- as in other important events (see my earlier blog, "Confirmation Day") this was a whole, roasted goat, complete with head, horns, and green leaves sticking out of its mouth.  The bridal couple made the first slice and then fed each other a piece of the meat on toothpicks.  Then they proceeded to feed bits of meat to the close family members and most honored guests.  "Champagne" -- probably non-alcoholic -- followed.  Big tumblers were poured for the bride and groom, and they gave each other a sip, then gave sips to the close family members.  After that, small cakes (pastry, this time) were presented to family groups.  The teachers of our school were presented with one as well, as honored guests.

The next item on the agenda was the bridal couple's giving of gifts to their parents.  These were lengths of fabric for clothing.  No first-world trinkets here, but solid, useful gifts.

With  each presentation, the bride made a deep curtsey.  It isn't easy to give a sip of wine or a bite of meat to a standing person while one is sinking to the ground, so, in some cases, the groom supported her arm with his.  (The better not to spill, perhaps?)  the groom did not bow when the bride curtsied.  The woman is the one who has to demonstrate humility.

(As a side note, the couple dropped by the school a few days ago.  When I was introduced to the young woman again, she greeted me with her eyes on the ground, as a sign of respect to me, a higher-status old person.  I have noticed this in other young women, but not to such a pronounced degree.  It bothers me, and is certainly not what I am used to seeing from confident, respected, Western women.)

Finally, it was time for the guests to give gifts to the couple.  People formed a line and danced their way to the front of the room, holding their gifts above their heads. Our group of  teachers brought a glass-topped coffee table and matching stools.  Other groups of guests gave a bed, loveseats, and a refrigerator.  The gifts were handed to an attendant, and then we were able at last to greet the couple.  It was, literally, a receiving line.

After the gifting, dinner was served.  As usual in Tanzania, guests first had an opportunity to wash their hands.  There was an attendant with a pitcher of water and basin at the beginning of the buffet table.  The food served was plain rice, pilau (seasoned rice), bits of beef in gravy, fried chicken, fried cooking bananas, stewed cooking bananas, cucumber salad, watermelon, and orange segments.  We ate with our hands, in the traditional way.

Dinner marked the end of the festivities for us.  Our group had to rush out after dinner to make our way back to our town, well over 40 km away.  So, I don't know if the bride tossed her bouquet, or what other concluding activities there were.  I just know that it was a very interesting day.     

A Wedding -- on Tanzanian Time

This blog turned out to be so long that I decided to make two separate posts.  The one below will discuss logistics and timing, and a separate one will detail the ceremony and reception.

One of the teachers at our school got married last weekend, and we attended the wedding in a suburb of Arusha.  At least a dozen teachers planned to go, so one of them arranged to hire a dala-dala to take us from our town directly to the church.

The wedding was scheduled for 11:00 a.m., and the reception was to be at 3:00 p.m.  We were told that we would leave from the school approximately at 9:00 and likely return around 6:00.  That was good, as it is not wise to travel at night here.

Mark and I showed up at the school gate at the designated time, in our punctual American fashion, to find no one there.  We located the transportation organizer in the school kitchen, and he told us he would call us when the dala-dala arrived, probably around 10:00.

We did actually leave at that time, and jiggled and jolted our way to Arusha.  On the way to the church, we stopped at a small shopping district.  Two teachers hopped out and purchased a glass-topped coffee table with two matching stools as a wedding gift from the group at the school.  They loaded it into the dala-dala, and off we drove to the church.

We arrived at noon, only an hour late.  The bride arrived at 12:30, in a car adorned with roses and ribbons.  Her car was preceded by a pickup truck with a brass band in the truck bed, tootling away to herald her arrival.

The guests and wedding party made their way into the sanctuary and the ceremony started.  It was a long service. Afterwards, an announcement was made that the wedding party would go to a hotel in central Arusha for formal photos before returning for the reception.  Off they went, again preceded by the pickup truck of musicians playing as loudly as they could.  The time was 3 p.m.

While we waited, the guests relaxed and chatted in the field surrounding the church. We enjoyed the clear view of Mt. Meru to the northwest.  Some guests organized their gifts -- a queen-sized, carved wooden bed frame was assembled, as were wooden-framed loveseats with upholstered foam cushions.  One group released a refrigerator from its packing crate.  These are gifts that large groups of guests pitched in together to purchase.  No bridal registries exist here, but families have always been able to get the word out about what a young couple needs.            

The wedding party returned at 5:00.  I was starved, since I had not had lunch, but, happily, there was a small shop near the church, where several of us purchased drinks and sweet crackers to hold us over.  Besides being hungry, I had an uncomfortable feeling about the trip home.  The dala-dala driver had been told that we would call for pickup at 6:00. That obviously wasn't going to happen.  However, I decided to relax and enjoy the evening.  We were with a large group of people who were familiar with how things work in this country, and it was not up to me to organize things.

The reception was at least as elaborately choreographed as the wedding ceremony, and dinner was the last item on the agenda.  The groom was aware that we needed to return to our small town, so we were directed to the buffet line after the wedding party and immediate families.

As soon as we were finished eating, our group of teachers headed out the door.  It was now 7:30.  On the way to the road, we learned that the dala-dala driver who brought us had given up on hearing from us and gone home.  Here we were in a dark, semi-rural suburb of a city that is 40 km from home.  It is not considered safe to travel at night here.  No street lights.  Bad roads.  Crazy drivers.  Occasional bandits.  (Yes, bandits!) 

We were fortunate that a dala-dala stopped in front of the church when the driver saw our group standing there.  He took us back into the city and dropped us off at the spot where the buses that go to our town make their pickups.  Of course, there were no vehicles waiting.  The normally bustling street was nearly empty.  The shops were shuttered and padlocked. The academic head of our school strode off in the direction of the main bus station to find transportation, and most of the rest of us settled in to wait.  A few teachers had friends in the city that they arranged to meet and with whom they would spent the night.  I was beginning to think that we would have to find a guest house ourselves, when a dala-dala pulled up.  Hooray!   We loaded up.  The trip home was uneventful, after our long day.  As Mark unlocked the door to our house by the light of the flashlight on my cell phone, I reflected on the wealth of cultural experiences we had had since morning.  And, it was only 9:30 p.m.      

Nee-ah-GAR-ah

It's been chilly here, even though we are only 3 degrees south of the equator.  We are about a mile high (think "Denver"), and July is the coldest month of the year.  I don't have a thermometer, but it feels like it has been dropping into the upper 40s at night.  Homes and schools aren't heated or insulated, so we bundle up to keep comfortable.

Mark has been wearing his hooded Niagara University sweatshirt regularly, and it always gets a reaction from the Tanzanians who see it.  They say that the word "Niagara" looks like an African word, and wonder where the university is.  Mark tells them that it's in America, and they can hardly believe it.  Then he explains that Niagara is a name from the Iroquois tribe that means "flowing water".  Tribes and tribal languages resonate with the people here, so then they understand.

And Nee-ah-GAR-ah?  That's how a speaker of Swahili pronounces "Niagara".

Motorcades

We've seen a number of motorcades in the past month.  The first was when we arrived back in Tanzania after our trip to Ghana.  Striding through the airport, we were approached by several taxi drivers.  We told them, "No thank you.  We will go by dala-dala."  One had the effrontery to lie, "Obama is in town.  The dala-dalas aren't running."  Which, of course, was ridiculous.  Obama was not due for 2 more days.

We made our way to the dala-dala stop across the street from the airport.  Three of the minibuses stopped, but they were so packed we did not even attempt to board with our backpacks.  Then, suddenly, there was no more traffic headed into the city.  Peering down the road, we could see cars and trucks stopped at the next intersection.  So we waited.  And waited.  More and more people gathered at the bus stop.

After a few minutes, we heard small cannon--Boom!  Boom!  Boom!--from the direction of the airport.  People around us started to take out their cell phones.  I heard some of them say "Obama".  Eventually, motorcycles sped past, sirens sounding and lights flashing.  Then there were police vehicles, Land Rovers, and a limousine with dark windows.  More police vehicles and a bus full of white men in black suits followed.  (One of them pulled out a small camera and snapped a photo of the people standing at the bus stop. I wonder what he thought when he saw me and Mark with our pale faces in the crowd.)  Last in the motorcade was an ambulance.  Soon, regular traffic was allowed to flow, and we took a dala-dala to our destination.  We found out later that various heads of state and diplomatic ministers were in the city that week, and it was one of them who passed us.  President Obama arrived later in the week.  (And would have had a longer motorcade).

We had a similar experience last weekend.  We were on our way to Arusha for shopping and lunch when our dala-dala was pulled over, not once, but twice for motorcades.  The president of Tanzania was appearing at a local event.  Once it was clear what was happening, most of the people on the dala-dala got out and stood alongside the road to get a better view.  After 10 minutes or so, the motorcade sped past--sirens, motorcycles, police, limo, more police, and, finally, an ambulance.  The passengers, driver, and conductor scrambled to re-board so that our vehicle could be first of the several stopped along the road to pull out and be on our way.

We were stopped once more on our return trip from Arusha.  Watching a motorcade was a fun experience the first time or two, but I'm a little tired of having our travels interrupted.

Trip to Ghana

Our school break was in June, and after grading exams and completing reports we had weeks of free time.  We decided to visit our friend Rose in Ghana.  Hey, we're on the same continent, right?  It should be easy.

When discussing arrangements for our visit, Rose asked if we already had visas.  Oop!  No.  So, we went in search of how to get them.  Internet was no help.  Is there a Ghanaian embassy or consulate in Tanzania?  Nope.  Finally we learned that we could possibly get them on  arrival at the airport.  Rose's businessman brother kindly supplied us with a letter stating that he would be responsible for us during our stay.  It turned out that his letter made all the difference in the attitudes of the immigration officials who supplied the visas.  They went from suspicious to cooperative in an instant.

We flew into Accra at night and were amazed at the size of the city.  It has a population of over two million, and twinkling lights extended far into the distance.  We learned that the city is growing rapidly, due to people moving in from rural areas in search of opportunity.

Rose met us and took us to her lovely home in a suburb of Accra.  She put us into a guest room with the best bed we have slept on in a year.

We saw many similarities between Ghana and Tanzania.  The people are friendly in both countries.  People live in similar-looking houses, which are not built of wood because they would be destroyed by termites before they could be completed.  Instead, the houses of those who can afford it are usually built of cement block, even interior walls.  The more well-off add wall finishes, tile floors, and ornate ceilings.  Middle-class and wealthy homeowners live in walled compounds with gates and sometimes gatekeepers.  Crime is a factor in housing construction in countries where there is much poverty, as well as the fact that local police cannot always be relied on for protection.

Those able to afford it have a main house in the walled compound and a smaller one for servants' quarters.  The people who live in the small house may actually be servants or may just be younger members of the extended family.  In any case, homes at any economic level need a lot of help to run.  Even those who can afford modern appliances experience power outages.  A washing machine and dryer are not labor-saving if there is no electricity to run them.  Convenience foods are rare, expensive, and less tasty than meals made from scratch.  Hence the need for help running a household.  And, (looking back at my economic training) when labor is cheaper and more reliable than labor-saving devices, people have household help.

Rose took us on a tour of Accra, which is a cleaner and more modern city than any in Tanzania.  We were also surprised and pleased that all of the street signs and billboards were in English!  Ghana's national language is English, but there are many tribal languages as well.  We visited a textile market that was full of the colorful and textured Kente cloth.  I did not buy any then, as I noticed that people do not use it for everyday wear.  It is only for special occasions.  We went to Kwame Nkrumah Memorial Park, which contains the museum and tomb of the father of the country.  I found myself affected more than I had expected by the museum, which held, among copies of his books and some of his furniture, photos of him with John F Kennedy, Mao Tse Tung, and Fidel Castro:  people right out of the headlines of my childhood, during a turbulent time in history.

Another day we visited a dam east of Accra that provides electricity to most of the country.  It was an impressive spot.  Along the way we noted that the small towns and villages, with their tiny shops and street vendors, look very much the same as those in Tanzania.

Mid-week we did some shopping and errands with Rose, and had lunch at her sister's beautiful home.  Rose's many sisters and brothers--some of them cousins-- form a close, extended family, complete with nieces, nephews, aunties, and uncles.  Older people are shown deference in the culture and it is the duty of children to help their elders.  As a senior myself, I approve of the system.

At the end of the week we took a trip to Kakum Forest, which lies a couple of hours to the west of the city.  The traffic is so heavy that it took us 90 minutes to clear the suburbs.  Kakum is a rainforest preserve with rope bridges suspended from treetop to treetop.  We were told that no one had ever fallen from the bridges, so, with some misgivings, I made my way across them  I found that looking down was not so scary, as all I could see was the tops of smaller trees.  The worst part is when the twenty-somethings in front of me got playful and rocked the bridge.  I spoke to them sternly (Hooray for the culture of respect for elders!) and they stopped.

On our way back to Accra we stopped at Cape Coast Castle built hundreds of years ago for trade.  The fort was used as an assembly point for captured slaves waiting for ships to take them to the west.  It's a solemn spot, but the coastline there is beautiful, similar to Cinque Terra, in Italy.

The next evening we boarded our plane back to Tanzania, happy to have been able to visit our dear friend and to have met some of her family.  We plan to see her next in just over a year, in Florida.               

Just when I thought we were street-savvy...

We were in Dar es Salaam about a month ago.  The city, which has one of the county's two major airports, seemed to swarm with Peace Corps volunteers.  All of us who teach in Tanzania were on holiday, and many were either traveling or meeting families who came to visit.  We ran into one friend and her parents and the five of us decided to have dinner on the street.  In the towns and cities here, dusk brings the emergence of street food vendors.  These vary from very simple, a mama grilling corn cobs over a charcoal fire, to more elaborate, with tables, chairs, and printed menus.  On a parking lot near a hotel popular with PCVs was one of the latter, and we opted to eat there.  We sat down at a table and a man arrived and asked if he could help us.  We asked for menus and he brought them, and after a few minutes he reappeared and asked us what we wanted to order.  We told him in a mixture of Swahili and English, and he sat down with us and slowly and laboriously wrote on a piece of paper.  He then left to turn in our order.

At this point, everything seemed fine.  If the waiter seemed a little uninformed about the menu options, well, that was not unusual.  He may have been new at the job.  He was certainly friendly enough and seemed eager to be of help.  We were too busy chatting and sharing stories to pay much attention to anything odd about his behavior.

A few minutes later, the man returned chatted a while, and then totaled the cost of our order.  We paid him, and he left, never to be seen again.

Some time later, our food was delivered by different people.  There seemed to be some confusion about exactly what was ordered. Soon the proprietor came to our table, and we discovered that the man who so helpfully took our orders and our money was not a waiter at all, but a con artist.  He did turn in the orders, telling the owner that he was our guide, but he took off with the cash.  Well, our food was partially eaten by that time, and consternation was felt all around.  The owner graciously did not charge us for the meal.  Later, he returned to our table and told us that some of his employees recognized the man, and that he would be caught.  I am sure he was made to pay, in one way or another.  People in this country have no tolerance for thieves, who are often subject to mob justice.        

Lessons learned:  Always be aware of your surroundings, and never pay for something before you receive it.