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.