8.07.2007
Weekender
A 6 hour drive to the Ngorongoro Crater to visit a small but promising NGO sounded like a fun weekend trip, and I definitely needed a break from the office. Yet 6 hours in, we were in the middle of a vast plain, dotted with gazelles, and very far from our destination. Two hours later, we stopped for lunch under a huge baobob tree, populated by a group of black birds croaking "wow". Three Masai men left their herds nearby to visit us. They ignored me, being a woman and all, and asked my Tanzanian companions for water. They gestured to their only drinking source, a small pond crusted over with salt. I offered peanut butter sandwiches, realizing the irony of my gift only after we had driven off.
After 10 hours of driving across a seemingly endless plain, we finally reached our destination, jolted, dusty, and at least one of us on the brink of nervous collapse. We were gently welcomed to a tidy mud house with warm water for bathing and a greasy beef stew. I pulled myself together. But the light was fading, and we were leaving the next morning, so if we were going to see the project, it had to be right then. We went to visit some of the families that the project was serving. At a cluster of houses, we waited for a local leader. Children gathered and giggled, dressed in red blankets with white beads around their necks and ankles. Women with elaborate earrings stood shyly to the side. When the leader came, he drove his herd before him. Their bells sounded beautiful in the evening air.
The next day, it was back to Arusha. This time we took a shortcut, which guided us over several minor mountain ranges, the road alternating dust, slippery rocks, and sharp corners up and down the mountainsides. After a few hours we came over a hill, and Lake Natron shimmered on the valley floor below us, silvery and vast. We made our way down the sleep incline, and around the lake. Then it was past Oldonyo Lengai, the old volcano that has been causing earthquakes recently. Steam issued from the top, and zebras grazed calmly at the base. Then it was across more plains, dust pouring in the windows, until finally we reached a marvelous
asphalt road. "Wouldn't you like to stop and get the dust off?" my companions asked. "No," I said, grouchy from all the driving. Only when I passed by a mirror later did I realize that my face and whole body was coated with dust. That night there was no hot water in the shower, and the next day was back to work. Not a very relaxing weekend, but at least a minor adventure.
Moving in
I was comfortable at my friend's house, even with the two cats, dog, and seven puppies who all came running every time I opened the gate. We cooked at night and carpooled together in the morning. But I was ready for my own place, a non-work space, that had a lot of plants but a lot less pets.
t took me about two months of traipsing around Arusha with a realtor, visiting various options ranging from creepy-dark to African-dictator-luxe, to finally find a place. When I found it, I visited three times, demanded some fixes, then got stuck on the price with my landlord, a large and somewhat deaf old man who was not going to budge. But I wanted that house. Bitterly, I closed and paid six months rent--totaling about $1900.
And the house is great. Three bedrooms and two bathrooms with lots of light, partial wood paneling on the walls and ceilings and beautiful built-in cupboards. The kitchen is awkward but has a huge pantry, and the whole house has hot and cold water. The neighborhood is safe and friendly, a mix of houses, apartments, stores and barbershops, convenient to town but not too hectic. I recruited Glory, my old roommate, to come live with me again, and we spent one Saturday on a Price is Right shopping spree--refrigerator, mattresses, mats, stove. The neighbors stared as we pulled up to the house with our loaded pick up.
There was more to do. I spent hours in the main market haggling over kitchen ware, and in the used clothes market bargaining for linens. I spent a day in stores choosing the fabric for my couch, dazzled by bolts of cloth stacked floor to ceiling, presided over by Arab traders. I hired a guard, had shards of glass cemented on the walls, and ordered a dog house for a small but particularly vicious puppy from my former home. From a roadside nursery, I bought climbing vines for my front porch, and a row of weird and leafy plants for the entry. I went to the supermarket to stock the cupboards--thinking that once there was food in the house, I'd be ready to move in.
But things kept happening. A toilet ran and we had to shut the water off. The plumber had to come three times because I forgot the first time, then didn't have the right keys. We needed a counter for the kitchen to put the stove on. Glory's phone broke for a month and I couldn't get a hold of her. I ordered couches and all sorts of furniture, but picked a bad carpenter who took the money and won't finish, even though I visit him every few days and beg, cajole, threaten. Next time I see him I'll take our head driver, who has an air of menace, and the time after that I'll try crying. I just want my damn couch.
It got to be too much--last week I gave up and moved in. The only furniture is mattresses, mats, and four plastic chairs. We can't use the stove yet because we still have no counter. I've been learning the light switches, and identifying more things to buy--towel racks, mirrors, an electric kettle. On the Saturday I finally moved in, I sat in front of the house and listened to the wind in my neighbor's banana trees, and the trumpets from wedding processions on the nearby main road and felt good.
t took me about two months of traipsing around Arusha with a realtor, visiting various options ranging from creepy-dark to African-dictator-luxe, to finally find a place. When I found it, I visited three times, demanded some fixes, then got stuck on the price with my landlord, a large and somewhat deaf old man who was not going to budge. But I wanted that house. Bitterly, I closed and paid six months rent--totaling about $1900.
And the house is great. Three bedrooms and two bathrooms with lots of light, partial wood paneling on the walls and ceilings and beautiful built-in cupboards. The kitchen is awkward but has a huge pantry, and the whole house has hot and cold water. The neighborhood is safe and friendly, a mix of houses, apartments, stores and barbershops, convenient to town but not too hectic. I recruited Glory, my old roommate, to come live with me again, and we spent one Saturday on a Price is Right shopping spree--refrigerator, mattresses, mats, stove. The neighbors stared as we pulled up to the house with our loaded pick up.
There was more to do. I spent hours in the main market haggling over kitchen ware, and in the used clothes market bargaining for linens. I spent a day in stores choosing the fabric for my couch, dazzled by bolts of cloth stacked floor to ceiling, presided over by Arab traders. I hired a guard, had shards of glass cemented on the walls, and ordered a dog house for a small but particularly vicious puppy from my former home. From a roadside nursery, I bought climbing vines for my front porch, and a row of weird and leafy plants for the entry. I went to the supermarket to stock the cupboards--thinking that once there was food in the house, I'd be ready to move in.
But things kept happening. A toilet ran and we had to shut the water off. The plumber had to come three times because I forgot the first time, then didn't have the right keys. We needed a counter for the kitchen to put the stove on. Glory's phone broke for a month and I couldn't get a hold of her. I ordered couches and all sorts of furniture, but picked a bad carpenter who took the money and won't finish, even though I visit him every few days and beg, cajole, threaten. Next time I see him I'll take our head driver, who has an air of menace, and the time after that I'll try crying. I just want my damn couch.
It got to be too much--last week I gave up and moved in. The only furniture is mattresses, mats, and four plastic chairs. We can't use the stove yet because we still have no counter. I've been learning the light switches, and identifying more things to buy--towel racks, mirrors, an electric kettle. On the Saturday I finally moved in, I sat in front of the house and listened to the wind in my neighbor's banana trees, and the trumpets from wedding processions on the nearby main road and felt good.
Arusha 6 am
Dropping a friend off at the bus station for an early trip to the Usumbara mountains, I drive through the whole city at 6 am. The night before at 7 pm, we took half an hour to move six blocks, as the evening traffic clogged around a minor accident. Now, in the pre-dawn, the streets are dark and empty of cars, but already bustling with people. At the Air Tanzania office, tourists load suitcases into the airport shuttle; at the market, women carry big bundles to their stalls. Tired maids trudge to work and tired night guards trudge home. A runner passes, a drunk staggers home. At the station, touts and thieves and ticket sellers bang on the car and ask where we are going. Other passengers, dressed in their Sunday best, carry handkerchiefs, bread, suitcases and scurry to their buses. Barely awake, we marvel at the people who have been up and walking for hours, making a living and moving before the sun comes up.
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