I found these scrawlings recently in my notebook that were intended to be my next Tanzanian update. Thought I may as well post them to finish off the series…
“Welcome to Zanzibar” reads the sign. Upon disembarking the light aircraft on the runway of Zanzibar International Airport and entering the arrivals area I am greeted by a line of deserted immigration desks. Presumably relics of Zanzibar’s independent status prior to the declaration of unity between Tanganyika and Zanzibar which led to the creation of Tanzania in 1964. Or perhaps the immigration officers simply haven’t turned up yet. It’s only 11:30am, and T.I.A. after all…
Having only packed hand luggage, this is my quickest ever airport visit. Plane to bus stop in under a minute. Perhaps not quite the adrenaline rush of the Taylor/Perry record of Kentish Town bed to Heathrow plane seat in 52 minutes (including packing), but perhaps we’ll be in adjacent photos in the 2008 edition of the Guiness Book of World Records.
I jump on the Dalla Dalla bus and head towards Stone Town. There are only eight people on the bus (a far cry from Arusha), but I am the only one not wearing a kufe. The stronger arab influence here sinks in further as on my walk through the narrow winding alleys to the hostel I pass a school in the middle of an Islamic chanting session.
The architecture here is as interesting as the history of the island. A major trading port for the entirety of it’s civilized history, the island has fallen under the control of various empires (Arab, British, Portuguese) during its existence, and the various cultures are reflected in the historic streets and buildings. It makes for an interesting walk from the bus stop to the hostel, passing bustling bazaars, mosques and grand colonial houses, along with the aforementioned Islamic school, and I already feel like I made the right choice in opting to take some time out from teaching for a short holiday.
I spend the afternoon exploring the Lonely Planet’s recommended attractions. Very interesting and all, but after a couple of hours it begins to feel like a bit of a chore so I decide, against the advice of the guide book, to engage in some banter with the local hawkers and touts (flexing my Kiswahili muscles as a form of defense against their offers of tours, hotels, meals and weed).
However, one of these conversations proves fruitful. During one such broken Swahili session I’m shown a passenger list for the following day’s bus ride to Nungwi which includes the names of two fellow O’Kanes. I decide to take it as a sign and cancel my plans to head east to Paje and Bejuu and book a place on the bus going north to Nungwi instead with the hopes of meeting some distant relatives.
I return to the hostel room happy with my afternoon’s exploits and read the paper while waiting to see if anyone else turns up in the dorm room. After reading the paper cover to cover I decide that it looks unlikely that anyone will show up and head out to grab a drink at the Lonely Planet’s recommended hot spots.
There are a couple of places that sound great. A “restaurant/bar with a veranda overlooking the sea that attracts locals and travelers alike”, and a club recommended for all night dancing. I flick to the front page for the editor’s pic and really can’t imagine her getting down to some bongo flava but decide to place my trust in the LP and set off.
I soon realise the problem with buying an out-of-date guidebook, however, as both bars have been closed/relocated. With no recommended bars to go to, I head instead to the famed night market. Right on the seafront, the market provides the local fishermen, artists and craftsmen with a bustling arena in which to flaunt their various wares to the tourist population. However, the locals also turn out in droves to sample the day’s catches at dirt cheap prices, making for a lively atmosphere. I eat pretty much my fill of fresh lobster, calamari, tuna and scallops, along with a local delicacy called Zanzibar Pizza, for around $8.
As I sit there trying to digest my largest ever single intake of ocean dwellers, I get chatting to one of the local fisherman. He tells me that the main tourist nightlife spots are closed as it is low-season, but there is a local place further inland that is having an “MTV party” tonight. He manages to negotiate an early finish with his boss and we head off to the club.
I have no idea what to expect from this “MTV party” but when we turn up I am mightily impressed. The club is on a huge rooftop overlooking the rest of the town and there is also a huge swimming pool up there. Definitely not what I was expecting and perhaps I get a little carried away as the drinks go down rather quickly. All of a sudden it’s 3am and I’m feeling rather worse for wear (apologies to the people I called in the UK).
After a brief negotiation with one of the taxi drivers outside I decide that $4 is too much to pay for safe passage home (declaring it “Feki! Feki!“ which I have since learnt means “rip-off” in the fake/imitation product sense, rather than the extortionate pricing sense) and set off into the darkness on foot. Not a clever decision! The one thing I’ve been really good about this trip is walking alone at night as I’ve heard so many horror stories. However, despite the onset of hysterical paranoia halfway home as I wander along an unlit stretch of road hoping I am going the right way, I manage to get home safely.
In the morning, perhaps unsurprisingly, I wake up to a stinking hangover and a sense of disbelief that I decided to walk back last night. Lesson learned (for a few hours at least). At breakfast I meet Ping, a 46-year old traveller from Hong Kong. On his 25th wedding anniversary his wife asked him what he’d like as a present. His reply, “a year away from you”. In reality it was 12 months traveling round the world, but his deadpan delivery made me cough up a little cereal.
Ping informs me that he was recently held up at gunpoint while traveling through the Democratic Republic of Congo, and forced to access and hand over $10,000 to the local “police”. He’s therefore having to cut short his trip by four months, but he’s still probably the most positive and enthusiastic person I’ve met in the last two months. I take a leaf from Ping’s book and decide to stop beating myself up over my stupidity the night before.
We say our goodbyes and I head off to catch my bus to Nungwi. No sign of the O’Kanes, and the whole thing stinks of some kind of scam when they try to get me to lend them money for a tank of petrol, but it all works out in the end. I manage to find a beach bungalow, meet up with Calvin and Julia for some food (followed by drinks till 6:30am), and generally spend the rest of the week with a similar routine. A week of swimming, snorkeling, reading, eating, drinking and meeting people, with my time split between Nungwi and Kendra, and I am (just about) rejuvenated for my final couple of weeks of teaching.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Friday, June 8, 2007
Arusha Arusha Update 4 (in the style of Dan Le Sac vs Scroobius Pip)
Thou shalt not:
- become addicted to The Gardener's Daughter after publicly slating it in my previous note
- put a 2ft 6-year-old child on the swings and push him too hard causing him to fall off and land on his head
- quote me unhappy ($250 for a half day walk in the park).
- shit on the floor outside the classroom used to eat lunch and then run to Teacher Dominic yelling "Come see! Come see!"
- sit in camera shot directly behind a key witness at the Rwanda genocide tribunal so that everyone can see your stupid mug in the background every time he speaks
- play the same ads every commercial break so that your 2 year-old host sister's favourite words are Coca Cola (or "cola cola" in her words), Celtel and Vodacom (the two main mobile phone operators)
- make generic, repetitive bongo flava
- make generic, repetitive bongo flava
- make generic, repetitive bongo flava
- spoil your first born so that when the second born arrives, the lack of attention results in continuous piercing screams
- do the funky chicken in the bongo flava room of the local Afican nightclub (Colobus)
- drink four beers and eight shots of Konyagi on a Monday evening
- be stupid enough to think a buffalo is similar to a woolly mammoth and be disappointed upon seeing a large cow
- stray too far from the armed park ranger and find yourself face-to-face with a warthog (if only for a split second before it legs it)
and my favourite original lyric:
- treat disasters which occur in non-English speaking countries with less importance than those which occur in English speaking ones
- become addicted to The Gardener's Daughter after publicly slating it in my previous note
- put a 2ft 6-year-old child on the swings and push him too hard causing him to fall off and land on his head
- quote me unhappy ($250 for a half day walk in the park).
- shit on the floor outside the classroom used to eat lunch and then run to Teacher Dominic yelling "Come see! Come see!"
- sit in camera shot directly behind a key witness at the Rwanda genocide tribunal so that everyone can see your stupid mug in the background every time he speaks
- play the same ads every commercial break so that your 2 year-old host sister's favourite words are Coca Cola (or "cola cola" in her words), Celtel and Vodacom (the two main mobile phone operators)
- make generic, repetitive bongo flava
- make generic, repetitive bongo flava
- make generic, repetitive bongo flava
- spoil your first born so that when the second born arrives, the lack of attention results in continuous piercing screams
- do the funky chicken in the bongo flava room of the local Afican nightclub (Colobus)
- drink four beers and eight shots of Konyagi on a Monday evening
- be stupid enough to think a buffalo is similar to a woolly mammoth and be disappointed upon seeing a large cow
- stray too far from the armed park ranger and find yourself face-to-face with a warthog (if only for a split second before it legs it)
and my favourite original lyric:
- treat disasters which occur in non-English speaking countries with less importance than those which occur in English speaking ones
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Arusha Arusha Update 3 (The Gardener's Daughter)
"Luis Arragones, you bastard! I've just found out that the only reason you're being so nice to Louisa Fernanda is because you've found a way of stealing her inheritance!" Zoom to close up of accused looking dastardly. "Dun-dun...DUN!"
I sit on the sofa impatiently tapping my fingers on my knee. The Champions League final has coincided with the daily Latin American soap that is The Gardener's Daughter. Unfortunately, this happens to be my host father's favourite programme. Like most things in Africa, TV scheduling is not quite the German rail network when it comes to timekeeping, and today's late start means I'll miss even more of the game.
Sat here now, I can't help but think of all the people back in England watching the game on a big screen with their mates, having a couple of sociable pints, while at the same time I'm sat here watching The Gardener's Daughter. However, as they say, the grass is always greener... (no pun intended). In all reality, I'd probably just have been watching the game at home, albeit on a slightly bigger screen (and with less inane commentary), but with the prospect of ten hours sat behind a desk the next day.
Thinking about it, tonight is the first time in a while that I've longed to be in England. Sure, there are things I'm looking forward to about coming back to London (I have a list...), but I've been having a great time here and am going to be pretty sad when it comes time to leave.
The past week and a half (since the last update) seem relatively uneventful when I look back for big points of interest, but at the same time they've been some of my best times, and I feel fully settled here now.
For one thing, I'm starting to get the hang of this teaching lark. Before, I was very much like the substitute teacher that the kids know they can take advantage of, but now I'm starting to get a little more respect (although they still try to test my patience). The kids are currently preparing for a school presentation in the local church that is scheduled in for Saturday so much of our time is currently focussed on that. For some reason, singing songs and acting out scenes from the bible seem to go down better than grammar and arithmetic. Kids these days...
Apart from the routine of my teaching (kids from 8 till 2:30, adults from 4 till 5:30) and preparing lesson plans, there has been little else that would be worth writing about here. There was a little bit of drama last Friday night when my host mother went into false labour (we're still waiting) and a few leaving dos each for Lisa and Annabel (missing you both!) but it's becoming much more like regular life than the initial shock to the system.
Probably partly for that reason I have spent a bit of time this week booking in plenty of activities for the coming weeks before I leave. This weekend I have the kids' church presentation followed by a day trip to Moshi and Marangu (to do some trekking in the foothills of Kilimanjaro) and then back to Arusha for a night out for a friend's birthday. The weekend after I have a day safari on Saturday and fly off to Zanzibar for the week on Sunday. And lo-and-behold, the weekend after I arrive back in London. Time really has flown by...
Speaking of time flying, all of a sudden I hear the theme tune inviting in the closing credits of The Gardener's Daughter (by far the best part of the show), and realise it's time to turn over to the football. Fifty minutes gone and Liverpool are one-nil down. I imagine disgruntled Liverpool fans hurling abuse (and some of their pints) at the screen in a dirty British pub. Having spent the last half hour writing and thinking about my experiences here I realise that perhaps the grass isn't quite so green after all...
I sit on the sofa impatiently tapping my fingers on my knee. The Champions League final has coincided with the daily Latin American soap that is The Gardener's Daughter. Unfortunately, this happens to be my host father's favourite programme. Like most things in Africa, TV scheduling is not quite the German rail network when it comes to timekeeping, and today's late start means I'll miss even more of the game.
Sat here now, I can't help but think of all the people back in England watching the game on a big screen with their mates, having a couple of sociable pints, while at the same time I'm sat here watching The Gardener's Daughter. However, as they say, the grass is always greener... (no pun intended). In all reality, I'd probably just have been watching the game at home, albeit on a slightly bigger screen (and with less inane commentary), but with the prospect of ten hours sat behind a desk the next day.
Thinking about it, tonight is the first time in a while that I've longed to be in England. Sure, there are things I'm looking forward to about coming back to London (I have a list...), but I've been having a great time here and am going to be pretty sad when it comes time to leave.
The past week and a half (since the last update) seem relatively uneventful when I look back for big points of interest, but at the same time they've been some of my best times, and I feel fully settled here now.
For one thing, I'm starting to get the hang of this teaching lark. Before, I was very much like the substitute teacher that the kids know they can take advantage of, but now I'm starting to get a little more respect (although they still try to test my patience). The kids are currently preparing for a school presentation in the local church that is scheduled in for Saturday so much of our time is currently focussed on that. For some reason, singing songs and acting out scenes from the bible seem to go down better than grammar and arithmetic. Kids these days...
Apart from the routine of my teaching (kids from 8 till 2:30, adults from 4 till 5:30) and preparing lesson plans, there has been little else that would be worth writing about here. There was a little bit of drama last Friday night when my host mother went into false labour (we're still waiting) and a few leaving dos each for Lisa and Annabel (missing you both!) but it's becoming much more like regular life than the initial shock to the system.
Probably partly for that reason I have spent a bit of time this week booking in plenty of activities for the coming weeks before I leave. This weekend I have the kids' church presentation followed by a day trip to Moshi and Marangu (to do some trekking in the foothills of Kilimanjaro) and then back to Arusha for a night out for a friend's birthday. The weekend after I have a day safari on Saturday and fly off to Zanzibar for the week on Sunday. And lo-and-behold, the weekend after I arrive back in London. Time really has flown by...
Speaking of time flying, all of a sudden I hear the theme tune inviting in the closing credits of The Gardener's Daughter (by far the best part of the show), and realise it's time to turn over to the football. Fifty minutes gone and Liverpool are one-nil down. I imagine disgruntled Liverpool fans hurling abuse (and some of their pints) at the screen in a dirty British pub. Having spent the last half hour writing and thinking about my experiences here I realise that perhaps the grass isn't quite so green after all...
Monday, May 21, 2007
Arusha Arusha - Update 2
7:00am. I awake on Thursday morning to the prospect of another two days of teaching prior to the weekend. I’m absolutely shattered! I’m not sure I can do it, I think to myself. Perhaps another 5 minutes in bed will do the trick, so I hit the snooze on my alarm...
Twenty minutes later I drag myself out of bed and into the cold shower. The refreshing shock to the system of the cool water against my skin wakes me up some, but the lingering dread of a full day's teaching is still present. Partially, it’s the booze from the previous night talking, but much of it is the sheer constant effort that is primary school teaching (in my limited experience).
I'd always thought that the life of a primary school teacher was a blissful one. Read a few stories, get cuddles from adoring children, and other general fluffiness. OK, there's the occasional story to read, and as I arrive at school the children come running to greet me, but once the school bell sounds the kids get their game faces on. Less than two weeks in and I am knackered! I now have a completely new found respect for the teaching profession.
I guzzle down my breakfast (chapati, banana and chai) and rush off to school. I manage to arrive on time, but the school van doesn't arrive for another 45 minutes. T.I.A.
Not wanting to waste the significant effort that was getting out of the bed in the morning, I sit down to write this update. Sitting here now in the internet cafe, I can reflect on a couple of challenging, but rewarding days.
Thursday morning begins once the bus load of children arrive. The first lesson of the day is mathematics. The counting sticks are out... My previous English classes don't seem to have taught them much as they appear to be unaware of the difference between "counting" sticks and "fighting" sticks, and mayhem ensues. I get out the mean Teacher Dominic voice, but this works for about 2 minutes at a time.
Today's topic is multiplication. Not exactly an attention grabber it seems. 90 minutes of multiplication tuition (plus counting stick related injury time) later, and I still receive three different answers to the taxing problem of "two times two is equal to...?" What a great teacher! I try my best not to be discouraged (as this is their first ever multiplication lesson) but decide the kids can go for an early break.
After the morning's draining maths class, I make the tactical decision to re-jig the schedule for the rest of the day. Science and English are replaced by silent reading, art (or vocational studies, as they call it here) and a story. Still lots of misbehaviour, but it goes a lot smoother than the morning session.
Once school is over for the day I head into town (10 minutes ride on the Dalla Dalla local bus). I head to the second-hand clothing market and get immersed in retail therapy, African style. The majority of the stuff has been donated by the American Red Cross (over the last 25 years from the looks of it). Rummaging through the various stalls is like trawling through the Klaxons/Hadouken! tour wardrobe. I lose track of time and have to quickly negotiate a deal ($1.50 for 2 t-shirts) before jumping aboard a crammed Dalla Dalla heading for my adult English class.
Teaching a group of adults, who don't speak a lick of English, but are kind enough to refrain from hitting each other with their pencils, seems like a piece of cake compared to the trauma of the morning.
Today (Friday) goes much better at school. To my surprise, our recap of the multiplication from yesterday seems to sink in and they're all getting the answers (albeit to simple questions) by the end of the session. We follow up with a word-search and then we've got break.
It's my fellow volunteer teacher Lisa's final day at school today (as she returns to the States on Tuesday), so we let the kids watch Tarzan 2 on DVD as a treat. Afterwards, the kids perform a leaving song for her and she's given her leaving present. She has literally taught me everything I know about teaching (and also about "local culture") and I don't know how I'll cope once I'm teaching completely on my own...
Again, I've babbled on for far too long without really saying much, so I'll leave it there. If anything's going on at home then I'd love to hear about it, but otherwise I'll see you all (well, most of you) in June.
Baadaye.
Dominic
P.s. I will get around to putting some photos up soon, I promise...
Twenty minutes later I drag myself out of bed and into the cold shower. The refreshing shock to the system of the cool water against my skin wakes me up some, but the lingering dread of a full day's teaching is still present. Partially, it’s the booze from the previous night talking, but much of it is the sheer constant effort that is primary school teaching (in my limited experience).
I'd always thought that the life of a primary school teacher was a blissful one. Read a few stories, get cuddles from adoring children, and other general fluffiness. OK, there's the occasional story to read, and as I arrive at school the children come running to greet me, but once the school bell sounds the kids get their game faces on. Less than two weeks in and I am knackered! I now have a completely new found respect for the teaching profession.
I guzzle down my breakfast (chapati, banana and chai) and rush off to school. I manage to arrive on time, but the school van doesn't arrive for another 45 minutes. T.I.A.
Not wanting to waste the significant effort that was getting out of the bed in the morning, I sit down to write this update. Sitting here now in the internet cafe, I can reflect on a couple of challenging, but rewarding days.
Thursday morning begins once the bus load of children arrive. The first lesson of the day is mathematics. The counting sticks are out... My previous English classes don't seem to have taught them much as they appear to be unaware of the difference between "counting" sticks and "fighting" sticks, and mayhem ensues. I get out the mean Teacher Dominic voice, but this works for about 2 minutes at a time.
Today's topic is multiplication. Not exactly an attention grabber it seems. 90 minutes of multiplication tuition (plus counting stick related injury time) later, and I still receive three different answers to the taxing problem of "two times two is equal to...?" What a great teacher! I try my best not to be discouraged (as this is their first ever multiplication lesson) but decide the kids can go for an early break.
After the morning's draining maths class, I make the tactical decision to re-jig the schedule for the rest of the day. Science and English are replaced by silent reading, art (or vocational studies, as they call it here) and a story. Still lots of misbehaviour, but it goes a lot smoother than the morning session.
Once school is over for the day I head into town (10 minutes ride on the Dalla Dalla local bus). I head to the second-hand clothing market and get immersed in retail therapy, African style. The majority of the stuff has been donated by the American Red Cross (over the last 25 years from the looks of it). Rummaging through the various stalls is like trawling through the Klaxons/Hadouken! tour wardrobe. I lose track of time and have to quickly negotiate a deal ($1.50 for 2 t-shirts) before jumping aboard a crammed Dalla Dalla heading for my adult English class.
Teaching a group of adults, who don't speak a lick of English, but are kind enough to refrain from hitting each other with their pencils, seems like a piece of cake compared to the trauma of the morning.
Today (Friday) goes much better at school. To my surprise, our recap of the multiplication from yesterday seems to sink in and they're all getting the answers (albeit to simple questions) by the end of the session. We follow up with a word-search and then we've got break.
It's my fellow volunteer teacher Lisa's final day at school today (as she returns to the States on Tuesday), so we let the kids watch Tarzan 2 on DVD as a treat. Afterwards, the kids perform a leaving song for her and she's given her leaving present. She has literally taught me everything I know about teaching (and also about "local culture") and I don't know how I'll cope once I'm teaching completely on my own...
Again, I've babbled on for far too long without really saying much, so I'll leave it there. If anything's going on at home then I'd love to hear about it, but otherwise I'll see you all (well, most of you) in June.
Baadaye.
Dominic
P.s. I will get around to putting some photos up soon, I promise...
Arusha Arusha (said in a Kris Akabusi stylee) - Update 1
"T.I.A., This...Is...Africa". Leonardo DiCaprio's voice sifts into my brain via the in-flight entertainment headphones as I struggle to stay awake. It's not that Blood Diamond is a slow, dull movie, far from it, but the combination of an early morning flight and a restless night's sleep were conspiring against me. Despite my rapid progression towards dreams of FA Cup winning goals and the like, this particular quote manages to weave it's way into my sparse remaining consciousness, and I remember thinking "I'm sure Africa can't be that different really". I have rarely been simultaneously so right and so wrong.
Upon arrival at Nairobi's Jomo Kenyatta International airport I am taken to the hotel that I booked prior to departure through the ever reliable universitiesnet.com (cashback please Lionel). As I enter the elevator at the rather shabby looking hotel I am joined by a mzungu in her 60s accompanied by a local guy who can't be a day over 21. As they exit the elevator together, the hourly room rate that I heard discussed at reception while checking in begins to make more sense. Upon seeing the room I decide that I have chosen to stay in one of Nairobi's seediest hotels and decide to go straight to bed. The next day on the shuttle bus to Arusha I am told that the hotel I stayed at is considered to be "one of the better ones in Nairobi. TIA indeed.
The shuttle from Nairobi to Arusha takes five and a half hours, most of which I spent trying to pick up a few basic Swahili phrases from my LP. Upon arrival in Arusha, I am greeted by my host father, and also headmaster at the local school I will be teaching at, Mr Sam Kironde. Sam is a 30 year old Ugandan who has been living in Arusha for the past five years. He finds my attempts at Swahili a source of great entertainment and I know within minutes that we are going to get on fine.
We jump in a taxi and set off for 'home' (a 3-bed family house situated 10 minutes by car/bus from the centre of town). The house has everything you would expect of a house in the UK with the exception hot water. The family I am living with consists of Sam, his wife Ruth, their two daughters, Lisa (14) and Linda (2), and their housegirl Angelina, all of whom are exceptionally friendly.
Following a couple of days of orientation I started my voluntary work. The school where I am supposed to be teaching is still on Easter break, so instead I have been helping with another programme teaching English to street kids, and also running an adult English literacy class. All quite daunting considering I have never taught before, but it's only 3 hours a day so better than being thrown in at the deep end with full days of school teaching. I still have that challenge to look forward to...
Arusha is a beautiful place. The town sits in the lush countryside near the foot of Mt Meru (TZ's 2nd highest mountain after Kili) and has some stunning scenery. It's within spitting distance of Kilimanjaro, the Serengeti, Ngorogoro Conservation Area, and the homelands of the Maasai Mara, and is therefore a major tourism centre. It is also the location of the UN's Rwanda genocide tribunal. These facts mean that there is a large population of Westerners/Nzungus (compared to the rest of Tanzania at least).
I have met quite a few other volunteers already, and had a big party and night out on Thursday. Many7 packets of the local spirit Kunyagi (which is a type of gin unfortunately) was imbibed and a lot of what else happened is blurry to say the least. Teaching a group of 7 and 8 year olds the next morning after dancing away till 4am the night before was an interesting experience. Definitely not recommended as a hangover cure...
Anyway, I think I've definitely bored you all enough for update 1 so will leave it there. I hope you're all well and hope to hear from some of you soon.
Baadaye,
Dom
Upon arrival at Nairobi's Jomo Kenyatta International airport I am taken to the hotel that I booked prior to departure through the ever reliable universitiesnet.com (cashback please Lionel). As I enter the elevator at the rather shabby looking hotel I am joined by a mzungu in her 60s accompanied by a local guy who can't be a day over 21. As they exit the elevator together, the hourly room rate that I heard discussed at reception while checking in begins to make more sense. Upon seeing the room I decide that I have chosen to stay in one of Nairobi's seediest hotels and decide to go straight to bed. The next day on the shuttle bus to Arusha I am told that the hotel I stayed at is considered to be "one of the better ones in Nairobi. TIA indeed.
The shuttle from Nairobi to Arusha takes five and a half hours, most of which I spent trying to pick up a few basic Swahili phrases from my LP. Upon arrival in Arusha, I am greeted by my host father, and also headmaster at the local school I will be teaching at, Mr Sam Kironde. Sam is a 30 year old Ugandan who has been living in Arusha for the past five years. He finds my attempts at Swahili a source of great entertainment and I know within minutes that we are going to get on fine.
We jump in a taxi and set off for 'home' (a 3-bed family house situated 10 minutes by car/bus from the centre of town). The house has everything you would expect of a house in the UK with the exception hot water. The family I am living with consists of Sam, his wife Ruth, their two daughters, Lisa (14) and Linda (2), and their housegirl Angelina, all of whom are exceptionally friendly.
Following a couple of days of orientation I started my voluntary work. The school where I am supposed to be teaching is still on Easter break, so instead I have been helping with another programme teaching English to street kids, and also running an adult English literacy class. All quite daunting considering I have never taught before, but it's only 3 hours a day so better than being thrown in at the deep end with full days of school teaching. I still have that challenge to look forward to...
Arusha is a beautiful place. The town sits in the lush countryside near the foot of Mt Meru (TZ's 2nd highest mountain after Kili) and has some stunning scenery. It's within spitting distance of Kilimanjaro, the Serengeti, Ngorogoro Conservation Area, and the homelands of the Maasai Mara, and is therefore a major tourism centre. It is also the location of the UN's Rwanda genocide tribunal. These facts mean that there is a large population of Westerners/Nzungus (compared to the rest of Tanzania at least).
I have met quite a few other volunteers already, and had a big party and night out on Thursday. Many7 packets of the local spirit Kunyagi (which is a type of gin unfortunately) was imbibed and a lot of what else happened is blurry to say the least. Teaching a group of 7 and 8 year olds the next morning after dancing away till 4am the night before was an interesting experience. Definitely not recommended as a hangover cure...
Anyway, I think I've definitely bored you all enough for update 1 so will leave it there. I hope you're all well and hope to hear from some of you soon.
Baadaye,
Dom
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