The Terrifying: Trip from Dar es Salaam starts off with the bus driver narrowly missing a taxi pulling onto the road, driving up onto the grassy foot tall median strip and pruning a barely-missed tree before continuing on to the wrong side of the road. Without stopping the bus driver steers back onto the median strip and reenters traffic.
The Hilarious: Taking a dug-out canoe back from the historic Swahili ruins on Kilwa Kisiwani to Kilwa Masoko, our navigators begin by unfurling the boats sail. Unfortunately, there is no wind. One man gets out one of the three oars and begins rowing and singing, while the other fishermen and passengers (there are three others besides us) sit and watch. Only rowing on one side, we inevitably start turning around, and are prevented from doing so only by hitting two other boats. In the mean time the wind has picked up so that our sail starts to billow, only in the wrong direction (i.e. towards us). The fishermen do nothing about this, but instead the rudder-man picks up one of the two remaining oars, of course choosing the broken one, and proceeds to row. Eventually, half way across the channel another boat with a barely running motor comes out to tow us the rest of the way across.
The Ridiculous: Traveling from Lindi to Mtwara in southern Tanzania on a refurbished Japanese bus that of course is carrying at least ten more people than it was made to fit, when we pull over to pick up someone else. Only this person has with him a full wooden bed frame. Yes, a full twin bed frame, which he negotiates onto our bus. Luckily, the place for such furniture on the bus is the roof, and so that is where the next full wooden bed frame that we picked up about twenty minutes down the road also went.
Headed to Mozambique next...
Showing posts with label Tanzania. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tanzania. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Monday, March 24, 2008
The Passion of the Crisis
Let me begin by saying that since learning that the so-advertised "non-religious" charity organization I am currently working with is actually extremely Christian (maybe, if I had looked closer, I would have noticed one of their school's names: Camp Joshua Christian School"), I have tried to be as open minded and diplomatic as possible about the beliefs and teachings of educators at the various orphanages and schools run by it. After all, what does religion matter if good values and a good education are at stake? Thus I set the stage for today, whose first scene begins with me learning upon arrival at work that I am to assist with preparing our television and DVD player to watch "The Passion of the Christ."
Now, I remember this film being criticized as somewhat anti-Semitic (it is), and somewhat very violent, but I also remember the film being very interesting with regards to linguistics and period costume, and so ignored that part of me that thought better of playing accomplice.
As the film started all 60-some 2-12 year old pairs of eyes were glued to the monitor. One of the teachers sat besides the machinery to commentate (the kids aren't quite at the point in their classes where lightning-fast English subtitles are suitable). Good, I thought, finally something that they might be able to sit through in its entirety. However, around forty five minutes in things turned south with the lashing scene. Wow, I had completely forgotten how graphic Mel Gibson likes to be. Within five minutes of this gruesome (and ridiculously long) scene one of the eldest girls started bawling. Within two minutes the sobs of nearly half the room were heard rebounding against themselves. What was I thinking? This was clearly not appropriate viewing for young children. I began recalling in my head that the rest of the movie doesn't get much better. As soon as the scene and with it, I assured myself, the first DVD ended, I would have to do something to stop this. But how long would this damned scene last?
Then, a miracle happened. About two-thirds through this excruciating hail of lashings and groans the DVD skipped and paused. The head teacher, with a tint of impatience, called me over to the player as the sobs of the children subsided a little. I took the DVD out of the player and began to pretend to look for scratches. "Yes, I don't think it will be viewable. Sorry" I said, relieved. "What? Ok, then put in the next DVD" the teacher happily demanded. "Um, uh," I stuttered, looking for a good excuse to avoid what would be another hour and a half of hell on earth. Finally, I realized the only way out was to fess up and stand by my "effics," regardless of whether I was thwarting her authority or embarrassing my bosses. "Sorry," I looked up, "I don't think that this is appropriate for the children. I can't put this in." For a little while the teacher tried to coax me into playing it, but when she realized that I wouldn't budge she shrugged her shoulders and left the room. I proceeded to put in a Charlie Chaplin DVD (now there is a genius) as an awkward silence enveloped the room.
Charlie Chaplin may not have caught the attention of the kids as well as Mel Gibson did- although it did a good job holding its ground against modern Hollywood cinematography- but at least the kids won't get reoccurring nightmares and entrenched anti-Semitic opinions from it. At the very least I'll be able to sleep better tonight.
Now, I remember this film being criticized as somewhat anti-Semitic (it is), and somewhat very violent, but I also remember the film being very interesting with regards to linguistics and period costume, and so ignored that part of me that thought better of playing accomplice.
As the film started all 60-some 2-12 year old pairs of eyes were glued to the monitor. One of the teachers sat besides the machinery to commentate (the kids aren't quite at the point in their classes where lightning-fast English subtitles are suitable). Good, I thought, finally something that they might be able to sit through in its entirety. However, around forty five minutes in things turned south with the lashing scene. Wow, I had completely forgotten how graphic Mel Gibson likes to be. Within five minutes of this gruesome (and ridiculously long) scene one of the eldest girls started bawling. Within two minutes the sobs of nearly half the room were heard rebounding against themselves. What was I thinking? This was clearly not appropriate viewing for young children. I began recalling in my head that the rest of the movie doesn't get much better. As soon as the scene and with it, I assured myself, the first DVD ended, I would have to do something to stop this. But how long would this damned scene last?
Then, a miracle happened. About two-thirds through this excruciating hail of lashings and groans the DVD skipped and paused. The head teacher, with a tint of impatience, called me over to the player as the sobs of the children subsided a little. I took the DVD out of the player and began to pretend to look for scratches. "Yes, I don't think it will be viewable. Sorry" I said, relieved. "What? Ok, then put in the next DVD" the teacher happily demanded. "Um, uh," I stuttered, looking for a good excuse to avoid what would be another hour and a half of hell on earth. Finally, I realized the only way out was to fess up and stand by my "effics," regardless of whether I was thwarting her authority or embarrassing my bosses. "Sorry," I looked up, "I don't think that this is appropriate for the children. I can't put this in." For a little while the teacher tried to coax me into playing it, but when she realized that I wouldn't budge she shrugged her shoulders and left the room. I proceeded to put in a Charlie Chaplin DVD (now there is a genius) as an awkward silence enveloped the room.
Charlie Chaplin may not have caught the attention of the kids as well as Mel Gibson did- although it did a good job holding its ground against modern Hollywood cinematography- but at least the kids won't get reoccurring nightmares and entrenched anti-Semitic opinions from it. At the very least I'll be able to sleep better tonight.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Mural Madness
It took me a little time to notice it, but there seems to be a thriving mural industry in Arusha. Business fronts are covered with pictures illustrating their goods or services. Barbershops and record stores advertise this way most frequently. The quality of painting varies, but I've been astounded at the creativity and artistry of many of these paintings. More often than not the artists replicate pictures from magazines and printed advertisements. Illustrators often sign their work somewhere on the wall and even leave contact information, such as a phone number or email address. I've passed several sign "shops" (really no more than a sign themselves on the side of the street) around town, where I assume these artists may be found.
Generally I find this sort of advertisement pleasing and a welcome change to the drabness of Kampala.
Generally I find this sort of advertisement pleasing and a welcome change to the drabness of Kampala.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Repercussions...
Since its been on my mind I thought I'd catalogue the ongoing repercussions of Friday night, by category:
Emotional/Psychological: Probably the most affected. The first day or two I found distracting myself with anything helped avoid the chilling memory of waking up to my door crashing open. Such distractions included reading my book, doing work for LOHADA, even sleeping (when I could). Now however I find myself tending towards an odd inverse of my initial response where I actually prefer doing nothing to doing anything. At work I'll doodle and daydream. When I get home from work I'll go to lie down in my bed and stare at the wall, my feet, or whatever is in my line of vision. It feels good to drift, to do nothing.
Physical: On Tuesday I put my foot in a hole playing football and messed up my knee, which has nothing directly to do with Friday's incident, but along with it helped contribute to my very dark mood yesterday evening. Luckily I believe that the effects my malaria medication have on mood swings overcame its effects on depression in this case. I feel better already.
Social: It's great to hear from friends and family who have got in touch with me this past week, whether it was concerning the robbery or not. I'm much more wary about locals trying to be friends with me, but that hasn't stopped a few cheery Tanzanians from chumming it up with me already this week. They really are a friendly, easy-going group for the most part.
Philosophical: For about three fleeting minutes every day I become a staunch advocate of the right to bear arms. I inevitably come to my senses however and realize how much worse having a gun involved might have been on Friday. Most everything else has stayed the same.
US Government: Anyone know why the Department of Justice would be interested in Friday night's events? 17 views in one day (according to my hit counter) seems a little much. Can't remember knowing anyone who works there.
Aesthetics: I find padlocks and bars on windows very pleasing to the eye now adays.
Journalistic: Tune in to next week's Loving Hands article, where I will tactfully tightrope walk the line between my outrage at getting robbed while doing charity volunteer work and being obligated to write what is essentially a white-hat paper for LOHADA (and by extension, charity work in Arusha).
Hope this doesn't sound too down.
Emotional/Psychological: Probably the most affected. The first day or two I found distracting myself with anything helped avoid the chilling memory of waking up to my door crashing open. Such distractions included reading my book, doing work for LOHADA, even sleeping (when I could). Now however I find myself tending towards an odd inverse of my initial response where I actually prefer doing nothing to doing anything. At work I'll doodle and daydream. When I get home from work I'll go to lie down in my bed and stare at the wall, my feet, or whatever is in my line of vision. It feels good to drift, to do nothing.
Physical: On Tuesday I put my foot in a hole playing football and messed up my knee, which has nothing directly to do with Friday's incident, but along with it helped contribute to my very dark mood yesterday evening. Luckily I believe that the effects my malaria medication have on mood swings overcame its effects on depression in this case. I feel better already.
Social: It's great to hear from friends and family who have got in touch with me this past week, whether it was concerning the robbery or not. I'm much more wary about locals trying to be friends with me, but that hasn't stopped a few cheery Tanzanians from chumming it up with me already this week. They really are a friendly, easy-going group for the most part.
Philosophical: For about three fleeting minutes every day I become a staunch advocate of the right to bear arms. I inevitably come to my senses however and realize how much worse having a gun involved might have been on Friday. Most everything else has stayed the same.
US Government: Anyone know why the Department of Justice would be interested in Friday night's events? 17 views in one day (according to my hit counter) seems a little much. Can't remember knowing anyone who works there.
Aesthetics: I find padlocks and bars on windows very pleasing to the eye now adays.
Journalistic: Tune in to next week's Loving Hands article, where I will tactfully tightrope walk the line between my outrage at getting robbed while doing charity volunteer work and being obligated to write what is essentially a white-hat paper for LOHADA (and by extension, charity work in Arusha).
Hope this doesn't sound too down.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Forced Aid to the Needy, a.k.a. Armed Robbery in Arusha
What follows is merely a snapshot account of what happened last Friday night. I lack the motivation and skill to paint a more embellished picture:
Who can say for sure how long they were there, or how long they actually took trying to get in. The first thud I remember being cognizant of was an almost imperceptible point on the horizon of my mind’s sleepy eye. The second tapped against my consciousness, but it took the third crack to fully awaken and alert me to trouble. The fourth and final bang, which was accompanied immediately afterwards by a very loud explosion (in retrospect: dynamite… a gun… fireworks?), was the sound of my front door finally succumbing to violent force and crashing open. I am uncertain of the length the time between my awareness of my circumstances and when my robbers finally entered my bedroom, but I can approximate it by counting the number of times I screamed "help" at the top of my lungs (five I recall). These cries were my only pathetic and thoroughly futile attempts to openly obstruct or deter my assailants.
Flashes of that night, momentary images are mostly all I remember. Three men enter and immediately begin scuffling between themselves, I assume, over how to deal with us. Gunpowder in our noses, flashlights in our faces, and beyond them fragmented views of flashing machetes. The men shout at us: "WE WILL KILL YOU! WE WILL KILL YOU! WE WILL KILL YOUR WIFE!" I am frozen terror as I decide whether staying in bed or getting out will improve our situation. "GET OUT! SHOW US YOUR MONEY! THE MONEY!"
The Money! I imagine my voice sounded as eager as eager as theirs as I searched with desperate hands for some hidden treasure to satisfy them. Three pairs of bulging eyes meet mine, a machete separates me from the closest of them. Our combined soundtrack probably sounded Disneyesque with its farcically maniacal exclamations:
Robber 1: "The Money!"
Robber 2: "Yes, the money now!"
Me: [whilst searching] "Yes, yes money money money!"
Robber 1: "You have lots of money, give us your US money!"
Me: "No, we have little money! Here is the money, lots of money, plenty of money!"
Robber 3: "There is more money! Where is the other money!"
Me: "No, no more money! Computer! Here, take the computer!"
Approximately one month before President George W. Bush had left Tanzania bequeathing it $700 million in aid. Pronounced Bush (I'm quoting), "I'll just put it bluntly, America doesn't want to spend money on people who steal the money from the people." Friday night I managed to increase my own donation to a country of destitutes (specifically 4-8 machete-wielding destitutes) by several hundred dollars and a laptop, the latter of which doesn’t really count because it was going to be donated anyway, albeit legitimately and benevolently.
I have never before personally experienced the physical trembling the cartoons always parody, but after their voices quickly receded into the nighttime darkness I could hardly put on my clothes because my hands were shaking so violently. We cautiously made our way from the guesthouse where we stay to our host family's house. I knocked on the Janet and Jo’s bedroom window. "Hey, Jo and Janet, are you there?" I whispered loudly.
"Chris, is that you?"
"Yes, we just got robbed!"
"Yes, us too!"
If I believed in the God worshiped by mainstream religions I would thank Him that all these men wanted was money and that no one was harmed. These facts did not however ease my nerves over the weekend. On Saturday night Sarah and I stayed up all night in the living room watching TV and periodically peering out windows and conjuring up make-believe intruders from the sounds of the night. Sunday night was spent at Backpacker’s Hotel in town.
What now? Well, weld the double-door bolts (check), buy padlocks for all the doors that still remain without them (check), perhaps also remember to use these padlocks in the future (check?). Buy an alarm system for neighbors to fearfully ignore again, or the police to take 30 minutes to get there? Rent a guard to man the ten-foot wall that surrounds us and protect us from half a dozen armed robbers? At what point does the security reach a point where it deters a unit of would-be murderers who will climb walls, smash windows and annihilate doors (that is, seemingly stop at nothing) to get what they want? At what price and with what annoyances to daily life can peace of mind be bought? Where does one start, and where does one stop?
Anyone?
Who can say for sure how long they were there, or how long they actually took trying to get in. The first thud I remember being cognizant of was an almost imperceptible point on the horizon of my mind’s sleepy eye. The second tapped against my consciousness, but it took the third crack to fully awaken and alert me to trouble. The fourth and final bang, which was accompanied immediately afterwards by a very loud explosion (in retrospect: dynamite… a gun… fireworks?), was the sound of my front door finally succumbing to violent force and crashing open. I am uncertain of the length the time between my awareness of my circumstances and when my robbers finally entered my bedroom, but I can approximate it by counting the number of times I screamed "help" at the top of my lungs (five I recall). These cries were my only pathetic and thoroughly futile attempts to openly obstruct or deter my assailants.
Flashes of that night, momentary images are mostly all I remember. Three men enter and immediately begin scuffling between themselves, I assume, over how to deal with us. Gunpowder in our noses, flashlights in our faces, and beyond them fragmented views of flashing machetes. The men shout at us: "WE WILL KILL YOU! WE WILL KILL YOU! WE WILL KILL YOUR WIFE!" I am frozen terror as I decide whether staying in bed or getting out will improve our situation. "GET OUT! SHOW US YOUR MONEY! THE MONEY!"
The Money! I imagine my voice sounded as eager as eager as theirs as I searched with desperate hands for some hidden treasure to satisfy them. Three pairs of bulging eyes meet mine, a machete separates me from the closest of them. Our combined soundtrack probably sounded Disneyesque with its farcically maniacal exclamations:
Robber 1: "The Money!"
Robber 2: "Yes, the money now!"
Me: [whilst searching] "Yes, yes money money money!"
Robber 1: "You have lots of money, give us your US money!"
Me: "No, we have little money! Here is the money, lots of money, plenty of money!"
Robber 3: "There is more money! Where is the other money!"
Me: "No, no more money! Computer! Here, take the computer!"
Approximately one month before President George W. Bush had left Tanzania bequeathing it $700 million in aid. Pronounced Bush (I'm quoting), "I'll just put it bluntly, America doesn't want to spend money on people who steal the money from the people." Friday night I managed to increase my own donation to a country of destitutes (specifically 4-8 machete-wielding destitutes) by several hundred dollars and a laptop, the latter of which doesn’t really count because it was going to be donated anyway, albeit legitimately and benevolently.
I have never before personally experienced the physical trembling the cartoons always parody, but after their voices quickly receded into the nighttime darkness I could hardly put on my clothes because my hands were shaking so violently. We cautiously made our way from the guesthouse where we stay to our host family's house. I knocked on the Janet and Jo’s bedroom window. "Hey, Jo and Janet, are you there?" I whispered loudly.
"Chris, is that you?"
"Yes, we just got robbed!"
"Yes, us too!"
If I believed in the God worshiped by mainstream religions I would thank Him that all these men wanted was money and that no one was harmed. These facts did not however ease my nerves over the weekend. On Saturday night Sarah and I stayed up all night in the living room watching TV and periodically peering out windows and conjuring up make-believe intruders from the sounds of the night. Sunday night was spent at Backpacker’s Hotel in town.
What now? Well, weld the double-door bolts (check), buy padlocks for all the doors that still remain without them (check), perhaps also remember to use these padlocks in the future (check?). Buy an alarm system for neighbors to fearfully ignore again, or the police to take 30 minutes to get there? Rent a guard to man the ten-foot wall that surrounds us and protect us from half a dozen armed robbers? At what point does the security reach a point where it deters a unit of would-be murderers who will climb walls, smash windows and annihilate doors (that is, seemingly stop at nothing) to get what they want? At what price and with what annoyances to daily life can peace of mind be bought? Where does one start, and where does one stop?
Anyone?
Monday, March 10, 2008
Pole Sana
In Luganda it is common when greeting someone to say "jebaleco," which translates roughly as "good work" or "way to go." It is appropriate to say this even if the recipient is doing nothing in particular, i.e. just sitting or standing around. In response, the recipient should reply "kale," which means thank you (or your welcome, depending on context), thus affirming the other's observation and accrediting one's own (non)accomplishment.
In Swahili, a similar but rather inverted greeting is often spoken between, say, two passers by. In this case the initial phrase is "pole" or "pole sana," which means sorry/very sorry. The response to this is "asante (sana)," or thank you very much. Here the initiator is expressing his/her regret or sorrow at another's burden, which usually is nothing worse than having to walk from one place to another. As in Luganda, the response is an acknowledgement of the task being performed. The intonation may seem quite different, but in fact because both phrases are attributed to such mundane tasks as sitting, standing or walking, they both reflect a sort of extreme attitude to work of any kind. For how different they sound in English, they both seem to speak to a common comradery absent in English greetings.
Permit me one more short observation: the similarity in ambiguity of Luganda's "kale" and Swahili's "pole." The former can mean thank you, your welcome, welcome, ok, yes, fine then. The latter can mean sorry, forgive me, excuse me, slowly ("pole pole"), keep it up. Again, the figurative communal intonation that binds these meanings together is something that transcends their literal English translation.
In Swahili, a similar but rather inverted greeting is often spoken between, say, two passers by. In this case the initial phrase is "pole" or "pole sana," which means sorry/very sorry. The response to this is "asante (sana)," or thank you very much. Here the initiator is expressing his/her regret or sorrow at another's burden, which usually is nothing worse than having to walk from one place to another. As in Luganda, the response is an acknowledgement of the task being performed. The intonation may seem quite different, but in fact because both phrases are attributed to such mundane tasks as sitting, standing or walking, they both reflect a sort of extreme attitude to work of any kind. For how different they sound in English, they both seem to speak to a common comradery absent in English greetings.
Permit me one more short observation: the similarity in ambiguity of Luganda's "kale" and Swahili's "pole." The former can mean thank you, your welcome, welcome, ok, yes, fine then. The latter can mean sorry, forgive me, excuse me, slowly ("pole pole"), keep it up. Again, the figurative communal intonation that binds these meanings together is something that transcends their literal English translation.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
My New Uniform
I own a uniform. This uniform, of the upmost utilitarian composition, consists of the following:
This uniform is light but protecting, durable but easy to wash. If you see me out on the street (or in a photograph), chances are good that I'm sporting my new home/away jersey. And since I do my own wash, by hand, it's usually preferred to the unnecessarily large number of collared shirts in my dresser.
Of course by the end of the week (actually more like Tuesday) these clothes could be deemed biohazards with the amount of kid-snot, dirt, meat juice (from the weekly butcher donation to the orphanage), dirt, sweat, glue, glitter, dirt, food, and more dirt that accumulates on them. Luckily I now live at a place with a running (unheated) shower.
In other news, Sarah and I are alternating writing for the local weekly newspaper, the Arusha Times. Check it out (not sure if this link will stay current).
UPDATE: This is the permanent link: www.arushatimes.co.tz/2008/7/society_5.htm
- ONE green beach hat- to protect my sensitive mzungu skin from the harsh rays
- ONE red (tuesdays and thursdays)/ green (monday wednesdays and fridays) light synthetic long-sleeve shirt- same purpose, dark colors hide coat of dirt well
- ONE pair of green zipper cargo pants/shorts- light material with many pockets to hide play-things from naughty children or phone/money from pick pockets
- MISMATCHED socks- self evident
- ONE pair brown all-purpose (walking/running/football) sambas- dirt colored to, you guessed it, hide their innate dirtyness.
This uniform is light but protecting, durable but easy to wash. If you see me out on the street (or in a photograph), chances are good that I'm sporting my new home/away jersey. And since I do my own wash, by hand, it's usually preferred to the unnecessarily large number of collared shirts in my dresser.
Of course by the end of the week (actually more like Tuesday) these clothes could be deemed biohazards with the amount of kid-snot, dirt, meat juice (from the weekly butcher donation to the orphanage), dirt, sweat, glue, glitter, dirt, food, and more dirt that accumulates on them. Luckily I now live at a place with a running (unheated) shower.
In other news, Sarah and I are alternating writing for the local weekly newspaper, the Arusha Times. Check it out (not sure if this link will stay current).
UPDATE: This is the permanent link: www.arushatimes.co.tz/2008/7/society_5.htm
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Postcolonial Modernity and the Washing Machine
Out of the many experiences I've had in the last three months that have exemplified aspects of modernity in contemporary Africa, perhaps one of the best occurred yesterday when I went to do my laundry. Allow me to set the scene:
Having recently arrived in Arusha, Tanzania, I begin my three month "voluntourism" stint with a local orphanage. Among my many tasks at said orphanage is to convince the teachers/cleaners/cooks/washers (they are more or less all the same people) to utilize the washing machine instead of washing the kids' clothes by hand. The volunteer who orients me tells me that she believes they have tried to use the machine before, but have abandoned it either because they are afraid of the sounds it makes or because they are operating it incorrectly (due to language barriers she's not sure which, it may be a combination).
As I have many times before here, I mistakenly assume that a) I know what I am doing b) I know more than they do, and c) things operate the same as they do back home. I believe I can operate a washing machine easily enough. I have of course done so many times before: put clothes in, pour detergent into some crevice, punch buttons and twist dials until something happens. I believe that these washer ladies have simply never seen a properly functioning washing machine and, despite the fact that it will save them both time and effort, are afraid of changing their routines. Finally, I fail to consider that a contraption that necessitates both electricity and plumbing may not work the same way in Africa as it would in the States (such contraptions inevitably do not).
On Saturday I set out with my own sack of laundry to teach/show these simple folk through example how great their lives could be if only they embraced the trappings of modernity, reified through technological innovation. After much hand gesturing and miming one of the helpers at the orphanage helps me find the detergent and clears the space around the machine (this space is currently being used as an extra classroom). She does her best first to warn me of my stupidity in attempting to use the machine, and then to convince me that she can do my wash by hand. Once its determined that I will not be deterred, she sets about trying to help me as best she can. I check all the requisite attachments, knobs and dials: water intake, water discharge, electricity connection, washing settings. There are no words, just pictures on the machine, but I guess at the appropriate picture. When everything is ready, I press power. ... nothing happens. I twist and turn more dials. The machine starts to rumble, so I content myself with sitting down and reading my novel. Everything should be ready in 45-50 minutes.
Twenty minutes later I realize that the machine is no longer making any noise. I go over to it and look through the window. Hmmm, doesn't look like much is wet in there. I twist the dial back to the setting it was originally on and go back to reading. Maybe the first time didn't take. Twenty minutes later, again silence. I try to open the door to the load space but it seems that there is some locking mechanism to it. I see through the hole that my laundry is a little bit wet, but obviously not enough. I check the detergent: half of it has been used. I decide to try another setting.
Another half hour has gone by. I am actively avoiding eye contact with the washing lady, who has commenced washing clothes by hand in the main courtyard in front of the "laundry" room. My clothes still do not look especially wet or clean, though I still can't fully tell because they are imprisoned in their tumbling cell. I realize that actually washing my clothes will probably not happen today, and instead decide to try and rescue my clothes to fight another day. I surmise that the load door must be locked because there is still some water trapped in there, a guess that is confirmed by checking the emergency water release (found on the front of the washer, which when opened unleashes a flow of grubby smelling water at me). I spend some twenty minutes changing the settings dial back and forth between the STOP setting and what I assume is the drain setting. Eventually something clicks and the door lock releases. I drag out my clothes, which although being somewhat damp have also acquired a foul bile-like smell. I gather my load up and quickly and quietly make my exit. I sign to the smiling washer lady that I will try again tomorrow, but I already know that my confidence in the thing has been far too battered to attempt another go this weekend.
Why is it so often here that Western conventions and technology are forced to fit the situation here in a half-baked sort of way? Nothing works as it should, though it is made to work somehow. Things attempt to emulate how they ideally would work in the correct setting (i.e. where they were designed: US, Europe, Japan), but inevitably it is exactly that attempt that dooms them to failure. To me it seems that many of the great ideas thought up for Africa follow this pattern: since it works here, it will also work over there. Usually its just not the case.
Having recently arrived in Arusha, Tanzania, I begin my three month "voluntourism" stint with a local orphanage. Among my many tasks at said orphanage is to convince the teachers/cleaners/cooks/washers (they are more or less all the same people) to utilize the washing machine instead of washing the kids' clothes by hand. The volunteer who orients me tells me that she believes they have tried to use the machine before, but have abandoned it either because they are afraid of the sounds it makes or because they are operating it incorrectly (due to language barriers she's not sure which, it may be a combination).
As I have many times before here, I mistakenly assume that a) I know what I am doing b) I know more than they do, and c) things operate the same as they do back home. I believe I can operate a washing machine easily enough. I have of course done so many times before: put clothes in, pour detergent into some crevice, punch buttons and twist dials until something happens. I believe that these washer ladies have simply never seen a properly functioning washing machine and, despite the fact that it will save them both time and effort, are afraid of changing their routines. Finally, I fail to consider that a contraption that necessitates both electricity and plumbing may not work the same way in Africa as it would in the States (such contraptions inevitably do not).
On Saturday I set out with my own sack of laundry to teach/show these simple folk through example how great their lives could be if only they embraced the trappings of modernity, reified through technological innovation. After much hand gesturing and miming one of the helpers at the orphanage helps me find the detergent and clears the space around the machine (this space is currently being used as an extra classroom). She does her best first to warn me of my stupidity in attempting to use the machine, and then to convince me that she can do my wash by hand. Once its determined that I will not be deterred, she sets about trying to help me as best she can. I check all the requisite attachments, knobs and dials: water intake, water discharge, electricity connection, washing settings. There are no words, just pictures on the machine, but I guess at the appropriate picture. When everything is ready, I press power. ... nothing happens. I twist and turn more dials. The machine starts to rumble, so I content myself with sitting down and reading my novel. Everything should be ready in 45-50 minutes.
Twenty minutes later I realize that the machine is no longer making any noise. I go over to it and look through the window. Hmmm, doesn't look like much is wet in there. I twist the dial back to the setting it was originally on and go back to reading. Maybe the first time didn't take. Twenty minutes later, again silence. I try to open the door to the load space but it seems that there is some locking mechanism to it. I see through the hole that my laundry is a little bit wet, but obviously not enough. I check the detergent: half of it has been used. I decide to try another setting.
Another half hour has gone by. I am actively avoiding eye contact with the washing lady, who has commenced washing clothes by hand in the main courtyard in front of the "laundry" room. My clothes still do not look especially wet or clean, though I still can't fully tell because they are imprisoned in their tumbling cell. I realize that actually washing my clothes will probably not happen today, and instead decide to try and rescue my clothes to fight another day. I surmise that the load door must be locked because there is still some water trapped in there, a guess that is confirmed by checking the emergency water release (found on the front of the washer, which when opened unleashes a flow of grubby smelling water at me). I spend some twenty minutes changing the settings dial back and forth between the STOP setting and what I assume is the drain setting. Eventually something clicks and the door lock releases. I drag out my clothes, which although being somewhat damp have also acquired a foul bile-like smell. I gather my load up and quickly and quietly make my exit. I sign to the smiling washer lady that I will try again tomorrow, but I already know that my confidence in the thing has been far too battered to attempt another go this weekend.
Why is it so often here that Western conventions and technology are forced to fit the situation here in a half-baked sort of way? Nothing works as it should, though it is made to work somehow. Things attempt to emulate how they ideally would work in the correct setting (i.e. where they were designed: US, Europe, Japan), but inevitably it is exactly that attempt that dooms them to failure. To me it seems that many of the great ideas thought up for Africa follow this pattern: since it works here, it will also work over there. Usually its just not the case.
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