877 801

I’ve wondered absent-mindedly on occasion how many klicks (kilometers) a car or truck might be capable of traveling during its lifetime.  Riding the local buses will do that to a person.  Most of the buses are purchased, likely used, from Japan.  I have figured that the engine is usually the best-built part of the automobile whether it’s a car or truck.  Like the human body the doors, hood, trunk, and even the undercarriage can start to go as it were just like a gold 1971 Chevrolet Lemans I used to know as a kid, but the engine is the heart and once it is finished the rest doesn’t matter; the car is dead, consigned to join the scrap heap.  Having driven in friends’ beaters and seeing the odometer turnover two hundred and fifty-five thousand or upwards of 300K was, I thought, remarkable.  How far could a car travel if the owner reasonably maintained the rest of the vehicle?  Who would want it?  How would it look?  How much would that kind of maintenance cost over the long haul?

Now, here is a number that simply overwhelms the senses.  877 801.  I was given preferential seating for this fare, so I was seated right beside the driver.  Out of curiosity, I casually stared at the vehicle’s control panel on the dashboard.  I was stunned at the magnitude of it.  It was a colossus.  Upon closer observation, I realized that the digits had stopped rolling over.  From little I understand about motor vehicles, I seem to recall that except for going through some intensive steps one cannot roll back the odometer on a car.  Imagine my awe when I read 877 801 on the dusty banged up console that was decorated with stickers of John Cena and Batista of the WWE.  And that was the last registered kilometer this embattled passenger van had counted. 

It is astounding that this bus in its horribly dilapidated condition with racing slicks for tired had crept along, up to, but not past this hallowed milestone.  How long had the odometer ceased to function?  What should the gauge actually read?  Terrifying in some respects.   What would actually happen when the Toyota’s heart finally and irrevocably crapped out?  Perhaps nothing.  Perhaps, and this would be fitting, it would keel over on its side with a lethargic thud; a trail of dust gently puffing out from underneath like a horse getting put out of its misery in that classic Mel Brooks’ movie Blazing Saddles.

headaches

One evening as I lay down approaching sleep: it would be filled with the gentle pounding footsteps of charging dogs alerted by the wind blowing in the trees, the smell of secondhand smoke from a guard on nightly rounds of monotony, pigs wailing at the same thing as the dogs unless they were getting the business end of the slaughter man’s knife, and the hounds barking in the distance practicing for their performance at the Royal Albert Hall in the heart of London, I tuned in to a curious news item on Radio Netherlands International.  Yes, I know: exciting nightlife.  Without question it was the most peculiar and therefore most memorable news report I have ever heard.

It seems a man from on the former Russian republics maybe Latvia or Lithuania turned up a local hospital complaining about persistent headaches.  Nothing extraordinary except what followed.  After an examination the man was taken for x-rays and then immediately to surgery.  It seems that this unfortunate fellow required the emergency removal of a bullet from his skull.  Upon questioning from his doctors the man could only recall how, one New Year’s Eve some three to five years earlier, he had been hit in the head by some unknown object while crossing a street filled with merry and apparently rowdy revelers.  It had not occurred to the man, who quite clearly had consumed an excessive amount of alcohol that he’d been shot during the festivities.  More incredibly, in the days to follow he didn’t recall having a wound or needing to clean it out.  His scalp healed over the bullet during the weeks and months to come and still he hadn’t noticed even the smallest heretofore bump, bulge, or protrusion in his head that wasn’t there before until he began having the debilitating headaches.  He hadn’t the slightest notion or memory of what had happened to him that fateful New Year’s Eve.  

forever living frank

It has been somewhat of a long day. So much has happened, yet so little has happened. I was supposed to pick up my Resident permit from the Immigration office. I found out first thing that the man wouldn’t be there, so I should be prepared to go the next morning for 9 am sharp. I was to go to the school and discuss plans and ask questions. I ended up in a classroom with a group of form 2s of which there were only 16. They gathered around me in their desks and we just talked. I followed this up with a few word puzzles and tongue twisters just to get them using the language. Brake time seemed to creep up rather quickly. The students had been keen to practice their English. I had some work to complete in town, so I traveled in after lunch. I had to go to two different places before I could accomplish anything. My adventure really began on the way home.
I picked up the daladala at the stand. A well dressed fellow took his cramped place beside me in the corner at the back of the vehicle. We started to chat. My mother told me not to talk to strangers, but I just can’t help myself much to my own detriment. His name was Forever Living Frank. We started with the usual small talk when he informed me that he was a teacher too. He worked at a nearby school. He described the typical conditions he encountered daily. Frank asked me if we could visit his home since he lived only a short distance walk past the drop spot. If we wouldn’t be late I said why not. Off we went. He was pleased. He decried how small his home was. He offered me peanuts and juice. After a little more getting to know you he asked me if I had ever heard of Forever Living. He mentioned how popular it was and how I must have heard of it in Canada. It is a line of aloe products containing aloe that were all natural and very good for the body. All I could think was ‘Amway’. He was so excited. He displayed the brochure and explained how good the products were. He was supplementing his teaching income by selling aloe products on the side. There were so many opportunities for advancement in the system after he purchased the initial product line. He had already sold quite a bit. Frank wanted me to tell my friends in country and back in Canada. He really wanted to view the promotional video that accompanied it. I had to put the brakes on and tell him that I was in education only and would be unable to help sell and promote his products. He was undeterred as he pressed me on the value of his goods. I reaffirmed my inability rather me refusal to participate in his program. Message received. I figured this would be an opportune moment to make my exit, so I did. He walked with me a short way to my place rather silently as he wanted to press his program while not angering me. We exchanged numbers as is custom. He even called me a couple of days in a row afterward. I wasn’t interested in becoming a salesman, so I didn’t respond. This was a new one I hadn’t even heard about at home. It wouldn’t work there anyway. Invite the customer in for a friendly visit, then make the pitch. There is never a shortage of ways to get sidetracked by the folks in town.

parlez-vous francais?

The national language is Swahili. Every Tanzanian learns his or her own tribal langauge from infancy. One example of the more than hundred tribal languages is Chagga. When children reach school age, they learn Kiswahili beginning in primary school. In secondary school students learn English. I started at Second Chance on Monday. There I met the acting headmaster named Maro. He was pleased to meet me and learn, that in Canada, both English and French are the national languages. Maro proceeded to ask me if we could have a conversation in French. I was somewhat bashful as my Swahili is probably better than the current state of my French. Within moments however, I found myself engaged in a conversation in French. Who'd have thunk it? Never in my wildest dreams or weirdest dreams for that matter could I picture myself having a discussion in French with a native Tanzanian. As it turns out, he was educated in Dar Es Saalam where he was trained as an electrician.  He's been teaching for ten years.  It's his vocation.  He absolutely loves it.   During his school days he had studied French.  Amazing, really.  He's even got novels that are written in French  in his home.  We were going back and forth without many troubles. In fact, I was embarrassed as his French was quite good, and I found myself having to ask him to repeat himself as I couldn't understand him. Huh? We chatted amiably for some time before he had to make his preparations to leave for home.


This reminds me of another episode from a while back when I met a fellow at the place where I had been staying.  He knew I was a teacher who was staying there and working close by.  He invited me to join him for a beer. The man worked for the government of Tanzania as an auditor of the national pension system. In our discussions we exchanged stories about our backgrounds. Upon discovering that my lineage was partly Russian, he started speaking to me in the language of the Motherland.  I couldn't believe it.  It so happens that he had earned a scholarship opportunity in his youth to study in.....wait for it.....Turkgistan which was then part of the USSR. Of course I've spelled that wrong. In any event, he spent five years going to university there whereupon he became fluent and literate in Russian. Simply unbelievable. My Russian is limited to a couple of greetings at the best of times.  I travel roughly fourteen thousand kilometres from home to be outdone not only in the native language, but two others with which I should or at least might have some familiarity.   Thankfully, I was able to keep up in English.  At least I think ...

pretzels anyone?

Second Chance is in Msranga which is located about 5 km outside of the town of Moshi.  Being a Saturday morning without much work to do this day, I decided to make my way into town.  This meant I would be back on the dalla dalla.  This has become second nature to me now, but one never takes anything for granted.  I made the short walk up the dirt road to the tarmac where I spotted a young lady also patiently waiting.  While the nights have been cool, the mornings have gotten hot quite quickly.  I politely asked her how much the trip would cost.  She informed me it was roughly a quarter.  We only waited a few minutes.  Msranga must be towards the end of the typical route as there weren't any passengers on the bus at this point.  I found my place at the back knowing it would fill quickly.  Sure enough it did.  The ride took about twenty minutes.  I met my friend, and we casually walked around the busy streets.  The city environment is exhilarating.  My friend informed me that he had to make some final preparations with clients who would be climbing the mountain beginning the next morning, so we parted ways at the bus stand.  I would catch another dalla dalla up to Kili Kids to surprise the children.  I found a seat near the front between the double benches. The seats filled as the minutes passed.  It was getting quite crowded when a couple of older ladies were attempting to board the bus.  There wasn't any space for them, so being the foolish fellow that I am I offered my seat to one of kindly looking women.  She was appreciative, but I knew what was coming.  By the time three more crowded in behind me I was standing on my right foot with my neck craned over, bent on a ninety degree angle at the waist, an arm wrapped around one support bar, and my other free hand pushing against the ceiling, so I could maintain my balance.  The fee collector managed to cram the door shut, and we started off at a snails pace up the double road.  I did my best to stretch my leg despite my contorted position, so I wouldn't lapse into a full body cramp.  We reached the roundabout and crept our way into Shanty Town.  All I could see was the blurred road behind us in the rear view mirror.  The sporadic speed bumps did nothing to give away our location, but it did loosen the muscles in my back.  My view of our whereabouts was effectively nil.  I was surprised further as the tarmac had been extended the previous winter which I hadn't known, so I relied on a young woman, seated practically underneath me, to remind the driver where I needed to disembark.  I thanked her for her assistance, paid the man, and strode happily down the path to the orphanage. 

field of dreams

The days just seem to be getting better and better at St. Theresia. I'm not quite sure how that is or why. I decided I would go back this afternoon in order to play soccer with the boys. This morning they seemed absolutely desperate for a match. My heart was aching for them. I'm not even sure they believed that I would return. The brightness in their smiling faces when I came back told me how much it meant to them. It occurred to me for a brief moment that they didn't care that it was me or just someone who was bringing them a ball with which to play. At the same instant I didn't care either because I immediately understood what it meant to them. That was the important part. By playing a match, they were getting to be kids doing the exact same things for which I used to live when I was their age. I was so happy for them. I could feel my own heart leaping for them.
All at once; however, my jubilation was mixed with disappointment of my own causing as one of the teachers told the boys that they'd be going to play while the girls would be remaining at the school to clean since there was only one ball. That hadn't been my intention, so next time the girls would get to play netball. With the decision made I didn't want to dwell upon it, especially since I was as eager as the boys to get playing. I didn't want to lose any time.
I shouted in my best Swahili for the boys to hustle because I wanted them to get the most out of their time. I alone knew that we only had little more than an hour until I had to return to the school to catch my ride back to the homebase. Were they ever ecstatic about having a match. They went to change into their sweats at the dorm after which we proceeded to walk to the field at a nearby elementary school where they infrequently play. Wall to wall smiles. I quickly split them into two teams, then I let them have at it.
Absolute pleasure. Sheer joy. They played from one end of the field to the other unleashing their youth with unbridled enthusiasm and vigor. The field itself appeared to stretch endlessly into the distance. Some of the boys just watched or retrieved the ball when it went out of bounds, but even that didn't matter. The boys were in heaven. They were in their field of dreams.
Time whisked by so quickly. Before I knew it we had to go. What had been so wonderful was that it was just them and me; no other teachers were present. They could have played until after dark. Even then, I'm not sure they'd have stopped. I can easily picture them playing beyond visibility in much the same fashion I used to do on the streets or rinks playing hockey, and later on the basketball courts of my own youth. We're not that different at heart
I then bellowed those dreaded words, "Game over. Ball please." They weren't upset; just resigned. I felt awful. I didn't like taking their ball away. I shouldn't have to take it. They attempted to prolong the proceedings as would be expected, but that was short lived. I knew I was already late. The sun was setting, and we still had a fifteen minute walk back to school. The walk back might have been as good as the match itself as the young men of St. Theresia Secondary School displayed the exhuberance of youth having tasted what we all crave which is an occasional escape from reality and responsibility.
I had been anxious about being late, but my apprehension was quickly eased. I returned to the school to wait for my ride when I came upon the young ladies who had finished their tasks and were now enjoying some free time in the school compound. I was very pleased at this turn of events as I would have the opportunity to spend time with them away from the classroom setting. They were joking with each other and fooling around as dinnertime approached. One of the teachers was still supervising and talking with the girls. The girls asked questions and joked with me as I waited. They were more relaxed and outgoing than during school hours. These moments were just as enjoyable as my time with the boys as it afforded me the opportunity to get to know them better. They were displaying the carefree attitude of youth that I don't get to see that often. The entire day had given me a more complete understanding and insight into of all of them which I appreciated so much. It wouldn't be the last time that I, too, returned to the field of dreams.

happy returns

This is just a brief bit of verbiage to make some apologies for not posting for so long. I apologize for being off of the air for so long. That said, I would like to say thank you to everyone who's posted comments. I appreciate your interest. Some of the next few postings are dated now, so just read them for their content. I hope that you enjoy them.