The Rain

I am writing in the midst of a long thunderstorm that has been rumbling on for a couple of hours now. It rained last night, all night, and was gray and muggy all day. The sun made a fleeting appearance in the afternoon, but for most of the day the sky threatened to rain on us. We are in the short rains, but the season should be ending about now and they never really came as they should have. The wakulima, the farmers, are all complaining. Our night watchman Noel keeps me up to date with the mood in the village. He is a farmer as well, as pretty much everyone is. Tanzanians up the hill here all have a job and a small shamba (plot) that they work after their regular job hours.

As I write the rain has become stronger, pounding on the tin part of our roof (most of it is actually terracotta tiles; very Mediterranean, you might say…). From one perspective our life here is much the same as it ever was in New York. We work about 8 hours per day, come home and begin to live our domestic life. Our evenings are spent being completely consumed with our amazing little girl, and perhaps reading a few pages of a book. Sometimes we borrow DVD’s or watch some of the more obscure titles that Matt recommended to us. This does not leave so much time for sitting around and just experiencing Tanzania, and sometimes I panic at the thought of not experiencing it enough.

Then it rains like this, and we go outside onto the verandah and watch the sheets of water come down, smell the wet dust, and revel in the idea that the tree, vegetables and flower bushes and potted plants that we have planted will be creeping skyward as we sleep, green and vibrant in the morning when we get up. My anxiety about experiencing Tanzania fully begins to ebb away.

Of course, with rain comes shida (problems) with power. Right now, the music that has been playing in our living room has been replaced by the metronomic beeping of the UPS (Uninterrupted Power Source, essentially a big back-up battery) under my desk that feeds my computer in the darkness of a power cut. I get about 7 minutes more power, but I am going outside anyway. So that’s all. I’m done. When the pwer comes back and we have internet, I’ll post. It will be after Christmas by then, as we are leaving in the morning for Marangu. So Merry Christmas too, if you subscribe to that celebration. Otherwise, Jimmy, Brian, Steve, happy holidays etc. Usiku mwema. Good Night.

Mount Meru

The town of Arusha, where Samantha, Sofia and I live, lies in the shadow of Mount Meru. It is sort of considered to be Kilimanjaro’s forgotten sibling, although two the mountains are remarkably different. They are both volcanoes, but Meru is a much more craggy and serrated along its edges, steep and forbidding as opposed to Kilimanjaro’s gentle and infinitely long slopes. The summit of Mount Meru, known as Socialist peak, is about 1300 metres lower than the summit of Kilimanjaro. The students at school climb both mountains, and Meru is universally considered to be more intimidating for the kids, as it presents a formidable physical challenge, whereas Kili’s real challenge is the altitude. The side of Meru was blown off by a massive eruption some time ago (we are talking geological time, so I have no idea if it was “long ago” or “recently”).

We are in the short rains right now, but so far little rain has made it down to us. Every afternoon a massive storm roils and crackles over the top third of Meru, and we all run for cover before it comes rolling down over town. It never does, and when the storm finally clears up, there are streaks of snow around the summit of the mountain. An hour later the snow is gone. All this to explain that yesterday I was driving through town, contemplating another false alarm of rain, and I saw the peak of snow streaked Meru. It made me think about how impressive it is to live under this mountain. We drive around, we work, we walk through the shambas, everything we do takes place below Mount Meru, yet I only ever really look at it carefully once in a while. Therefore I dedicate this post to the mountain.

 

Sofia’s thoughts for today…

No, really, we saw them…

We took Sofia to the bush for the first time this week-end. She is 13 weeks old, for crying out loud! She was great, sleeping as the car bumped and crashed around Tarangire National Park. Her mosquito net kept her safe from any flying varmints. The thing with game drives is that you hear other tourists telling one another these amazing stories, which I am sure are true…”No, really, the cheetah cubs crossed the road right in front of us. We followed them to their mother, who suddenly took off after a baby impala and killed her right there, in front of us.”That never happens to us. And therefore I doubt the veracity of these accounts. They are never, ever followed by ” Yeah, look at this video.” or “Check out the photos we took of the whole thing.”Well, today we saw two beautiful bat-eared foxes. And here is the proof. Sofia was asleep. but on her first day on kindergarten I want her to tell everyone that she saw two bat eared foxes when she was 13 weeks old.

We Have Traffic Lights!

Although the Arusha Times has taken to calling them “traffic control lights”, they are your common variety traffic lights. Arusha’s population is growing rapidly, but not nearly as rapidly as the number of cars that crawl and clatter around town. The roads are not enough, and the traffic situation is getting worse all the time. Then, along came the raffic control lights. Apparently someone has paid a HUGE amount, to whom I do not know, in order to have the privilege of putting street lights and traffic lights in some areas of town. This unknown (to me) party has paid in order to install the lights because they will then own the advertising rights for every street light and traffic light for ever and ever (again, a guess). The lights all have an advertising board on them, ergo there is money to be made.

The one intersection in town where the lights are up and running is a a spectacle to behold. At first hundreds of people, nowadays only tens, gather to watch the lights working (as in the bulbs going on and off properly) and to revel in the chaos that ensues. The city decreed that only three of the four roads leading into the intersection deserved a traffic light. The fourth is a busy dust track that winds and bumps down Mount Meru from a town called Sanawari, running parallel to our own dusty track that runs down from Ilboru. Because it is not paved, the municipality decided that it does not get a light. They actually explained that one important issue was that they could not paint the necessary lanes onto a dust road. So the dozens of Dala Dalas (minibuses), taxis and carts that come down from Sanawari are left to carve their own path into the busy computerized intersection. The result? Bedlam. Pure, African bedlam, the best kind.

I urge you to read the article in the Arusha Times about the new traffic control lights. Of course you want to read about it all from an accredited news agency rather than believing everything that I write, but the Arusha Times delivers writing that is unique and from another time. A couple of quotes:

“They are playing with people’s lives. Had it not been for Traffic policemen who have been intervening, all day long, this junction would have been a pool of human blood,” said a woman who identified herself by the name of Mama Elisha.

A pedestrian, Melita Mollel said: “I’m surprised by the technology that threatens lives. It instructs you to cross the road but as soon as you start moving you’re surrounded by cars, all scrambling to knock you down.”

Keep reading the New York Times, the Corriere, the Repubblica. You won’t find stuff like this anywhere.

Mama Sofia

Seven weeks into Sofia’s life her mother and I are more convinced than ever that she is perfect. What has become the most apparent to me is that Sofia’s mother, Samantha, my wife, is a beautiful , caring and natural mother. The same goes for her abilities as a wife. Kweli. That’s the truth. This post settles into the unavoidable new category of “shrine to my family”…

Baba Sofia

My wife Samantha and I are back from Italy, where we spent the summer. We came back with Sofia, our new and wonderful daughter. In Tanzania, when your firstborn arrives, you take on his or her name, preceded by Baba or Mama. It is an extra layer of joyadded to the great experience of fatherhood, being hailed as Baba Sofia every day. The Tanzanians now greet me with a loooong list of “Habari ya Sofia”, “Habari ya Mama Sofia” etc. every morning. Greetings used to take a long time, now they seem endless.

That is all that fatigue will allow me right now. I have to get to bed and rest up for tomorrow’s good mornings. But I am back and writing. A little sleepier, and certainly distracted. Welcome back to you too.

Baba Sofia

Weaverbird from the Land Rover.

OP (Outdoor Pursuits) trip to the base of Mawenzi (Kilimanjaro’s second peak)

The Nairobi Fly Update

Well, upon reading back on last night’s post about my encounter with the Nairobi Fly, I think I ought to return and give the insect the respect it deserves. The skin irritation has developed into a really nasty burn, as if someone has poured acid onto my arm, which is exactly what the beetle did. So I am now using the cure most commonly cited, which is to slather toothpaste all over the wound. The toothpaste has to be of the old-school variety, the chalky stuff that dries up. The latest aqua green Crest with fluorescent spinning martians suspended in it won’t work. Hooray for Tanzanian toothpaste marketing gimmicks being 20 years out of date! Toothpaste is a strong base, and so neutralizes the acid. The dry chalkiness draws the acid out of your skin. It smells nice too. Anyway, I won’t be quite as glib about the Nairobi Fly in the future. It still hurts like hell.