As a principle, buses in Tanzania leave when the bus is full, not when it’s time. They do this to make the maximum amount of money. The bus conductor begins his pursuit of passengers as though casting a line into a lake.
Standing near the buses but not too near, conductors eye potential catches. Like wary fish, we passengers sidle through hoards of people at the bus terminal and angle to find one of about four competing buses with the most passengers. We want the bus that will leave first.
It’s best if you can hide your identity as a fish, but as a Westerner, I might as well be a whale. Unlike a whale, I am easy to reel in because I usually admit I’m going to Arusha or wherever, and then like a wriggling catch, I find myself in the hands of one conductor who ushers me to one bus, and then another conductor who points to a bus that’s fuller. I step onto the bus, and often the conductor will shout something like, "We have an Mzungu on board!"
Sitting quietly on the second bus, I overhear the bus conductor reeling in the next wary fish by telling her that the fare is only 800 shillings today, rather than 1,000. This is the Shannon Spinner of lures, three hooks with each hook made of three. Your finger or arm gets caught and sliced just by looking at it. While the lower bus fare catches quite a few fish, I realize how the conductor and driver have won once again: a lower fare means they will need more passengers to make up the difference. The fish will have to sit in the tank just as long as those in the next bus with the higher fare.
In the meantime, all these buses want the fish to believe they are about to leave. Despite the high cost of gasoline, all of their engines are running. Conductors periodically pound on the bus, the standard signal for the driver to go, but the bus goes nowhere.
Inside the bus, a catchy song over the stereo keeps the caught fish happy. And the driver needs to keep the fish happy: they can flop out at any moment, deciding they’ve been duped and the next bus is better. But it’s always a risk. The other fish tank looks fuller but it could be worse maybe five of those passengers are friends of the driver keeping him company.
As the bus begins to fill, the driver watches the progress of the conductor outside as he is about to catch more fish. When it looks like the conductor can pull in three to five fish, the driver will roar out of the parking lane and rush toward the terminal exit. This catches even more fish who suddenly hop on board. I get my hopes up. After the five are safely netted, the bus jerks us backward, and we are parked in the same place once again.
Finally, at last, when the bus is more than crowded with passengers standing in the aisle, the driver heads the bus out of the exit gate, turns the corner onto the main road and stops once again we have caught three more fish.
The journey begins. The conductor squeezes himself among the standing passengers and rests only until the bus reaches Arusha, when the conductor and driver will have to work once again to fill up the bus.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
Names Can Never Hurt Me
Generating a list of my students has been a tortuous hand-wringing affair. At SMMUCo the admissions department does not generate a list. The student appears and then one writes that student’s name down. At least, as far as I can figure out.
I decided that if I wanted to know who was in my class, I should assign something. I assigned a business letter. Without any instruction on my part, 90 percent of those business letters came with a cover sheet, complete with my name and the student’s name, the college name, the major, the class, the date, and anything else the student thought appropriate.
As I entered student names on a spreadsheet, I made assumptions. For example, if the last name written in a series was “Njivaine,” I assumed it was the surname. If “Ayubu” was written as the first name, I assumed it was the name given to the individual and not the family.
But after the second writing assignment, I began to discover some mysteries. In many cases, students left off one name and decided to include their middle name on the cover sheet. It was as though students believed they were given a whole wardrobe of names, and they could select any names on that day depending on their mood and whatever was in the wardrobe. Pesambili Pesambili decided he was now Pesambili George for the second assignment. Ayubu Hamisi felt he should be Hamisi Ayubu.
Then there were shifts in spelling. The letters in the name “Gerald” morphed into “Jerad.” “Matthew” became “Mathew” in later assignments, and “Innocent” lost an “n” and found it again in January.
On the last day of class, students reviewed my spreadsheet with their semester grades on it. One of them appeared and said, “I think I should tell you my name isn’t John Fadhili but Fadhili Salumi.” I said yes, that would be good for me to know and even better for his grade point average. Four other students announced similar name changes that day.
And when it came time to reckon my list of students with the college list, it took four of us to solve many identity mysteries over the course of three days.
I decided that if I wanted to know who was in my class, I should assign something. I assigned a business letter. Without any instruction on my part, 90 percent of those business letters came with a cover sheet, complete with my name and the student’s name, the college name, the major, the class, the date, and anything else the student thought appropriate.
As I entered student names on a spreadsheet, I made assumptions. For example, if the last name written in a series was “Njivaine,” I assumed it was the surname. If “Ayubu” was written as the first name, I assumed it was the name given to the individual and not the family.
But after the second writing assignment, I began to discover some mysteries. In many cases, students left off one name and decided to include their middle name on the cover sheet. It was as though students believed they were given a whole wardrobe of names, and they could select any names on that day depending on their mood and whatever was in the wardrobe. Pesambili Pesambili decided he was now Pesambili George for the second assignment. Ayubu Hamisi felt he should be Hamisi Ayubu.
Then there were shifts in spelling. The letters in the name “Gerald” morphed into “Jerad.” “Matthew” became “Mathew” in later assignments, and “Innocent” lost an “n” and found it again in January.
On the last day of class, students reviewed my spreadsheet with their semester grades on it. One of them appeared and said, “I think I should tell you my name isn’t John Fadhili but Fadhili Salumi.” I said yes, that would be good for me to know and even better for his grade point average. Four other students announced similar name changes that day.
And when it came time to reckon my list of students with the college list, it took four of us to solve many identity mysteries over the course of three days.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
The victory of molecules
It was late afternoon, and the sun was sinking, and as I walked through the bus terminal to the Moshi-Kirima bus stand, I found Mama Vanessa standing outside the bus. But neither she nor I would be getting on this particular bus because it was packed with people, and more people were shoving madly to squeeze themselves in. There’s a time to fight for space and a time to give up.
Within two minutes, another bus appeared, and this time Mama Vanessa and I held our breath as we now elbowed and jabbed and shoved our way into the bus. Not surprisingly, Mama Vanessa took a seat first, since too many of my polite practices still linger deep within me. But she had craftily moved over in the seat to save me a space and I sank in beside her, both of us pleased with a major victory. In about two more minutes, the bus filled again, all of us like molecules of a rockno one would be moving except when bounced by the bus. However, there was one woman who complained to the man that his arm was crushing her chest. For a second he didn’t move it, but when a few more molecules adjusted, he found another place for his arm.
The bus fare from town to Masoka is 500 Tanzanian shillings. Often conductors will force passengers to pay more, claiming that the fare has gone up due to increases in fuel prices. Sometimes the entire bus complains and the conductor is cowed into relenting. Sometimes the conductor stops the bus and forces one passenger out. When I handed 1,000 shillings to the conductor and told him it was for me and Mama Vanessa, he handed it back and said a few sentences in Kiswahili which I didn’t understand. Mama Vanessa argued back. The lady behind us argued. I still held my wallet in my hand, and now Mama Vanessa put her hand on it and told me to zip it into my purse. But she unzipped her own wallet, pulled out two coins, and held them.
I knew the essence of what the conductor saidhe was telling me I needed to pay 1,500 shillings for the two of us. Since I was the Mzungu, I should pay 1,000 because I had money. This has happened many times. I try to pay for another person and suddenly the money that I hand over is not enough. I cannot argue back since I don’t have the language skills, and if the friend doesn’t have the gumption to argue back, a good deed becomes a low moment in life.
Now a second time, the conductor shook the change in his hand at me - the signal to pay - and I handed him my 1,000 bill. He threw it back. So Mama Vanessa and I stared out the window or talked, both of us avoiding any eye contact with the conductor. Since we couldn’t see him through all of the molecules, this wasn’t difficult. As the bus continued to roll closer to the college campus in Masoka, I figured that if the conductor threw us out, our walk would be shorter and shorter.
We arrived at the college campus, the molecules on the bus shifted, and we plopped out of the bus. The conductor, the primary molecule, stood outside of the bus waiting for my fare. I handed him my 1,000 bill and marched through the gate without looking back. A few steps into the gate, I asked Mama Vanessa if she had paid anything. She shook her two coins.
Within two minutes, another bus appeared, and this time Mama Vanessa and I held our breath as we now elbowed and jabbed and shoved our way into the bus. Not surprisingly, Mama Vanessa took a seat first, since too many of my polite practices still linger deep within me. But she had craftily moved over in the seat to save me a space and I sank in beside her, both of us pleased with a major victory. In about two more minutes, the bus filled again, all of us like molecules of a rockno one would be moving except when bounced by the bus. However, there was one woman who complained to the man that his arm was crushing her chest. For a second he didn’t move it, but when a few more molecules adjusted, he found another place for his arm.
The bus fare from town to Masoka is 500 Tanzanian shillings. Often conductors will force passengers to pay more, claiming that the fare has gone up due to increases in fuel prices. Sometimes the entire bus complains and the conductor is cowed into relenting. Sometimes the conductor stops the bus and forces one passenger out. When I handed 1,000 shillings to the conductor and told him it was for me and Mama Vanessa, he handed it back and said a few sentences in Kiswahili which I didn’t understand. Mama Vanessa argued back. The lady behind us argued. I still held my wallet in my hand, and now Mama Vanessa put her hand on it and told me to zip it into my purse. But she unzipped her own wallet, pulled out two coins, and held them.
I knew the essence of what the conductor saidhe was telling me I needed to pay 1,500 shillings for the two of us. Since I was the Mzungu, I should pay 1,000 because I had money. This has happened many times. I try to pay for another person and suddenly the money that I hand over is not enough. I cannot argue back since I don’t have the language skills, and if the friend doesn’t have the gumption to argue back, a good deed becomes a low moment in life.
Now a second time, the conductor shook the change in his hand at me - the signal to pay - and I handed him my 1,000 bill. He threw it back. So Mama Vanessa and I stared out the window or talked, both of us avoiding any eye contact with the conductor. Since we couldn’t see him through all of the molecules, this wasn’t difficult. As the bus continued to roll closer to the college campus in Masoka, I figured that if the conductor threw us out, our walk would be shorter and shorter.
We arrived at the college campus, the molecules on the bus shifted, and we plopped out of the bus. The conductor, the primary molecule, stood outside of the bus waiting for my fare. I handed him my 1,000 bill and marched through the gate without looking back. A few steps into the gate, I asked Mama Vanessa if she had paid anything. She shook her two coins.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Notes on an a capella tradition
As a member of a non-a capella tradition, I have made some observations of how the a capella tradition works at a church service here in Tanzania, or at least at SMMUCo.
First, before church begins, there is no organ prelude. Instead, of those who gather early in the sanctuary, one person calls out a hymn number, waits for others to look it up, and then he or she throws himself into the hymn. There is no vocal searching for a good singable key with “hmm, hmm, hmm.” The others fall into harmony as easily as swinging the arms while walking.
During the liturgy, the pastor leads the antiphonal singing in the same way, no testing out notes, no tiptoeing in, just lead onward with confidence. At SMMUCo, there’s a woman who adds harmony to the pastor’s part. If I tried to do that, there’d be that wispy first-verse-harmony, where I’m singing and learning where the notes are. No, she nails every note despite the fact that she is the only one adding harmony and the whole room is listening. As far as I can tell, she didn’t ask to do it, the pastor didn’t tell her to do it, and he didn’t tell her to stop. It happens magically and wonderfully.
In the chapel at SMMUCo, a student has brought his own electric piano, and he accompanies the church service. This is when the a capella tradition clearly stands out. No one expects this accompanist to introduce the hymn. Hymns begin the same way without accompaniment: the pastor sounds the first three notes and the rest fall in swinging with harmony. It is the accompanist who tests out the notes on the keyboard, searching for the key that was magically chosen by the pastor. After happening upon a key, the accompanist follows along.
In the Western tradition, if there’s any slight disagreement between the accompanist and congregation, the congregationlike dutiful foot soldiersfollow the organ or piano. Not here. The odd note sounded by the piano throws off no one. The congregation sticks very firmly to the first key chosen, and the accompanist sticks to his key a half-step away, and the two stomp in parallel jarring lines. Through all five or seven verses.
This is hard to do. It is one more reason to admire those of the a capella tradition.
First, before church begins, there is no organ prelude. Instead, of those who gather early in the sanctuary, one person calls out a hymn number, waits for others to look it up, and then he or she throws himself into the hymn. There is no vocal searching for a good singable key with “hmm, hmm, hmm.” The others fall into harmony as easily as swinging the arms while walking.
During the liturgy, the pastor leads the antiphonal singing in the same way, no testing out notes, no tiptoeing in, just lead onward with confidence. At SMMUCo, there’s a woman who adds harmony to the pastor’s part. If I tried to do that, there’d be that wispy first-verse-harmony, where I’m singing and learning where the notes are. No, she nails every note despite the fact that she is the only one adding harmony and the whole room is listening. As far as I can tell, she didn’t ask to do it, the pastor didn’t tell her to do it, and he didn’t tell her to stop. It happens magically and wonderfully.
In the chapel at SMMUCo, a student has brought his own electric piano, and he accompanies the church service. This is when the a capella tradition clearly stands out. No one expects this accompanist to introduce the hymn. Hymns begin the same way without accompaniment: the pastor sounds the first three notes and the rest fall in swinging with harmony. It is the accompanist who tests out the notes on the keyboard, searching for the key that was magically chosen by the pastor. After happening upon a key, the accompanist follows along.
In the Western tradition, if there’s any slight disagreement between the accompanist and congregation, the congregationlike dutiful foot soldiersfollow the organ or piano. Not here. The odd note sounded by the piano throws off no one. The congregation sticks very firmly to the first key chosen, and the accompanist sticks to his key a half-step away, and the two stomp in parallel jarring lines. Through all five or seven verses.
This is hard to do. It is one more reason to admire those of the a capella tradition.
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