THE FOURTH AND FINAL TERM III

CHRISTIAN CHARITY AND CHAGGA CHICANERY

It was a cool Thursday afternoon when I reached Arusha at the completion of my travels in Spain. As usual I was dropped off at the Impala in order to pick up mail at the Training Site, have lunch at the motel, and hire a cab for the ride up the hill. It was muddy, and water was standing everywhere; the long rains had not yet ended for the season at Arusha. When I asked Nurse Grace for my final issue of mefloquin tablets, she naturally inquired how I felt.

“Okay,” I replied, “except I have the same respiratory discomfort I described to you last November.” “Have you been traveling again?” I nodded affirmatively, and she smiled and put her hand on my shoulder reassuringly. Her pleasant demeanor reminded me of the butt massage that always follows an injection of gamma globulin; my colleagues at the Zanzibar conference had informed me, somewhat to my relief, that this is standard PC practice, at least in Tanzania. Come to think of it, I’m now a few days overdue for my final injection.

I had left the remaining set of keys to my house with Mary, and although she was away, they were readily available to me. The taxi driver, who was acquired for me by my friend at the front desk, ripped me off, but I was so happy with the realization that my work here was virtually over that I simply ignored his gratuitous “Asante sana, rafiki”. That there was no power in the house didn’t surprise me; it was still off occasionally but much less often than during my first year here.

It rained quite hard in the afternoon, but by early evening when I was to walk to Mary’s place, it had slowed to a light drizzle, a veritable sunny afternoon by Seattle standards. Darkness was progressing rapidly, and when I saw that all the neighboring houses were illuminated, I realized that I had a problem. Just as I reached my destination adjacent to the school grounds, two of my form-five students saw me through the gloomy mist and extended their greetings. After chatting briefly I asked them, “Are any teachers around? My power is off, and I would like help in having it restored.” “No,” they laughed, “no one is here, but your house is dark because the power company came and disconnected it.” “That’s interesting,” I replied. “Please tell anyone in authority that you meet to do something about it, because until power is restored, I won’t begin marking your terminal exams.”

That night’s dinner was the initial step in the three-phase wedding of Mary’s daughter, Jennifer, to the young man, Brian, with whom she is teaching in nearby Moshi. The real wedding, phase two of the celebrations, takes place in Minnesota in July, so I can understand the need for a little frivolity here beforehand and a third-phase recovery period in the Northwest afterward. Actually, there is talk of a phase-four function at Ilboru when the couple returns in August. We ate downtown at the Savignana, where the pasta was as good as Mary had promised, although perhaps not quite so exciting as the homemade noodles accompanying the Pita Pizzeria’s new menu item “fillet steak goulash.” That the new restaurant’s name is not Sauvignon as I incorrectly thought previously, reassures me about the appropriateness of its decidedly Italian-oriented menu. On my way to Nairobi a month earlier I had lunched there, still thinking its name was French, and had found its minestrone soup to be the best I had tasted outside Italy; of course I’ve never been to Italy except while circumnavigating Mont Blanc, or more appropriately Monte Bianco, I suppose.

The next morning, Friday, I walked to school a little past eight, by which time I assumed Chagga might be in his office so I could acquire whatever mail had arrived during my month’s absence. He was not, but as I paused for a moment to contemplate my next step, the headmaster emerged from the adjacent office, which is his secretary’s; a day or two after I was observed photographing his office’s burned door, it was replaced by a piece of metal sheeting, forcing him to go through the adjacent office in order to enter or leave his own. He looked trim and relaxed and was dressed in a smart, well-fitting suit. He greeted me effusively and inquired after my whereabouts in recent weeks just as if he hadn’t been told beforehand. “I’ve been gone much of that time too and only returned a few days ago,” he informed me. I was neither so effusive nor so enthusiastic as he but simply inquired if he knew why there was no power in my house. In his typical way of understating half-truths he said, disingenuously, “Well, you know that several different people have lived in the house these two years, and we’ve had trouble getting the billing changed properly. It may be that the power company has discontinued service because the bill hasn’t been paid. Chagga should be able to handle it.” “Well,” I replied quietly but firmly, “until power is restored, I won’t be able to mark the terminal exams.” He laughed, but not nearly so heartily as at first.

As I walked on to leave the school grounds, Kimaro called greetings to me. I ignored him and walked on. He called again, “Professor, I have your exams.” “Keep them,” I snapped back without turning to face him, “the power’s off in my house, and you may have to mark them yourself.” “Oh,” he responded as if he too didn’t already know. The only action he took, however, was quickly to hand the papers to Makonge, which I suppose he assumes absolves him of any responsibility in the affairs of the department and indeed the entire academic program he allegedly heads.

It was Monday before I could discuss mail and power with Makonge, and he seemed quite surprised at the state of affairs. “The school owes two million shillings(four thousand dollars(on its bill, so the company shut off the power. Mr. Mtui went to town and persuaded them to turn it back on.” He didn’t understand why my house remained powerless, because traditionally the houses of volunteers, like that of the headmaster, have been provided utilities by the school. He laughed rather heartily at my plan not to mark papers in the dark. He also found my mail(Chagga had asserted there was none(and persuaded that lazy ne’er-do-well to go to town for the utility bill, which he actually handed to me that very afternoon when we passed in opposite directions on the road to town, he in the school’s 4WD, I on foot, as usual. It was still addressed to the former teacher who lived there before me, the very same whose laxity in moving out a few boxes of her belongings had prevented my using the house the first two months of my assignment at Ilboru, but to her current residence as headmistress of a school in Arusha. For the only time in our relationship, Chagga accepted responsibility for a problem he or the school had caused and seemed genuinely sorry it had occurred. The box of chocolates I had brought from Madrid to give him was presented to someone else, however.

The second part of the pre-wedding was a weekend at Tarangire, a park much favored by my colleagues since the tented camp and lodge there are operated and partially owned by the Simonsons, a pioneer Lutheran missionary family here(colonialism, capitalism, and Christianity are indeed compatible. The park was lush, green, and filled with elephants, its signature animal. Professional drivers with whom we spoke mentioned herds of up to 500, but the largest I saw numbered about 150. In places the grass was “as high as an elephant’s eye,” well, at least a small one, and thoroughly covered with ticks; they brushed off the stalks into our vehicles, and we were still picking them off our clothes two days later on the drive home. Mosquitoes were bad at night in the tents, but we were spared attacks, for the most part, by tsetse flies.

The feature of the weekend was the phase-one wedding itself. The bride was decked out in a red costume, complete with matching high-topped tennis shoes, and her mother, attendants, and several other women friends wore dresses made from local kangas, in various patterns of black and white. The minister, who doubles as the bride’s uncle, was fitted with a vest of similar material, and the only other two men on the guest list were given matching napkins. Mine was appropriately used as an oversized pocket patch, since I brought a modicum of solemnity to the affair by wearing a long-sleeved white shirt and tie, and Andy tucked his under his cap, French Foreign Legion style. Oh, and in the last minute I stepped into the procession as surrogate father of the bride.

But where were the groom and his best man, who happens also to be a cousin of the bride? When I first checked on them, they were having their hair braided(neither had cut his since coming to Africa nearly a year earlier(in Maasai moran style, but even then I didn’t guess they would dress like warriors and carry spears to the ceremony. I finally chased them out over an hour late, but their costumes made such a hit with the women, as well as the other Park guests, that their tardiness was immediately forgiven. And for once Tanzanians offered to pay Wazungu for the right to take pictures. All of these kids, plus their parents and grandparents, went to St. Olaf College, so if this is the behavior you want in yours, you know where to send them.

I looked unsuccessfully for Chagga on both Tuesday and Wednesday following the ceremony, but it was Thursday before our paths crossed again, and I could explain that most of the utilities bill in hand had accrued during the months the two English lads alone occupied the house. I was certainly prepared to pay my share but most definitely not theirs, and until power was restored, exams would remain unmarked. By this time Makonge realized I was serious, and he began to worry that there would be no physics grades on the reports that were to be sent to parents the next week. His worries were justified; I decided on Thursday night(I had really just gotten over my respiratory malaise by then(to forget the exams and move into the Ilboru Safari Lodge.

On Monday we left for step three of phase one of the wedding, five days on Pemba Island. The party comprised Mary, five of her charges, a young-woman visitor from Minnesota who is considering volunteering to teach a year here, and me. The island was cooler, wetter, and lusher than on my first visit; the rainy season was not quite over there, either. We were made most welcome at Star Inn. There were some disappointments, however; lobsters and prawns were either in short supply or out of season, and owner Mohammed preferred buying strawberry soda for local passersby to beer for us. On the other hand the masala sauce now readily available in two indistinguishable formats, dark and light, did add interest to what shellfish we could acquire, and it was very nice to split transportation costs eight ways. And, since I was immediately recognized by the local passenger agent, matatu driver, Suzuki driver, the boat operator, and of course the Inn staff, whatever we wanted, except beer, was arranged for easily and quickly, at least by East African standards.

The airport and the Inn are both located in the town of Chake Chake, which, unlike Walla Walla in my home state, usually goes by its first name only. On my initial visit it seemed to offer little to commend it other than a surprisingly large football stadium across the road from the Inn. Presumably built by the Chinese government, as were many others throughout Africa, it appeared as unused as all the rest I’ve seen, except for an occasional evening scrimmage that attracted a modest gathering of the town’s younger set.

On Tuesday two of the women and I conspired to explore Chake rather than take the boat ride to Masali Island, a trip I had found very exciting during my first visit, and we discovered much in the town to see and enjoy. We were entranced by the people’s friendliness; the contents of their shops, half of which specialized in kangas, to my companions’ delight; and the variety of foods we could observe, and every seven minutes sample to appease Carol’s appetite. We pretty much entertained the whole town that day, beginning with the forty-five minute training session for the staff who cashed my traveler’s check at the National Bank of Commerce, and ending with the purchase of two kangas and the tailoring of three, including one that Robin whipped off to present to a startled tailor. Since the highway completely misses it, the downtown is not a regular tourist stop, and young and old alike were bemused this day by the apparitions that appeared in their midst.

During my first visit I became very interested in the map of Pemba hanging on the Inn’s wall, and Mohammed volunteered to buy one for me in town. Of course he didn’t, but when I encountered the passenger agent in town that afternoon, and he offered his assistance, I asked him for help in acquiring the map. He promptly pointed at a nondescript building a block away and across the street and said, “You can buy it there for 1500 shillings.” Then, after looking at his watch, he added either, “It will reopen in 15 minutes,” or “It closed 15 minutes ago,” I’ll never be certain which. I checked the building immediately; it was locked, unlabeled, and of unpromising appearance. After relaxing for at least another 15 minutes, I extended my search down the hill toward some equally nondescript buildings fronted by a Tanzanian flag. The first door read waterworks, or its Kiswahili equivalent, and the second was standing open. Entering the latter, I found the office unoccupied, but there on the wall was the map I coveted. A young man I persuaded to come in from outside told me, in Kiswahili, to return at 8:00 in the morning, when someone would be there to assist me.

Again the next morning this office was open and unstaffed, but the young man next door whose help I commandeered spoke excellent English: “I can’t sell you the map,” he explained, “but I know the person who can; please follow me.” In a nearby building he found the right office and explained to a woman there what I wanted. In his translation she replied, “I have none for sale.” “You’re out of stock?” I queried. “Does someone else in town sell them?” “No, we have them, but the person responsible is not here.” “When will he be back?” “He went to Zanzibar and won’t be back until next week.” I did verify the price as 1500 “Tanzanian shillings, not dollars,” my guide said with a laugh in which all the onlookers and I joined.

I later described the incident to our innkeeper, and he laughed: “Unless a Pembian has worked out of the country for at least ten years, all he wants to do is talk, eat, and sleep.” He then told us about an official who had been staying downtown at the Chake Hotel before he gave up and moved to the Star Inn. It was after dinner, and the guest went to the reception desk with his request: “May I have some coffee in my room?” “No, the owner is not here, and the coffee is locked up.” “Well then, may I have some hot water?” “No, until he returns, we cannot help you.” “In that case may I have my bags? From now onwards, you will see me no more.”

On returning to Ilboru I moved out of the house, which was still powerless, and began a 15-day stay at the Ilboru Safari Lodge. The family of Denise, our school chaplain for a year, had spent a few nights earlier in the week in rooms one and two, but chumba tatu was ready for me, its first occupant; well almost ready, the varnish on the closet doors and dresser drawers was still sticky, but by morning all was dry. My welcome was most effusive, and the entire staff treated me with respect and friendliness, the women even curtseying when we exchanged greetings. But of most importance, “boiled” coffee had been added to the menu in response to my specific request.

The next morning, Sunday, I expanded my involvement with Ilboru’s American Lutheran community by attending church for the first time in Africa. The Wazungu population operates the interdenominational Arusha Community Church on the premises of the notorious Greek Club, best known to me as a source of warm beer and dreadful pizza during training days. The morning’s leader was as dull as its speaker, the bride’s uncle, Wayne, was stimulating. The latter took as his text the parable of Lazarus and the rich man, and although his exegesis stayed close to standard religious interpretations, its application to the have-not nations of the Third World and their rich cousins is all too obvious to require emphasis.

The highway west from Arusha toward northern Tanzania’s great parks, Tarangire, Manyara, Ngorongoro, and the Serengeti, passes close to the modest village of Monduli, and we had noticed on our previous passage how green the surrounding plains had become; because of its nearness to Mt. Meru, the Arusha area always looks good. That contrast made it all the more dismaying, on this Monday morning, to see how desiccated the region had become in a very few weeks. Maize is not a traditional food for the Maasai, but as the drought has continued and their animals have starved, they have increasingly planted this crop, but now it too shrivels and dies for lack of moisture. It is easy to believe that for many months adults ate only every third day, that parents chose which of their children to feed, and that old people simply wandered off not to return. It’s not that way today, but it certainly was before the maize distributions began, and it likely will be again when they end.

Those sponsored by the Lutherans follow an almost ritualistic format. The American group drives from Ilboru to the Monduli church where the increasingly costly maize, having been stored(in sacks(for some days since its purchase, is being loaded onto a rental truck, often available only at a ridiculously high cost, and then pays a mandatory visit to Pastor Mwanga’s house for tea and some of Mama Mwanga’s legendary roasted peanuts. Their three children come in quietly to receive the traditional Maasai greeting, a pat on the bowed head, and then the pastor’s mother, whom he moved from their village to prevent her starvation, bent almost double with age, smiling broadly from an almost toothless mouth, and straining to see the guests through almost sightless eyes, enters. She speaks to us in her native Maasai tongue, Maa, her daughter-in-law uses Kiswahili, and only the pastor can adequately translate their comments into English for us. Not until these rituals are completed and the truck loaded can we at last begin the drive to the designated village.

This first time for me, the waiting crowd was large and festive and actively singing and dancing; that bloodcurdling scream modulated by an oscillating tongue(ululation(that is voiced by celebrating women in this part of the world, both Maasai and Chagga in my experience, greeted our ears like an advancing sonic boom. Once out of the vehicles we were welcomed by dozens of village leaders with traditional handshakes and spoken greetings. Mwanga soon had the villagers assembled in their appropriate positions: children at a distance, women seated on the ground in front, men standing to one side, and the village leaders seated on benches with their guests. The ceremonies include a song or two and a brief message from the pastor, introduction of the guests, words of thanks from several representative village leaders, and finally a response from the highest-ranking visitor, typically Mama Mary, or in her absence, Pastor Wayne. Mwanga translates everything for us but his sermon(if it were Sunday, there would be a repeat service in English, and everybody, Maasai and Wazungu alike, would sit through both(which is sometimes translated simultaneously for those interested by one of sixteen “evangelists” assisting in his work with thirteen congregations.

The ceremony ends with lunch for the guests and Tanzanian church officials: grilled goat and beef, avocados, oranges, bananas, bread, and sodas. Food is taken in the hands, which are rinsed before and after in water poured over them from a pitcher into a basin. Mwanga’s appetite is good and seems to match those of his six or eight guests combined. And just before departure traditional gifts, often taken from the persons of some of the Maasai present, are distributed to several of the guests; it is clear that Mwanga orchestrates the entire proceedings. The maize distribution itself goes on for a long time, often into the next day, but it starts before the guests depart.

Knowing that Jennifer and Brian were leaving for home the next evening to be married, Mwanga extended far more even than his usual hospitality this afternoon, arranging that they be dressed suitably for a Maasai wedding and then presented to the crowd, not a few of whom peeked through open windows to oversee the preparations. These required over an hour, during which the women sang, the moran performed several of their traditional jumping dances, and the other men did what they do most often, simply stood around. The most exciting part of these dances to me is not the vigor of the leaps but rather the musical sounds the nondancers make while one morani is jumping. They are rhythmic, humming sounds with an occasional grunting element for accents, and the group collectively produces three or four different harmonizing frequencies; the goose pimples on my arms were quite apparent. And when all was finally ready, the two were led to the center of the crowd by the moran following yet another traditional jump step.

Both kids are blue-eyed blondes, as befits their Norwegian ancestry, and Brian is tall and lanky, standing a good head above the tallest of the warriors. He quickly picked up the beat of the jump step, although with not quite the energetic precision of his mentors. Instead he added a little flip of the head, or perhaps it was a nod of the chin, that sent his long hair, bound Comanche style with a red band from which now dangled some earrings(ear piercing and other traditional rites were happily not required(into a periodic bobbing motion. The sight sent the crowd into uncontrolled hysterics, not in derision, but in happiness at how willingly and graciously these two young Americans slipped into their hosts’ culture. If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never forget the sight of that long blonde hair bobbing above the heads of the proud young men comprising the Maasai warrior class. And at the end Mwanga announced that all the wedding finery and the additional gifts were Jennifer’s and Brian’s to keep. The only sad part of the day’s proceedings was the chaotic distribution procedure(these details are always left to the village leaders to arrange(but I think one can forgive mothers for trying to get a little extra food for their hungry children.

The other distribution I witnessed, which took place the following Saturday in the village of Monduli Juu, beautifully situated in the Monduli Hills well above the town of Monduli itself, was similar in that it began in Mwanga’s home and included the same basic procedures as the first time. It differed in that these people were obviously poorer and in greater need, and there were very few moran present. Also there was a school to visit, a dispensary to inspect, and other points of interest to view before Mwanga assembled the crowd to begin the service. This little village is the home of the late and still much lamented prime minister, Moringe Sokoine. This distribution was magnificently organized, and one of its leaders not only was a woman, something Mary had not known to happen before, but she was dressed in nontraditional western clothes. This time it was our visitor from Minnesota, who was flying home that very night, who received the traditional necklace, earrings, bracelets, and metal tubing wound around the wrists and ankles by the women. Ann’s gratitude and happiness were apparent to all, and even Mzee Vance was excited to receive a bracelet, which, as merely a passive onlooker, he certainly did not deserve.

The days between the distributions were spent getting settled in the Safari Lodge; meeting a couple from Port Angeles, Washington, who had come to work for a few weeks, he as the biology facilitator in the teacher-training seminar, she as a librarian helping to organize several school libraries, and showing them a little of the town; and assisting Mary with two of the one-day seminars that she herself presents for teachers during the school year. I particularly enjoyed the second seminar, because it gave participants, quite a few for the first time, experience with pocket calculators. And the night before the second distribution we had a party, presumably for Ann, at the Greek Club, whose pizza, although it hardly seems possible, had actually gotten worse during the intervening two years.

On Sunday morning I went to church again, my second such experience in Africa, this time to the old Ilboru Lutheran Church that I had passed hundreds of times in my daily routine and had even visited on numerous occasions to rest or meditate. The much more convenient and comfortable school chapel was of no use to me, because whenever I entered it, or indeed even passed it on a Sunday morning, several students, usually mine, came forward quite aggressively in an attempt to save me once again. My protestation that I had lived through their experiences as an adolescent and had subsequently developed my own standards and values availed nothing, so I simply avoided the place.

The benches are backless in the old church, and worshippers divide by gender, males to the left, females to the right. The service started only ten minutes late, but parishioners continued arriving throughout its hour-plus duration. I was informed afterward that it pretty much followed standard Lutheran liturgical procedures, and I had found it boring enough to make this assertion credible, but of course in Kiswahili. A list of nineteen numbered statements(I can still do arithmetic in this language(was particularly provocative; I thought at first the ten commandments had been augmented, but I subsequently learned it was only a set of announcements from church members. The choir was impressive, sitting on three or four of the front benches since the church lacks a loft, and singing a capella under the direction of a vigorous young woman with an upswept hairdo, a translucent, synthetic pink blouse, and a flowery skirt; singers here slowly sway from side to side, at a frequency determined by the song I suppose. When the service began, an electric-guitar group was sitting down front, but its members left without performing when the power went out. I suspect that it was God’s will for them to perform the offertory, for the power was restored just as the offering was to be taken, and the band filed back in the side entrance just in time for the procession.

And procession it was; the congregation stood up row by row, marched down the center(and only(aisle to the front, distributed its gifts among several receptacles, and then continued out the side door. I had heard horror stories about services in which three different offerings were taken, and those present, especially visiting Wazungu, were directed to deposit specific sums, which were not modest and were announced publicly, so I had brought three one-thousand-shilling notes, all that I cared to give. If a fourth were required, I would simply walk out; my family religious traditions stress freedom of choice. I need not have worried; only one offering was taken. I followed Mary, who was seated across the aisle from me, to the offering baskets to receive her advice, and she also informed me that Mr. Mtui was in attendance. As we filed back in through the main entrance, I made certain I saw where he was seated.

After the service was over, I remained convinced there had been no sermon until my Lutheran friends assured me that it was the-ten-minute segment during which one of the assistants had spoken from the lectern to our left. I kept expecting the older robed pastor to do something of significance, but evidently he was saving his voice for a later service. As we slowly filed out the main door in pursuit of the choir, the next set of worshippers was already entering by the side door. In Tanzania, at least in Lutheran circles, one always attends an early service; to go to the last one scheduled is to take an unacceptable risk of being subjected to a three- or four-hour ordeal. Again men went left, women right, and we stood, segregated, in the warm sunshine for a final hymn by the choir and the benediction.

I deliberately positioned myself in front of Mr. Mtui so we could not avoid speaking after the benediction. He was alone, well dressed as usual(on a salary of $40.00 per month?(and more than a little nonplussed at finding his egress blocked, particularly by someone he could no longer intimidate. But, he returned my greetings after only a slight hesitation and then in full control once more asked yet again what I knew about Stanley, the trainee destined for Ilboru whom the new country director had foolishly sent home. Mtui’s only interest was in the computers Stanley is, or at least was for a time, attempting to send from the US to Ilboru. He came right out and said, “I want the first one for myself; you remember that my son at the University is very interested in computers.” In typical Chagga fashion I assured him I would do what I could to ascertain the status of Stanley’s computers, and then I added: “I’ll stop by your office to say good-bye more formally before I leave Tanzania in mid-August.” “Oh,” he replied, “I’ll likely be spending most of my time in Dar then.” Two days later I learned at the Training Site that he had already been relieved as Ilboru’s headmaster and reassigned to the Ministry.

Before we separated he volunteered that he had gone to town the previous day and paid the utilities bill. “The power should be back on by now.” I had already intended to visit the house after breakfast to remove the very few odds and ends still stored there, and when I arrived, as expected, the power was still off. As I walked out the kitchen door for the last time, with neither remorse nor the shedding of tears, my watch had advanced to 13:58, but the watt-hour meter, as it had for weeks and likely would for months to come, remained stopped at a reading of 5460.9.

I do hope Kimaro enjoyed marking those papers.

W. Vance Johnson

12 Jun 94