Red Tape

A local friend, we will call him Lucas, offered to come with me on my latest round of visits in my quest for a work permit. He is a successful businessman judging by his big new car and he thought he might have a few useful contacts in the various government offices. On the appointed day, as I climbed into the car, he said something had cropped up in one of his properties and would I mind if we called in there first. The place was only a few streets away from the Immigration Office. It was a small rice-milling plant and it was clear there was "trouble up at t'mill"; a confused crowd of workers outside supervised by two policemen, as usual a fat old one and a slimmer young one. The problem turned out to be a surprise visit from the Health and Safety people who had made an inspection and closed the place down on the spot. Lucas spoke briefly to the policemen and we got back in the car. We drove round the corner to one of the covered market buildings where the H and S offices were upstairs. Some of the local government offices here are positively palatial but this one wasn't. It was a small room tucked in under the roof, with bare dirty walls, not even the usual framed photo of President Kikwete. There were two wooden tables Nos DMC/SKM/OD-T3/0033 and DMC/SKM/OD-T3/0034 and two tall metal lockers Nos DMC/SKM/IR-CU-7/0029 and DMC/SKM/IR-CU-7/0030. Every chair, table, cupboard, everything, is numbered in Tanzania, the figures neatly painted in white. I've just stood up and checked the chair I'm sitting on; it's No. N/N/CH/0053. Anyway, the only other things in that room were two large bowls of mangoes (not numbered) on the floor. A smartly dressed woman sat behind table 33 and the two policemen and a tough-looking guy in jeans and T-shirt sat behind 34. Lucas and I were told to sit on a low bench (?.....B1/01?)
"Linguistically challenged" Elaine could only pick out a couple of words of the prodeedings - one of them "choo" which is toilet. Lucas told me later that was apparently blocked, plus the workers weren't wearing masks or protective clothes. He says they find them unbearably hot and I can believe it. The lady produced a letter and she, the tough guy and the fat policeman kept pointing at various details so it was obvious that the shortcomings from a previous visit had not been addressed. There were stern words and a lot of finger stabbing on tables 33 and 34. Lucas, who is usually quite assertive, sat quietly, giving a few meek answers. Except when his phone went off in which case he ignored them while he answered the call. As did everyone else present. The thinner policemen was occupied with his mobile throughout, sometimes interrupting to borrow his colleague's phone as well. Various people came and went, newcomers blythely greeting everyone individually with requests for news of children, home etc. They just raised their voices above the admonishments of the current speaker then sat down and took their turn to have a go at Lucas. But every so often, in the middle of all the tough talk, everyone, including Lucas, burst out laughing for a while, then got back down to the telling off. After about an hour the fat policeman got out a big ledger and entered some details. Then Lucas and I were free to go, but accompagnied by the tough guy.We drove to the Immigration Office, spoke to an official with our minder hovering behind us. Then we were sent to the Regional Administration Office - ditto. There they palmed us off with the usual promise to ring tomorrow. I jumped into a dalla-dalla to go to school. Lucas drove off in the car with tough guy and I haven't seen him since.
No pictures this week. Photography is not allowed in and around government buildings. And I was even warned not to take pictures in the market without a permit. The local people themselves are also not keen to be photographed. You have to be discreet or negociate a deal, which is really not my thing; that's why I'm not a business woman, and will probably never get my work permit.

Oscar Wilde, Sid Vicious and me.

Tanzanians and non-Tanzanians alike think it's weird that I live in a hotel. There are pros and cons (don't think the Nam would have suited Oscar or Sid) but on balance I prefer it. Most of my Wazungu friends live in compounds but in my mind compound is always preceded by the word prison. I could rent a house, but with a house would come responsibility. I would have to have a staff of at least two - a guard and a house servant. I would also be at the mercy of Tanesco (Tanzania Electricity Supply Co) and its frequent power cuts. Here at the Nam we have a generator, when it's working and when we've remembered to buy some Diesel. And we usually have enough water pressure for a shower. The hotel has a good laundry service but I don't use it much. It's very dusty and windy here and your clothes get nice and dirty. It's hugely satisfying seeing the water coming out like oxtail soup as you wash your things. Proper brand name soap powder in boxes is expensive here but anonymous black plastic bags filled with perfectly serviceable stuff is sold very cheaply by the "barrow boys". Street restaurants always have a saucer of "Omo" for you to dip into when you wash. Not very kind to your hands but very thorough. I don't have an iron. My loyal followers know how much I like ironing (a lot, seriously). The Nam Hotel is in Area C (suburb of Dodoma). Also in Area C is MAF which stands for Mission Aviation Fellowship. I love MAF; not least because they have a fleet of light aircraft (well, two I think) which serve remote mission stations and you can sometimes get a spare seat cheaply and escape from Dodoma for a few days. Even better they have an iron and ironing board in the sitting room of their hostel. I sneak in with my ironing on Sundays when everyone's at church. Oh yes, I'm well up there with Wilde and Vicious, flouting the rules and having a high old time. So for now anyway I'm happy where I am. The staff are friendly and when Parliament is sitting we have a sprinkling of the nicer type (ie not extravagantly lodged in the New Dodoma Hotel) of MP staying, which makes for some interesting company.

And the balcony/corridor outside my room has a lovely view of Lion Rock.

Ageing Rock Artists

Lonely Planet describes Central Tanzania as "Well off". That's not the impression you've given us, I hear you cry. Keep reading: "Well off most tourist itineraries..." This weekend Jan and I hit the tourist trail and visited the Kondoa Kolo Unesco World Heritage Rock Paintings. Listed as "Around Dodoma" in the Tanzania Footprint Guide, they are in fact 200 km up the Great North Road (Capetown to Cairo)."Great"in length only. The tarmac gives out on the outskirts of Dodoma and long sections of it are only suitable for 4 x 4's. Therefore, sadly, not suitable for the Mrisho Investment bus which juddered away from Dodoma bus stand at five past noon on Friday. (Warning Readers. Do not invest in this bus.) Elaine and Jan were fairly comfortably installed in the front row, a bit short of leg room owing to the big tool box pushed under the seat. An hour later the reason for the tool box's accessibility became clear. A hideous graunching crunch from the engine was swiftly followed by a whooshing sound of fluid being released from somewhere and an exchange of worried comments between the driver and the guys variously standing and sitting in the doorway, on the steps and up at the windscreen. We clattered to a halt, all the passengers immediately piled off as if it were a scheduled comfort stop and headed off into the bush or sat under the shade of the nearest baobab tree, chatting away happily. Meanwhile the bus driver and the bus "fundi" watched by the customary circle of interested blokes, squatted down in the road and carefully fashioned a gasket or something out of an old Konyagi carton. An hour and a half later and we were on our way, and looking forward to a nice cold Safari beer in Kondoa when the bus lost all power going up a hill and it was everybody out again. In short, which the journey wasn't, we ended up getting out and walking up two more hills and waiting while they fixed the bus. The four hour journey stretched to eight but we finally reached a dark and dusty Kondoa. Not to worry - our Swahili got some practice - and we found rooms OK at the New Geneva Hotel in Kondoa (always some Swiss connection when Jan is around). The Geneva had a very lengthy registration form which included "Tribe". I put "Angles", which I wasn't that happy with. Suggestions for next time please, Readers. Next morning we negociated a taxi for the day (130,000/-) drove the 20km to Kolo where we looked round the little museum and picked up a lady

guide(30,000/-), and then headed for the hills. It was beautiful weather of course and each site involved parking up and climbing the last bit. Those cavemen certainly picked some nice spots and the views were gorgeous. The rock art was pretty good too; red spindly humanoids and realistic, recognisable animals in Kolo sites B1, B2 and B3 and black and white abstract trance dance geometric shapes at nearby Pahi.

Apart from one "pancha" our taxi coped well, bumping its way along tracks (aka the Great North Road) and across dry river beds, and our bus on Sunday morning got us back to Dodoma in an impressive 3 hours 45 minutes.

575 New Teachers

St John's University ("A Centre of Excellence for Developing Humankind Holistically to Learn to Serve") had its Graduation Day yesterday. They like to do this kind of thing properly in Tanzania. The Prime Minister, the Hon. Mizengo Kayanza Peter Pinda (MP) was Guest of Honour; a military band was in attendance; seven or eight large marquees had been put up on the sports field and festooned with ribbons; and the town's tailors, seamstresses and milliners have been busy in the last few weeks making gowns, hoods, mortar boards and other arcane academic accoutrements. For the 1100 "Graduands" including two of my colleagues, the day started at 8.30 with rehearsals and "preparation". I arrived about one o'clock and seeing the crowds I decided it was payback time for all the shouts of "HEY MAZUNGU!" I get as I go about my daily life here.I latched onto a couple of Australian St John’s lecturers and strolled confidently past the security and found a seat in a marquee near the VIP dais. Meanwhile the other family and friends were back behind ropes, standing squeezed together under the trees in the patches of shade.
It was soon clear that there was something very unTanzanian about the arrangements when proceedings started 20 minutes ahead of schedule.

The band marched in – ceremonial baton twirling – followed by the solemn procession of PM, Chancellor, Vice-Chancellor, Acting Deputy Vice-Chancellor, Proctors, Deans of Faculty, Chaplains, lecturers, all resplendent in gowns, hoods and those puffy Italian-Renaissance-meets-Uzbek-Warlord style hats and tassles.
The speeches were mercifully brief by Tanzanian standards and then the Graduands from each faculty paraded out, the girls staggering a bit as their high heels sank into the sand, and the long list of names was read out. (note to self: could do a blog post on lovely/weird Tanzanian names). As the Chancellor proclaimed the words* conferring the degrees the band played a fanfare and in an emotion-charged atmosphere they put on their mortar boards to wild cheering, clapping and ululating. By far the biggest cohort got degrees in education which is good news.

It was all very well orchestrated, the VIP’s and students being shepherded about by an usher in red embroidered Islamic Court Dress, a nice touch in an Anglican University.We wound up with a vote of thanks*, a blessing*, a photocall, and the National Anthem.
Then it was party time. I was invited to one at Bobby’s Lodge. We sat outside on rows of chairs facing a table with a large cake and flowers. Our D.J. tried his best to drown out the music from at least two other graduation parties in the same venue. My colleague wore her gown, hood, mortar board and security ID tag proudly throughout. An M.C. supervised various rituals of introduction and welcome and one in which the new graduate popped large pieces of the cake into the open mouths of selected guests. Dancing queues of friends, colleagues and family presented gifts and money. There was food (chipsy koku) and drink aplenty, and we bopped under the stars until the small hours.
*Although all the teaching at the uni is in English as is the norm here, the entire graduation was in Swahili so I could only recognize a few words, eg Sayansi (Science).