January 8, 2009
Kilema, Tanzania
Masai Man
The skies were surprisingly cloudless, the sunlight piercingly bright, and the crowds unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I grasped Anjali’s hand tightly, fearful of losing her in the throng. One hundred thousand? Two hundred? Impossible to tell. No one took any notice of us and there was no time to stop and talk — the “sales” were roaring on Oxford Street, and shoppers were on a mission.
It had been two days since we bid a tearful Paris farewell to Sage and Peter as they jumped aboard the TGV for the 800-kilometre trek back to Beziers. Over the next four weeks, the boys would be heading off to Junior Astronaut School at the Cité de l’Espace in Toulouse, making a pilgrimage to Brussels, the birthplace of Tin Tin, Hergé and Schtroumpf (Smurfs), and immersing themselves wholly in their final few weeks in France (read: sampling all the pain au chocolat and bouche noels at patisseries they hadn’t yet tried).
Anjali and I, on the other hand, were heading to warmer climes, and looking forward to a historic reunion with our friends and neighbours from Victoria. Since Stephanie Malahoff’s return to Victoria six months ago from her family’s nine-month stint in Tanzania, she had regaled us with stories about the beauty, the poverty and the resourcefulness of Tanzanians. While there with husband, Chris, and three children, she and Eva, Steph’s 11-year old daughter, had worked alongside local volunteers at the Kilema District Hospital’s Orphan and Vulnerable Children Program, gently trying to bring structure and rigour to a program in a state of disarray.
“Just come and see – there’s so much that you can do,” she kept saying.
Hailey, Eva and Anjali -- happy monkeys
Persuaded by her stories, neighbour and family physician Fiona Manning, and I, decided to grab our own 11-year-old girls (Hailey and Anjali) and tag along for Stephanie and Eva’s return visit, where they would work to distribute the more than $13,000 in donations they’d collected from home. And so, Anjali and I bid a sad adieu to France, and headed off to Tanzania with a brief stopover in London.
Londoners seemed oblivious to the fact their country is in its worst economic crisis in decades. Eight hundred dollar Gucci bags and $5000 dollar designer blouses – people were snapping up anything and everything, and lines snaked around street corners. Anjali and I, on the other hand, had our sights set on juicier treasures – dinner at Wakamamas to indulge in a bowl of Ramen, cheddar aged perfectly for two, five and ten years, and all the Marks and Spencers shortbread we could manage . . .
Still, after the crowds and lights of London, we were ready to push on.
Welcome to Tanzania
It was with relief, then, that we drifted down to the relatively tranquil and peaceful plains of northern Tanzania. Situated in eastern Africa, Tanzania is surrounded by a host of African neighbours including: Kenya, Mozambique, Congo, Rwanda, and Uganda. Unlike its African counterparts, however, Tanzaniais by many measures, resource rich. Red soil rich in iron, vast lakes and winding rivers, sprawling plains whose wildlife attract tourists from all over the world, and thick forests that stretch as far as the eye can see, give this country advantages that few in Africa enjoy. Tanzania is also among a handful of African nations that has not been at war since it achieved independence from England in 1961.
Which is why we’re at such a loss to explain the poverty here.
For despite these advantages, the country fairs poorly on the United Nations Human Development and Poverty Indices. Together these indices assess a nation’s overall health by examining child and maternal mortality rates, adult literacy and educational levels for girls and boys, life expectancy rates, and an individual’s ability to earn a living wage. Ranking 159 out of 189 countries, above Uganda, Ethiopia, the Democratic Republic of Congo and Sierra Leone (which comes in a pitiful last), it is hot on the heals of countries such as Kenya, Bangladesh, Pakistan and Haiti, most of which are in the midst of armed civil conflict.
The numbers are not good: whereas almost two per cent of Singaporeans are not expected to survive past age 40, for instance, more than 36 per cent of Tanzanians will not live to see their 40th birthday. And whereas only .2 per cent of all Cubans are considered illiterate, 28 per cent of Tanzanians can neither read nor write Swahili. In this population of almost 40 million, where the gross national income per capita is only $US 980 annually, life expectancy at birth is barely 50 years for men and only a year older for women. Compare that to Indians in the state of Kerala where life expectancy hovers around 73 years. And out of 1000 children born alive, 120 will die within five years from preventable illnesses like malaria, pneumonia, and dissentry.
On the flip side, though, HIV prevalence has declined perceptibly in the past five years. And the thousands of tables and charts flowing from the World Health Organization and other United Nations bodies tend to paint a fairly positive picture of development overall. They show that 98 per cent of all children receive a primary-level education; that Tanzanians expect to, and participate in elections free of coercion and violence; that more than 70 per cent live off a land that is nutrient rich and well-irrigated; and that many can access one of the thousands of healthcare clinics that have sprung up across the land.
So why is it that most villagers live in one or two bedroom shacks? Why is it that few can afford tuition to send their children to secondary school? Why is it that so many mothers and babies continue to die in childbirth, and that reliable access to electricity and running water remain out of reach for the majority?
As the weeks pass, it becomes clear that a resource-starved education system that is accessible only to the rich, corruption that runs rampant throughout the public and private sector, and multinational exploitation of most of Tanzania’s finest agricultural and mineral resources, have left this country in a state of impoverishment.
But these answers aren’t immediately obvious when we arrive at the Kilimanjaro airport on New Year’s Eve. The road from the airport east to Moshi is paved and pothole free, and there’s virtually no traffic, as far as I can tell. “Where is everybody?” I keep wondering to myself, a question I will ask over and over in days to come – I see no cyclists, no motorcycles, and only a handful of minibuses. Safari jeeps and SUVs travel politely up and down the highway, and it is days before I hear a single horn honking. An occasional ‘duka’, or store, vending ‘slicer’, or sliced bread, a young boy herding goats in the sparsely populated distance, women dressed in vibrant kanga laughing and slapping hands – one gets a sense of open promise, of untapped potential, of endless possibility.
To me, anyway, Tanzania seems like a country where its people stand half a chance.
“She is shy today,” our driver says as we try to catch a glimpse of Kilimanjaro. “She will surely reveal herself tomorrow.”
Sunrise on Kili
And it is true – Kilimanjaro, with its modest snow-capped crater is the first thing we see from our hostel window at the Y. Moshi’s YMCA is an enormous, sprawling hostel that boasts the only 25-metre swimming pool in all of Moshi. Moshi itself is a perplexing town – few buildings reach higher than a handful of stories; the market doesn’t teem with women and children bargaining and bartering; restaurants (which serve excellent Indian food, we are delighted to discover) and houses are clustered along only a small stretch of road – it is hard to believe that this quiet city houses 150,000 Tanzanians.
Just eight hours later, we are back at the airport, jumping up and down, literally, to catch a glimpse of our friends: Stephanie and Fiona, Hailey and Eva. Anjali keeps grabbing at her face, and turning round and round in circles. “Mom, you don’t know how excited I am. If you could feel my brain, it would be exploding,” she says.
In minutes they are at the luggage carrousel, hauling their enormous duffles onto carts — “No Customs today,” they laugh and shrug, tucking their passports away. Two hours and one-lost duffle bag later, we make our way back to the Y – the girls’ laughter and shouts can be heard through the wee hours of the morning.
Harling Globetrotters
And the Harling Globetrotters, Mother/Daughter adventure has begun.
