THE FOURTH AND FINAL TERM I

LOCAL AFFAIRS

The news out of Dar near the end of last term sounded a bit ominous: teachers in government schools in and near the capital were threatening to strike. To me it seemed much too late in the school year for such action to be effective, but evidently they had declined to invigilate the national examinations taken by form-four students in November, and when these were successfully given by administrators instead, they then refused to mark the papers. It was to administer these same tests that Mr. Mtui had assigned my colleagues, Mr. Mnjokava and Mr. Makonge, to go to nearby schools; I suspected at the time it was an act of spite on his part to prevent their participation in the form-six student safari, that they had done so much to organize, and when a week or two later he denied Makonge’s request to go with his Lutheran church choir on a weekend visit to Malawi, I had no doubt that my conjecture was valid.

Just as I was preparing to leave for the holiday break, it was announced that the Ministry had agreed to negotiate with the teachers’ leaders. Promises had been made before and subsequently ignored, however, so not much was expected to result from these talks. A few days later I was back in my own hemisphere, and thoughts of these potential problems did not come to mind again until my return to Nairobi in mid-January. I remember talking with someone there, possibly it was Joellen, and simultaneously overhearing a comment in the background, partly in English, partly in Kiswahili, quite likely from one of the hotel staff who knows me, “Oh, the professor will find his school on strike when he gets there.”

I thought about that possibility quite a bit on the ride south to Arusha. If there were a strike, I would certainly support it; there was no question at all about that. But did I hope there would be one? Or did I really want to finish this last term, and thus my commitment, in peace? There was another more definite and immediate difficulty to resolve, however, that of getting keys to my Ilboru house. The shuttle driver was more than a little reluctant, but he finally agreed to take me to the Impala Motel, where I knew my bags would be safe during the short walk to the nearby Training Site, and where I might get a room for the night if the house proved inaccessible. The receptionist was more than willing to watch my luggage, and she agreed to hold the one remaining room until my return. Unsurprisingly the PC gate was locked, and my rattling of the chain produced no response; the inhabitants later claimed to have been working in the back of the house, out of earshot. No matter, I had already decided to spend the night in town.

My reception at late lunch/early dinner–I have been able to get anything I want there anytime they’re open–was enthusiastic and sincere. We did traditional handshakes and said our Happy New Year greetings in both English and Kiswahili: Heri ya mwaka mpya. Even the owner came to greet me, and he seemed most appreciative of my compliments on the progress of the new construction; building is slow here, I think because everyone operates on a cash basis, spending income as it becomes available. The new wing, which will dwarf the original building when completed, now has the restaurant and about a dozen guest rooms in operation. When I later complained to him that the door to the lanai off my room, in the old section of course, would not open, he responded, “Oh yes, we’ve been having trouble with that lock; take another room.” The receptionist told him, in Kiswahili, that there were no other rooms, and that was that, another example of typical Tanzanian maintenance. The lock probably has never worked and likely never will.

I was warmly received at the Training Site the next morning. Stanley, Grace, and James–the gardener–were there, of course, as were the new director of training, a representative of the Ministry whom I know fairly well by now, and of most importance a driver with a functional 4WD vehicle. Best of all the new trainees were on site visits, so I could operate in peace. I received my five cc of gamma globulin, a shot required every four months, on time for once–actually it was one day early–and arranged for a ride up to Ilboru; happily Stanley did have my house keys and also a nice mound of mail. While he and the driver located the three boxes, one suitcase, and sleeping bag I had left there to be shipped home in case I decided not to come back, I returned to the motel to pick up my luggage and to check out.

The news I had received at the Site was a bit mixed, and of course incomplete. The most bittersweet was that Mr. Mnjokava, the school’s best teacher and my closest friend there, would soon be leaving to become a headmaster. That news hurt a lot, but of course I had to be happy for his promotion. Another Volunteer was being assigned to Ilboru, a form-five mathematics teacher considerably older than I, and the best part of that news was that we were each to have our own house! I’m certain that Nurse Grace had intervened aggressively on my behalf. The worst news was that the recently appointed form-five physics teacher had decided to remain in Dar, and the headmaster wanted me to teach all advanced-level physics theory classes again.

My weeks back in the western world had totally deprived me of any adaptation to life in the Ilboru school milieu, and I found the first few days exceedingly difficult. The house itself was extremely dusty, of course, but except for that and the accumulation of debris that had blown under the doors, it looked surprisingly good. But never before have I been forced to endure such a neighborhood of squawking children, raucous parents, and overamplified music; even the dogs went berserk after dark. The Auger buzzard perched on the tree across the desiccated garden patch the first morning after my arrival served as a living reminder of my devastated environment. No other birds were to be seen. Instead of going to class that first day as I had originally planned, I chose to put the house in order. I did manage to pull myself together enough to touch base with all three form-six streams before Friday, however, but I postponed talking with the form-five students until the following week.

The news from Dar was in fact a bit grim. As I put together what I solicited from several different teacher friends, it seemed that some three hundred had been fired, a few dozen arrested and ordered to stand trial, and perhaps several were even then in jail. At Ilboru my colleagues stood around in small groups and chatted, but they had always done that. For quite a few I would find it impossible to distinguish support for a strike from full-time work. So, like Mnjokava and Makonge, I decided just to go on teaching until the situation changed. Without visible leadership Ilboru teachers were unlikely to undertake strong action; they simply ignore their classes when they feel like it as it is.

Over the weekend my spirits improved quite a bit. First, I spotted a tambourine dove in a neighboring yard on my Saturday walk to town, and the next day a gray tit and a little spotted woodpecker paid visits to my yard, and I added their names to my list. On the following Tuesday Makonge came by with the school fundi, who took a look at the still unopened padlocks on my four wardrobes, formulated several plans of action, and went off to get approval for one of them from higher authority, namely Mr. Chagga. Makonge, for his part, noticed the unkempt state of my yard, and since he was TOD that week, announced that he would bring some schoolboys up the hill to clean it. And indeed by the time I returned from afternoon classes, the front yard was beautiful. That several weeks later the backyard remained untouched and the front, greatly assisted by some substantial rains, had regained its traditional untidiness, in no way detracts from his achievement.

But it was on the last Wednesday of the month that my life really changed for the better. To begin with, Makonge, Chagga, and the fundi all arrived to discuss the padlock problem and to pick a possible solution. It turned out to be very simple; he just pried off one of the plates in which the padlock fits–as would any thief, I suppose. Since I had recalled correctly that this was the wardrobe in which the extra keys were stored, the problem was completely solved when I opened the lock and he nailed back the plate. It was good to have an actual bath towel again to supplement the tea towel, air-dry procedure.

A little later the headmaster informed me that Mr. Kimaro had gone to Dar without comment and evidently was not returning, so there was no one around to conduct practicals, much to the students’ disgust. It also required me to substitute for him with the latest trainees, but that was simple. A few weeks later, again with no explanation, he suddenly reappeared and slowly organized some rather perfunctory exercises using dry cells and resistors. During his absence, while I was encouraging the technician into assuming responsibility for the practicals and prodding the headmaster into getting another teacher from the Ministry–neither effort succeeded at all–I also checked with my students to see what Kimaro had done the previous term. During those four months he had conducted seven experiments for form six; in terms of class time that’s my weekly schedule, and he leaves most of the supervision to the laboratory technician. In the first half of this term there have been three more practicals. Some of the form-five students think they may have done one or two exercises during the entire year, but others don’t recall seeing Mr. Kimaro at all. So when I say, as I have been known to do, that we volunteers are propping up a system that should be encouraged to collapse, I’m not just whistling Dixie, and I’m certainly not in the dark.

But Wednesday was not yet over. I had just received a book on East African treks that looked quite good, so I went downtown to check out two of the companies that listed offices with Arusha addresses. The owner of the first had recently given up his safari business to operate the Maasai Camp, a campground about two miles from the Training Center, so I moved on to the next address, a small upstairs office operated by Jeff, a somewhat elderly Englishman. I must confess on hindsight that he didn’t look too energetic, but he talked a good line, particularly regarding some walking I still hope to do near the Crater and then on to Lake Natron. What I wanted now, however, was a vehicle and driver to take me on a few, short, weekend trips. His prices were reasonable, so we set up a timetable for several January and February weekends, and I walked happily up the hill to the Ilboru Safari Lodge where I settled into my favorite chair by the window in the lounge for some beer and dinner.

It was no surprise a little later to see its Tanzanian owner in animated conversation with a vivacious fair-skinned woman–retired colonels do that the world around–but I was both pleased and flattered when he brought her inside and introduced us. Mary and her friend and colleague, John, who arrived a few minutes later, are from Vancouver, a few hours drive south of Seattle, and they have been involved for some four years with various projects in northern Tanzania. They are Lutherans, which accounts for their living in Ilboru–German Lutherans arrived just a century ago to begin missionary work, and the American church established Ilboru Secondary School right after World War II–and they raise or provide all of their own support, both for personal expenses and to conduct their projects. Mary’s interest is education, and she is currently here for about thirteen months, supervising nearly a dozen young people, including her daughter, soon to be son-in-law, a niece, and a nephew, who are volunteering one to two years teaching in four nearby church-operated schools. She has also organized two-week seminars for Tanzanian teachers and is now arranging to send six of these teachers to the US for two months of work and travel.

John, a retired dentist, is here for two or three months to finish setting up the dental clinic in Ilboru that he planned after his initial visit four years ago. It is his minister, pastor of a Lutheran church in Vancouver, who had the vision of inviting his and other parishioners to come to the area for two weeks to see what useful activities they might undertake. To me it’s evangelism by works rather than by faith, which definitely suits my bias. Would that the Peace Corps, with its much vaster resources, could be as productive per person and dollar involved. Although I have previously met quite a few non-Tanzanian families in the area, this is the first time I’ve begun to learn the details of their work here. It was quite amazing to discover that John graduated from Central Washington University not that many years before I began teaching there. It must have been a boring evening for Mary as the two of us ran through the list of old faculty members we both knew.

The next day I got my first glimpse of the latest trainees–they’re Volunteers now, that is all but the one destined for Ilboru–and they looked quite shaggy and longhaired. By the following week when they began daily visits to do some serious work, however, they looked much sharper, and I thoroughly enjoyed the half-dozen with whom I became somewhat acquainted, including three from my home state. Collectively they appear to me to be the best prepared intellectually and the strongest emotionally of any group sent over in these two years of the new, post-Gulf War, PC program in Tanzania; I wish them all the best. The Ministry, even with its limited wisdom, excluded form-six students from the practice teaching timetable in order not to interrupt their preparations for national examinations, so I was able to continue my classes, unimpeded for once, by the training process.

My safari arrangements didn’t work out as planned, largely because Jeff’s staff has an amazingly naive approach to reserving rooms in the popular, quality establishments that major tour companies book en masse, months ahead. But never mind, I had a decent vehicle, an adequate driver, and more than enough nearby destinations in mind; out of chagrin, possibly, the office manager even joined the fun on several occasions. And on the way in and out of town, I could handle my local affairs in one-tenth the time required on foot. One morning the manager led a bushwhacking walk, literally, because he started up the wrong trail, to the top of a nearby hill that gave me good views of Arusha and its surroundings and also a close-up sighting of a martial eagle. Two walks around Lake Diluti, one in the morning, the other in late afternoon, were delightful. Except for scores of local fishermen, typically standing naked in the water–no, few Tanzanian women yet claim equal rights–the area is quiet, and the small lake and its surrounding forest support quite a varied bird population. I was excited both times to see paradise flycatchers, and the magnificent squacco heron I observed at close range for as long as I wished put me in mind of the elusive migrant Madagascar squacco, but it couldn’t have been; even a bird that hasn’t read the field guide wouldn’t have strayed alone that far from Kenya’s Amboseli National Park, certainly not without a visa. The only visible migrants these two days were knob-billed ducks, quite a flock of them, disbursed in small groups on the lake’s surface.

In some ways the greatest excitement came from seeing, finally, two of Arusha’s well-known resorts, the Mountain Village Lodge, situated on the edge of the lake, and the Dik-Dik Hotel, located quite near Mt. Meru. The former looks like a very nice place to stay, which I may do, particularly at less than $15 per day for a resident, if life at Ilboru becomes too dull, but I’m not optimistic about the food. The latter, on the other hand, doesn’t look like much of a hotel, but its food is legendary in this area. The Oldonyo Orok, very near the disastrous Momela Lodge, remains to be visited. On this day the Dik-Dik was clearly the place for my late-afternoon dinner, so I sent the driver and manager back to sleep for a few hours while I dined.

The large scale of the dining areas and their understated elegance stand in sharp contrast to the diminutive and simple structure of the outside compound; there can be no doubt that food is the dominant interest of the Swiss owner-chef. I had a Campari and soda in the lounge–high-season sightseeing is hot, dusty work in East Africa–while perusing the various menus and wine lists, and I finally settled on the more expansive of two multi-course dinners. On arrival at the table I was impressed to find my service plate surrounded by thirteen pieces of cutlery, but I was also surprised; there was one extra knife that could never be paired with a left-hand utensil. The waiter never removed it, and I always selected the right-most remaining knife, so there it always was, one blank space to the right, moving inward like a hole in a semiconductor.

The avocado that arrived first was perfectly ripe, neatly sliced, and served with a creamy sauce conveying a hint of Chinese smoked pork. The very small bottle of Fendant du Valois I had chosen to accompany the first courses, although not cork-finished, was fresh, crisp, and lingering; its flavors reminded me a bit of Orvieto, but it did not suffer from that viscous oiliness I find objectionable in some Italian white wines.

The lobster soup course was superb; it was appropriately rich and creamy with just a hint of that classic shellfish sauce and containing lots of still flavorful lobster chunks. The last of the preliminary dishes, Tomato Marie I think the menu said, was also the simplest, a half tomato topped with bread crumbs and served quickly from under a hot broiler.

The champagne sorbet was an absolutely perfect palate cleanser: a rather tart ice, I know not from what fruit, was served in a stout tulip filled with a somewhat sweet sparkling wine, probably sekt. About this time I noticed that hotel guests were beginning to return from their afternoon drives for drinks and sun beside the pool, only a short distance from the dining room windows. Happily the first arrival disappeared behind a shrub at the far side of the pool, and my concentration was left intact.

The main course could be called a roulade, I suppose, something like flank steak stuffed with ham, bacon, gherkins, and mushrooms. It was a bit heavy and salty for the weather, I thought, but the increasing rolls of under-tanned flesh being overexposed beside the pool suggested a clientele of Northern Europeans fleeing from winter for whom it would probably be very appropriate. The very small bottle of Red Dole, also with a twist-off top, was adequate, but the cheese course was not; all three presented were of the same type and differed only in degree of over-dryness. Evidently the Dik-Dik Delicatessen in downtown Arusha dispatches its stale cheese to the Dik-Dik Restaurant.

A nice little fruit tart next appeared, and although it started off well enough, it too turned out to be a bit overaged, bordering on moldiness. Then came the espresso, a bit sweetened and cool, but by now the time I had estimated for the meal had expired, and I was pleased that my companions had returned. The Dik-Dik definitely has one of the very few very fine dining rooms in this part of Africa, and I will be very pleased to return. That I still prefer Gibb’s Farm may indicate more a preference in style than a judgment of comparative quality.

Meanwhile the quality of life in the Ilboru-Arusha hub has improved immeasurably. The Pitta Pizzeria finally has its long-promised new menu and has laid in a fresh stock of Valpolicella that seems much fruitier than the previous. Stroganoff with homemade noodles and a chef’s salad are superb additions. The newly expanded facilities and increased tourist traffic have made the Impala less interesting, but a carefully cultivated, helpful headwaiter is not to be given up casually, particularly not during the busy tourist season. I still haven’t made it to the Sauvignon, and Mary says I must; their specialty is pasta, and they really know how to use garlic. It’s been ages since I had Indian food at two early favorites, the Bindya and Poulsen’s to list them in order of increasing quality and price, and I’m more than a little skeptical of the recent trainees’ enthusiastic praise for a newly opened Chinese restaurant.

But the real excitement for me is at the Ilboru Safari Lodge. Mika, Mike as he introduces himself to Wazungu clients, is a Wa-arusha who was born on the grounds now occupied by Ilboru Secondary School. He evidently inherited some of his father’s property in the area and is using that income and presumably his military retirement to develop the Lodge. The central building is completely finished, and like the landscaping of the grounds, is very tastefully done. The rondavels, six of them, are finished outside but totally bare within; each will contain two units, both doubles, so the total capacity will be twenty-four. It strikes me that this is too few for profitable operation unless he can command premium prices. Right now he surely loses money each day that he operates.

Several weeks ago he came back from Dar and exuberantly announced that he now had the money to finish his units. And it wasn’t long afterward that he proudly introduced his new chef, Juma Salum, Nairobi-trained and in charge of the Il Terrasse kitchen until its owner’s death, a gang-style execution according to the Jacksons, during the 1992-1993 holiday season. He was next at the Mountain Village Lodge and then with a safari company out in the Serengeti. His work is imaginative and well done, particularly when he has the correct starting ingredients, which is generally not the case with beef and mutton dishes. And as soon as one menu is in print, he starts work on a new one.

On an evening not too long ago, when Mary and I happened to arrive at the same time for dinner, we were unexpectedly introduced to three distinguished African gentlemen in European dress, two from the National Bank of Commerce and one in some way representing the World Bank. That was certainly an auspicious sign, but several weeks later nothing has happened except that Mika has added an office manager to the payroll he can’t yet meet. Requests to me for cash advances are not restricted to the school population.

For some time I was taking just one meal a day at the Lodge, an early dinner, but when they agreed to serve breakfast during my always unscheduled fifth period and the following tea break, I resumed eating twice a day. Unfortunately, Juma has continued to expand that morning meal until it now consists of four fresh fruits plus freshly squeezed orange juice, then corn flakes with milk and more bananas, followed by beautifully scrambled eggs on toast, a grilled tomato slice, a patty or two of beef, from two to four slices of toast with butter and jam, and unlimited–instant–coffee. It consumes more time than I have available and leaves me a bit sluggish for the next class. This all changed, of course, when six additional periods were added to my weekly schedule.

And Mary? Well, the four stylish ensembles with which she travels, officially labeled A through D, and the annual change in hair style so she can readily identify on which trip her picture was taken, are more than enough to challenge the judgment of any man wandering the world alone. She is, however, happily married to a minister in the Northwest.

All in all, my life here is clearly outside the limits prescribed by the “Peace Corps experience,” but as Mark Twain put it so succinctly, “If you can’t reach age by a comfortable route, don’t go.”

W. Vance Johnson

05 Feb 94