From Lion Kings to Akuna Matata

Posted by Natalie Foster on October 31, 2010 · 2 Comments 

Dear Martha Stewart: Do you have any handy hints for keeping weevils out of cereal? Repair remedies for a tap that spurts out muddy water? A quick and easy tip for intermittent power cuts perhaps? Neat and nifty solutions for preventing malarial mosquitoes from invading my apartment? I would ask you for some home decorating tips, but alas all my worldy possessions (the entire 2 cubic metres) are enjoying their own round the world adventure right now, having been shipped to Cozumel instead of Dar es Salaam!

Welcome to the mundane and trivial, such is my life in Africa this week.

But as they say in these parts Akuna Matata!

That is one Swahili phrase I learnt rather quickly. According to Walt Disney it means “no worries for the rest of your life…”. In my experience I think a better interpretation would be “This is Africa, expect the unexpected and even then don’t assume it will happen in your lifetime”. On that note I have started Swahili lessons, with a lovely teacher named Grace. I have informed her of my poor track record with languages and natural flair for being linguistically retarded. I wished her luck and told her that this will be my last chance at becoming bilingual; that’s it, the buck stops with Swahili, there will be no more failed attempts at learning a language. To be honest after 4 weeks it is not looking promising, any 5 year old who has watched The Lion King would perhaps have a better working knowledge of Swahili than I do right now. That being said, I can already say more than I could in Vietnamese and more thankfully without the constant fear of using the wrong tone and making a spectacular fool of myself.

Some of you may recall my experience in Vietnam (one of many) when upon learning the word for “FULL” (‘day’), I would proudly and confidently pull up on my bike at a service station and let the attendant know that I wanted my tank “FULL”. Ok, so even after 2 years I was still conversing with monosyllabic attempts, but hey it is reputedly the 2nd hardest language in the world, so cut me some slack. Rather cleverly (or so I thought) I would sometimes use this word on other social occasions when it logically (in my mind at least) seemed appropriate. For instance, with a smiling face I would often pat my distended stomach in restaurants and declare aloud to waiters rather smugly that I was in fact “FULL” (‘Toi day’). It was a Vietnamese friend who corrected my subtle mispronunciation, but only after she had sufficiently recovered enough from laughing (thanks Thu ;)). It was unfortunate then that I had not used this word in her company sooner, had I done so I may have spared many a perfect stranger of the no doubt enlightening knowledge that I was intending to urinate (‘Toi dai’).

Where as the language may be easier, the day-to-day life is far more complicated over here in Tanzania. On account of waking up at such a ridiculous hour of the morning (at 5.30 am even the sun has enough sense in this part of the world to lie low) I had developed a survival ritual of enjoying porridge and coffee each morning. The aims were simple a). to get me through the day, b). to make me a nicer person and c). to ensure I was capable of stringing a sentence together in a somewhat lucid and coherent manner, when I met my first class at 7am. The strategy had been proving successful. That was until I made the traumatic discovery, that in my bleary-eyed state I had not given enough attention to the tiny brown specks mixed through the cereal. These were not in fact nutritious additions to my porridge, but rather creatures….alive and crawling and being consumed en masse by moi. The only thought worse in my mind at that moment was the realisation that this had in all likelihood been occurring everyday for the best part of 4 weeks. For a brief moment I felt like I had become my grandmother, such are the stories I have heard about the tough life of growing up in the Australian bush 80 years ago. She also walked miles to school and donned chaff-sack dresses, so really let’s not get carried away, my melodrama does not quite constitute any real hardship. None the less I am the first to admit that my generation are a bunch of softies. The unpleasant revelation transpired at work, when I noticed that the currants in my breakfast were moving. One of my colleagues who perhaps saw my pained expression while passing me in the staffroom comforted me with ‘Oh weevils, you can’t do much about them, I don’t usually worry, they won’t kill you’. Africa sure does seem to attract a certain type and I am not yet that person.

Strong, resilient and tough, that’s how they come in these parts. Pirate Hunters, Masai Warriors, Professional Hunters and the Mighty Mosquito. Who would think that in Africa the most persistent peril I was to face would be a humble bug? They are almost admirable in their kamikaze approach as they swoop and dive for any exposed areas of skin. It makes a night in my living room akin to playing a round of malarial roulette. At night I sleep under an enormous net. It took some getting used to, but I have come to enjoy the novelty, not just because of the protection it affords, but because it feels like I am sleeping in a giant cubby house. There is however a knack to getting in and out. On account of sharing my apartment with at least 10 rather large and very green geckos (I don’t know what the freeloaders eat but clearly they are not doing their job) I have become over zealous in my attempts to ensure the net is well secured under the mattress. I turn off the lights, and armed with my torch, book and alarm clock, I slide up under a small, untucked portion and then ensure all the edges are completely sealed off to malarial mossies and the seemingly vegetarian freeloading lizards.

It is a shame I can’t wrap my entire apartment in one huge mosquito net. Outside my cocooned 4-poster bed, I am forced to come up with ever-creative strategies to ward off the mossie offensive throughout the rest of the apartment. As I type this I am trialing a new move, wearing socks and long pants under my summer pj’s, it is a brave new look, and not one that I am a fan of, neck to toe attire is not all that practical here in the tropics. I have also discovered that turning the ceiling fan on full blast helps to keep them anchored to solid surfaces, which eases the assault somewhat, despite making me feel like I am living on a helipad. The most effective method (and the least pleasant) has to be catching the little buggers mid flight with my bare hands, the good old-fashioned way. BUT, my favourite and the most fun technique can be had zapping them with a device that is essentially an electrified tennis racquet. I first encountered these contraptions in Vietnam where I used to think they were utterly ridiculous, now I have a new appreciation for such useful inventions and have become an ardent fan. Not only does the sizzle sound of hearing the suckers fry give me instant satisfaction, but it also serves a secondary purpose of expending pent up frustration and energy. I run around my apartment like a lunatic trying to hit the almost invisible invaders while simultaneously cursing the geckos that seem to enjoy spectating from the safety of the walls. [Considering their only contribution as flat mates seems to be in scaring the bejesus out of me every time I walk in to a room where they are wriggling their way across the floor, it is lucky for them that they happen to be seriously cute. Otherwise the good for nothing bludgers may have experienced yet another purpose of the racquet – Gecko Extermination].

I often pass my time conducting these routine mossie massacres around my living room armed with the racquet and a maniacal smile I am sure. In fact, the racquets are an essential accessory for life in Dar, everyone here has one and most people carry them in their cars also, which always makes for a fun ride to work in the morning. A car full of half-asleep, racquet wielding passengers, who don’t always possess the necessary hand eye coordination skills required to hit a 3 mm moving object with a 30 cm electrified instrument at 6am in the back seat of a car. It is a miracle that we do not routinely zap ourselves. No doubt it would prove effective in waking me up in the mornings, especially now that my weevil incident has reduced ‘breakfast’ to a coffee-only experience.

The brown water and power cuts are nothing to dwell on, even I can live with those. With reference to the latter though it would have served me well in life if I had watched fewer Bruce Willis and Harrison Ford action movies during the 90’s. I was plunged in to darkness for the 3rd consecutive night in a row last week and as I saw the flash lights of the security guards who were scurrying around outside trying to locate the generator, I imagined they were not in fact security guards but bad guys coming to crash down my door. Where’s Jack Bauer when you need him? It didn’t help that I had just sent an email to a friend which made reference to a date I had had that week with a relative of the President (a story for another time, but don’t expect an invite to the wedding he is not my type). President Kikwete is up for re-election this weekend, and as with most elections in this part of the world political sensitivities can run high. In the clear light of day, I very much doubt that the Big Man himself would possess the interest, time or inclination to keep tabs on my social life and conversations had over a cheap Indian meal with his nephew. You will be forgiven now, for thinking that I already have a dose of malaria, perhaps just too much time on my hands, the content of this blog (ie. recounting my mundane domestic routines) is clearly testament to that!

Yes, far from the 24/7 action and bright lights of Saigon, Dar is forcing me to change down a few gears. In fact I would argue that aside from my working hours, life goes along in almost no gear at all (I have my suspicions that it may even go in reverse, which is a good thing, as I am hoping I will get younger while living here?). I consider myself a patient person, but until I moved here I really had no idea what that meant. The slow pace seems to infiltrate everyone eventually, even the expats if you stick around long enough it seems. I was buying my lunch at school (we have a SUBWAY store on campus…can you believe that?) and got chatting to a colleague at the counter, after only a few moments of having left together to walk away I heard him shout from about 3 metres behind ‘HEYYYYYY slow down, you haven’t been in the country long enough, you are still walking too fast’. In Vietnam I used to laugh at the bureaucratic red tape and the number of people that I would have to see in order to get a job done, I was often in a state of total and utter confusion throughout the seemingly illogical process, but to their eternal credit the Vietnamese did always get the job done. The key difference is that here time is measured in months not hours or days. A few examples,

Opening a bank account: time promised 2 days, actual time taken: 1 month
Ordering a chequebook once said bank account was opened: time promised 5 days, actual time taken: 1 ½ months
Getting a key card with said bank account: no chance;

The experience of banking in Africa, TIMELESS!

It actually became quite the joke for me to wander in to the branch every few days and ask “Any news yet?” “No not yet, maybe tomorrow” would be the inevitable reply, at which I would repeat the offending word (tomorrow) and just start laughing. At first they perhaps thought I was deranged, but after 15 visits of this nature they too saw the ridiculous side (or thought it best to pretend to) and laughed along with me, it didn’t make the process any faster though. You could say I have completely and utterly submitted to the catch cry “THIS IS AFRICA” which is used to explain away anything that would cause any normal person to have a meltdown in a western locale. What will become of me when I return to the hustle and bustle of modern city living, where time not only has meaning but also is the basis of people’s very existence?

The latest news this week, is that my shipment, which was meant to arrive back in August, was somehow redirected to Cozumel (yes, that’s right, as in MEXICO). So all bets are on as to whether it will actually arrive before my 2-year contract is up, perhaps it could just keep sailing around to exotic locales until I am ready to move again. Until then I am making toast in the oven and boiling water for tea on the stove.

Finally, was it the lower gear, a moment of lapsed mental judgement or early onset senility that led me to apply for a position at work to lead the school’s annual Kilimanjaro Trip? Mental note for future reference invest in a television, marry a Masai, do whatever it takes, but never volunteer to lead 20 teenagers up Africa’s highest mountain. What was I thinking? Perhaps on account of being one of the few women to apply for the gig my application was successful (reverse discrimination at its best or worst?). Up until now Yoga and Ultimate Frisbee have been the extent of my attempts at partaking in any form of physical exertion, now I actually have to get fit. I will follow the current leaders on the April expedition and then take over with the other successful candidate the following year AKUNA MATATA?

Next instalment: Kenya: The Big 5, 15 cows in exchange for a husband and big bottom dance moves!

Filed under African Diaries