Blog 22 then Israel England and Italy

Well well well, London has gotten itself all covered in snow. Of course, this happens every year but the authorities still seem surprised. 'Snow, in winter? My goodness, who would have seen that coming? Briggins, did you know it was going to snow?' 'Of course not sir. How could we possibly have predicted this?'

Heathrow airport is currently closed, so I am sitting on the floor in Cairo. Egypt is not the UK, but it is surprisingly close to Israel, my eventual destination. If it wasn't for the fact that I have to collect my mother, I would just go catch a bus to Israel... or walk like Abraham did.

Enough of that. We can't change the weather. We can't change the British. Let's talk about Africa again.

Since leaving the wonderful environs of the Sisters' compound in Mbulu, I took the long trek back to Arusha for two days of farewells. Mbulu is so remote that the dala dala (minibus) for the first section was a Land Cruiser. In Arusha, I spent a few days saying goodbye to Joachim, playing basketball at his university and finally feeling at home. Of course it would happen at this time.

Next it was back to Nairobi. This is a city I like to describe as a big bully. It has a relentless energy that never lets you take a breath, not that you would want to given the pollution. I rode the matatus (Kenyan dala dalas) to my aunty Susan's place in the Huruma slums. She is a Missionary of Charity and the sisters here do an incredible job. They have four communities of sisters and one of brothers in Nairobi, which should give you some idea of the job they are facing.

For two days I decided to take a little camping trip on my own to a tiny National Park called Hell's Gate. I took a matatu to Hell's Gate. Amusing. Interestingly, the Kenyan government gave me a big discount on my entry to the park because I am a Tanzanian resident. This is interesting because Tanzania gives no discount for Tanzanian residents in its National Parks. Stingy Tanzanians. Cheers, Kenya!

Hell's Gate is stunning. It is the only National Park where one does not require a vehicle. In fact, they actively encourage visitors to hire bicycles and peddle their way through the park. I did just that. Riding silently through a narrow valley (part of the bigger rift valley), I was able to gently approach giraffes, zebras and warthogs. It doesn't matter how gently you approach a klingspringer, they run off anyway. Nervous buggers. Eagles nesting in the cliffs take off and glide effortlessly above. Yes, Hell's Gate National Park is stunning in just such a way that only David Attenborough could explain.

There's not much else to say really. East Africa is a contradictory place so any broad generalisation I could make would be wrong. Yes I befriended a drug dealer, but he fixed my shoes cheap. Yes there is violence, but there is also beautiful generosity. Yes it is chaotic, but people are also laid back.

We have just been told that we are to be put up in a five star hotel until our plane leaves. We have also been told that a trip to the pyramids is on the cards if we are delayed long enough. That's pretty cool. So my next blog will be from Israel... or Egypt... or Italy... or anywhere really. As long as it is from Mum.

To see the next leg of my journey go to:
http://sallyoverseas.blogspot.com/

Blog 21

Greetings and Salutations my dear antipodean friends.

At this time I am feeling quite the colonial, so I have decided, perhaps against good counsel, to write this blog in the style of a Victorian era traveller's diary. During the nineteenth century, many a noble traveller, invariably gallivanting through the far east or Africa, wrote lengthy diaries that were often published upon their return. They detailed quaint niceties, incredible treasures and of course, waxed lyrical about the savage brutes they encountered in distant lands. Much of their time also seemed to be devoted to meeting fellow European ex-pats and telling the world what splendid chaps they all were and how their man-servants really were lucky to have such benevolent masters.

My story is not quite so spectacular, but I plan to do my best to portray my experiences in typical Victorian splendour.

At this current juncture, I find myself residing in the guest rooms of a Franciscan formation house. My host is Sister Mezaret, a delightful Ethiopian Sister whose job it is to direct the education and spiritual direction of twenty young women who seek to become Sisters. The girls, on their part, are my students for these few weeks and are eager to learn our most glorious mother tongue, English. Four are postulants and have good English, the rest have very little proficiency. I have found myself writing to my dear mother for suggestions as to how to teach them.

As I write, the postulants are finishing their work on an assignment I have given them. They were to read the life of a saint and compose a short speech on the same. The sisters have expressed their desire for the aspirants and postulants to learn more English so if anybody is looking for a way to see Africa in a safe and productive way, do be sure to send correspondence in my direction.

Sr Mezaret and I have quickly become good friends, spending long hours discussing culture, faith and other interesting topics. The young ones are remarkably respectful in the typical African manner and as such are a delight to teach. I do wish I was an ESL teacher so my teaching of the struggling ones could be more effective.

The environment here is spectacular. The sisters' compound is nestled amongst gardens growing all sorts of foods that find their way onto our table three times a day. In fact, very little of my food here has travelled more than one hundred metres in total from source to table. The pigs have just this week increased in number by nine with the arrival of piglets, whilst the bull is doing his best to ensure that the cows are not left behind in the breeding race.

The surrounding area is a picture of rural productivity, with farms and fields stretching to the hills in the distance. The compound is situated just a very short walk from the small village of Daudi, an hour away by auto-mobile from the closest town of Mbulu, south of the famous Lake Manyara National Park.

Of course not all is well and the perennial problems of under education, alcohol and gender imbalance are still present here in the village, but the overriding sense is that life is pretty good. The parish is vibrant, the school is reasonably well maintained and the farms are very productive. One look at the local livestock confirms that this is good land.

The sisters run a dispensary and recently Sr Mezaret told me there was a delivery and would I like to come over. I said of course, I can probably help, thinking there may be boxes to lift and stack. With enthusiasm I made the short trip across the maize field to the dispensary only to find no boxes at all, just a new born baby! I guess delivery has two meanings at a health clinic. Mother and child were well and once again I was reminded of the wonderful work the religious do in our world.

My days are full as I often teach for five to six hours per day, but the work is rewarding and interesting. Next week I will return once more to the dusty, manic Arusha before making my way to Nairobi a few days later. This African adventure comes ever closer to its end and while I will pine for Africa, I know my vocation is not to be found here.

From the most peaceful place in Africa. Your intrepid adventurer, Matthew Fyfield Esq.

Blog 20

An election diary... what doesn't make channel 9 news.

Election Eve, Arusha City.

Chagua CCM, Chagua Kikwete, Chagua CCM, Chagua Kikwete (Choose, CCM, Choose Kikwete). The baritone voice booms from the massive speakers on the political campaign truck as it rolls slowly through the streets of Arusha. Pedestrians thrust two fingers in the air in the signature salute of the opposition Chadema party.

We walk through the crowded central market as the sun sets on a Saturday night, market day. Political chants rise into the fading light and it seems the opposition is making the most noise.

The whole city feels electric tonight. There is a feeling that fifty years of one party rule may end tomorrow. In a continent of political violence and tension, Tanzania has been a bastion of calm and peaceful politics. This is, of course, due to the fact that no election has ever been close enough to cause a fuss over. Opposition was banned from independence until the introduction of multiparty democracy in 1995. Since then, CCM has won every election easily, the last one with a majority of eighty percent. Not tomorrow. Not this time.

Arusha is often criticised because it has only one arterial road leading in and one leading out. In normal circumstances this is frustrating but tonight it means the opposing supporters meet each other with great regularity. Mostly these clashes are peaceful shows of party loyalty but the atmosphere is getting tense. So far there have been two election related deaths in the country, the first two ever.

Tonight we are hitting the town to test the vibe. Our first bar is a CCM haunt and the faithful are in fine form. The rank and file are in full voice, dancing around the small bar with photos of Jakaya Kikwete, the President and Dr. Batilda, the Arusha candidate. The party colours of green and gold adorn every surface and the party songs blare from the speakers. CCM has re-recorded the most popular songs in Tanzania with party political lyrics and the revellers are loving every replay. They cook great mishkake here so we stay for a bite.

Next we head to a sports bar in Njiro, the fancy area of town. This crowd is a mix of western ex-pats watching the football and rich young Tanzanians out for a good time. Here, out of the intimidating noise of the CCM bar, people greet each other with the peace-sign symbol of Chadema. It would seem that most of Arusha is keen to see change. That said, Dar Es Salaam is a CCM city and the ruling party has more machinery to register voters and ensure their turnout.

Election Day, Ushirika.

It is the big day and I have made my way down the local voting centre with my neighbour. The centre is at Ushirika, the little market near our house that once served as the Ujumaa (or family) shop during the rule of President Julius Nyerere – himself a CCM leader. The intensity of last night is gone, as a ban on election day campaigning has silenced the party hoons. The shops that usually sell local alcohol and vegetables have been converted into temporary polling stations.

Women wearing the traditional colourful kanga dresses wait patiently in orderly queues to display their voting cards and cast their votes. There is no pressure, no coercion and no apparent bias here. This is democracy in its finest clothes. Other neighbours arrive, two to a bicycle or on the back of tray trucks and leave after having their right little finger dipped in die to prevent multiple voting.

Despite the appearance of perfection, there are electoral difficulties here. Here one must be in possession of a valid voting card. The national ID card is not enough proof of entitlement so if you have lost it or failed to receive one like my neighbour, your vote will not be counted this year. In addition, you must vote at the centre with which you registered and there are no postal votes. For most Tanzanians this is fine, having registered near their home, but for the nation's largely boarding university students, this has proven difficult.

Knowing they would be away from home, most students registered near their university campus expecting to vote there. The government has granted a one-off two week holiday over the election period and many students have travelled home to their families. This rules out a large section of the educated youth, almost all of whom support the opposition. The cynical in the opposition camp suggest this was deliberate. It is not my place to decide.

Walking home from the polling centre, we share the hope that Tanzania does not go the way of Kenya and that the nation accepts the result. If CCM wins, Chadema will claim they stole it, but there is a real chance the ruling party will simply receive more votes. For this peaceful country, one feels Wednesday will be its biggest test. The presidential result will be announced and half of the country will be devastated. Let's hope the reaction doesn't make the channel nine news either.

P.S. Chadema has won Arusha so the mob is happy

Blog 19

Headline you almost certainly haven't seen...

AUSTRALIAN DOLLAR AT ALL TIME HIGH, PERFECT TIME TO DONATE TO OVERSEAS PROJECTS

If you have ever thought of giving a donation to an overseas project, now might be the time. Your Aussie dollar is worth heaps which means even a little donation is worth a lot. For anyone thinking 'sounds good, but I don't know where to put my cash,' consider supporting Caritas. This mob (the charitable arm of the Church) supports local projects rather than flying in with a big plane with a WHITE GUYS flag on it. Just a thought.

I'm still shrugging my shoulders about aid work in general but there can be no doubt that the individual lives touched are improved. Perhaps an economy improves best if allowed to develop on its own but individuals are still left to suffer as that development occurs.

It is interesting to note that when African countries got their independence in the 1960s, the citizens of China were living in poverty far worse than that of Africans. In the past forty years, billions of dollars in aid have poured into Africa from the west and virtually none has gone to China. Now, the Chinese, as the world's second largest economy are building the roads in Tanzania as their form of aid. I'll leave it to someone brighter than me to work out why.

I do know that millions of Chinese died or lived like crap to get their economy the way it is today, but millions of Africans died too and many still do live like crap.

I also meet so many people here whose lives have changed for the better as a result of aid. For example, one small boy down the road from us attends a school called St Jude's (the patron saint of lost causes) which is run by an Australian lady. Although to me the school looks to be taking away the need for families to aspire for social mobility by providing private schooling at no cost, this boy is thriving. He is nine years old and speaks fluent English. Most students here might achieve that at the age of eighteen or nineteen if ever. He will receive opportunities that the other children in his village will never dream of and as a result his family will benefit. The argument that direct aid damages societies may be true to a point but it would require that this boy miss out.

Far from painting a dismal picture however, much is changing for the better as a result of African people improving Africa. Currently, African economies are growing at a ridiculous rate while the west stagnates. Perhaps I shouldn't be saying 'give aid', perhaps I should be saying 'invest'. One great example is mobile phones. Almost every Tanzanian has at least one mobile phone. Local African companies are making a killing by finding ways to integrate services into mobile phones that we do other ways. For instance, even people without bank accounts can now transfer money electronically using a service called M-Pesa. You charge your phone with credit, punch in a key and your mate's phone number then she can go to the local phone shop and withdraw cash. Cool huh? I could go on but I already have.

Back to Arusha

I'm back from likizo (holiday) and I've taken up a position as teacher of senior literature. I'm a history/RE teacher, but that doesn't seem to bother anyone. It would seem some things are universal. Today I spent ten minutes convincing a student that no, learning quotes from his book was not a 'waste of time' and yes, the assessor will care if he bothered. On the whole though, the students are ace and they enjoy my lame attempts at Swahili in the classroom. Just the other day a gust of wind blew the door shut and I whispered 'mzuka' (ghost). They absolutely lost it. Mzuka is also a greeting that really gangsta guys use.

So, my week in Zanzibar. Let's just say if I wrote this checklist before I left I could check each one.

- Stay in bungalow that literally opens to the beach

- Scuba-Dive with sea turtles and sting rays over colourful reef

- Eat lobster on desert island

- Eat fish in a shack on the sand

- Visit remote village festival for the Muslim holiday of Eid El Fitr

- Snorkel through schools of fish

- Ride motorcycles along the beach at sunset

- Sail in a dhow that gets surrounded by dolphins

- Take drinks at a bar that is in the middle of the sea on stilts

- Laze on perfect white beaches with azure seas

- Visit the red colobus monkeys, some of the rarest in the world (they had a cold so were sneezing)

Gold. Pure Gold.

So I have actually had three shots at finishing this blog. I am so past due to post something that I have become slack. It reminds me of university students who, once past the due date for an assignment manage to stretch it out for a month or more rather than hand it in a day late.

A few days back I went to visit a school in Monduli, a town an hour and a half north-west of Arusha deep into Masai country. An American couple we met in town are living and working there and invited me to have a look. It is an amazing school in a spectacular location. One of the Masai mamas there boasted that where there was once just a herd of elephants they now have a school! The school is only three years old so does not yet have a complete complement of year levels but the students who are there are very friendly and engaged.

The trip was a great opportunity to see the difference between aid styles, locations and students. The school in Monduli is funded from the States, has a fifty fifty American to Tanzanian teacher ratio and is directed at students (105 of them) who would otherwise not get an education. The difference between this and Edmund Rice where I teach is marked. We are majority African funded, staffed almost exclusively by Tanzanian teachers and our students (1500 of them) are often high-achieving and a little self confident. Our school feels a lot more edgy than the idyllic school in Monduli. I wonder whether the feel at Monduli will last.

Last week we attended a trivia night run by a local NGO called food water shelter who run a sustainable model village for at risk mothers and their children. Theirs is a pretty amazing project. We came second and won a spectacular dinner at a very swanky restaurant.

Well thanks for reading through this rather belated and unusually theoretical blog. Do rest assured that I edited the willies out of the theoretical bit because it was starting to sound like an article from The Economist. It is left sounding a little unsure and that is probably a fair approximation of my current thoughts.

Matt

PS. After the last blog I was asked a few questions... thanks Bronwyn. I will write a question answering blog this week if anyone else has other questions too. Mfyfield @gmail.com

Blog 18

It is hard to know what to write about an everyday life. I recognise that my current everyday life is vastly different from yours, but it is still just an everyday life.

Instructions for an everyday life:

1. Wake up feeling a bit tired.

2.Get dressed in office gear.

3. Eat breakfast whilst trying to avoid excessive conversation with house-mates due to number one.

4. Travel to work.

5. Work hard, trying to be generous in spirit to your co-workers.

6. Eat lunch at lunch time.

7. Finish the day and return home.

8. Cook dinner or go out for a meal with friends.

9. Do some study or prepare for tomorrow's work.

10. When you find a chance, take an outing with friends on the weekend.

I have found that this model is more or less human existence worldwide. The exotic is in the details.

So, how is my everyday life exotic here?

1. I wake up to the sound of a rooster and the local farmers yelling to each other as they start their early-morning digging. I look out the window at the banana palms and remember I'm in East Africa.

2. I dress in the clothes I had made in Vietnam, beating yesterday's dust out of them.

3. Nothing odd here apart from the fact that the breakfast fruit comes from the immediate vicinity and the breakfast reading is the New African.

4. I walk to school through little farms and plantations absolutely bursting with colour. Along the way I greet stately elders and excited children. Sometimes nervous teenagers look up from morning chores to say hello. I usually don't say a word in English until I get to school. The monkeys in the trees might speak English, but they are too busy stealing the avocados and bananas to greet me in the morning.

5. My work is an African school staffed by Tanzanian teachers who know their subject areas very well but have a different work ethic to us. It can get frustrating but at the core of this work ethic is the belief that there are more important things in life than tying oneself to a job. My students greet me with enthusiasm and shake my hand. "Good morning Mr Matt". As with every teaching job I have successes and failures but here my failures are usually due to my poor understanding of the culture. I correct students for what I perceive as disrespect, realising too late that often they simply don't understand the English I have used.

6. Lunch is always beans. On Mondays and Thursdays the beans are served with rice. On Tuesdays and Fridays they are served with ugali, the national dish of corn flour stiff porridge. On Wednesdays it's just beans.

7. The walk home is often with a student or two. Same surroundings in reverse.

8. The pumpkins come from my yard, the other vegetables from little roadside stalls that are literally a few vegetables on a table. On Tuesdays we go to the local bar for the local speciality, chipsy mayai. Literally eggy chips. It's an omelette with chips in. Gold.

9. I learn Swahili twice a week so that my conversations with the permanent population can extend beyond simple greetings. My teacher is Joachim, a local young man who is waiting for a university place. He is not a teacher but we have a lot of fun and I am learning a lot. My preparations for work have me scratching my head as I help to prepare students for exams in which they must answer university standard questions with primary standard English.

10. Last week I went monkey hunting with Joachim and another local guy, David. David doesn't speak any English so my time with him is as good as an immersion lesson. More than this, though, is the fact that the guy never seems to frown. On our monkey hunt (strictly pictures) we visited David's farm, Joachim's old primary school, many monkeys and a paradise like creek, winding its way below the village. Some pictures of this are up on facebook. (reproduced here by Sally for those not on facebook)

It is remarkable how lives that are essentially the same can be so different.

A few weeks ago the volunteers went canoeing in Arusha national park. We saw giraffe, buffalo, baboons, zebras and some hippos in the distance. It's not good to canoe too close to hippos. They kill more people than any other animal in Africa apart from the two biggies... people and mosquitoes. It was a good day.

Tomorrow I fly to Zanzibar for a week of rest on the world famous beaches.

I could report so much but I'm no longer sure what is newsworthy. If anyone has any questions please ask away. In October I will be heading off to a very remote community in order to teach English to some pre-novitiate sisters there, so hopefully I'll manufacture some interesting stories there.

God Bless to every one of you. You all remain in my prayers and in my heart.

Matt

Blog 17

Arusha – big city life

Hello all. As promised, this edition will focus on village life, the ups and downs.

There are many ups to village life. Most notably, the environment is spectacular. Tanzania boasts two great mountains and we are next to both of them. To our north lies Mt Meru, the fourth largest in Africa and to the east Kilimanjaro, Africa's tallest. On a clear day Meru towers over the village, dominating my walk home through the banana plantations. In the distance, the peak of Kilimanjaro is in plain view, capped with ice and snow. It is a wonderful contrast to the heat at ground level. One day I might climb Meru, but Kilimanjaro can stay unclimbed for mine.

I once read an article entitled ' How to Write on Africa', in which an incredible Nigerian writer bemoaned the fact that every Western portrayal of Africa starts with a dusty road and a starving mother and had a white hero somewhere in the middle. Another great speech I heard warned of the danger of the 'single story' whereby we fall for the idea that there is just one way of viewing another culture. For example, all Arabs are terrorists, all Africans are poor etc. In fact, I will include a link to this, it is an amazing speech. With this in mind I will attempt to avoid this kind of depiction.

So the roads here are dusty. Well they are. But most of the mamas have a fair bit of meat on them. Try to imagine a few major dusty tracks capable of carrying cars heading out from a reasonably sized regional town centre. These roads act as arterials and between them wind a seemingly random web of narrow rutted tracks wide enough for walking and bicycles. Of course the tracks are not random, they navigate around property lines known well to locals. The properties are largely smallholding farms growing bananas, corn or other subsistence crops. There is a plot adjacent to our house that is growing amazing lettuce, but I can't seem to catch the farmer at work in order to buy some.

Because of the variety of crops, the landscape seems to change every hundred metres or so. The walk home every afternoon is spectacular. There is a system of little canals that irrigate the farms and so I cross many home-made bridges over narrow streams. Along the way, many of the local children run out of their bomas (house groups) to greet me, either yelling what little English they know or firing up in Swahili, oblivious to the fact that mine is woeful. I can usually have a little conversation about their day but that is all.

Swahili, or Kiswahili as it is known here, is a beautiful language and I am enjoying picking up bits and pieces. My favourite saying so far is 'pole kwa kazi' or 'sorry for your work'. It is considered customary to say this to anyone who is carrying a load, hoeing a field or otherwise not engaging in 'pumzika', or rest. I spend much of my walk home greeting fellow walkers, exchanging pleasantries and expressing sympathy at their lack of rest. Some may suggest this love of rest and relaxation is, in fact, one of the reasons African civil service is so ineffective, but that is another discussion.

Living near us there are people of every kind living anything but a simple, easy to categorise life. There are many students working toward their national examinations. We have a local drunk lady who wanders around trying to procure drinks from all and sundry. There are professionals who catch the dalla dallas to work every day in smart office attire. There are those who run small stores, carefully judging supply and demand, stocking everything from beer to nylon underwear. Actually, the shop owner who stocks the nylon underwear clearly didn't judge supply and demand well at all, given the underwear looks to be about ten years old. There are also countless mamas, the women who run the households and often earn the wage. They adopt the name of their first born child, showing just how important their role as mother is to them. So mum, you would be Mama Paul. Lisa, you are now Mama Mitchell.

The point is that as yet I have found life in Tanzania far from exotic. In fact, the people here live in a remarkably similar way to us. I'm sure as time goes on I shall discover the intrinsic differences, but for now I can see more similarities. Perhaps I need to go out to a Masai village to find exotic! So far I have had meals and a beer at the local pub, shopped at the stalls selling vegetables, chatted with my neighbours and attended an agricultural show, much like the Melbourne Show would have been thirty years ago. I guess the biggest difference here is the welcome. People are genuinely keen to chat with you and I am starting to open up to this.

Our area smells of lush green plants and dust. The morning light is usually diffused through cloud cover but in the afternoon the sky clears and the bright light transforms the landscape into vibrant greens and browns. There are monkeys in the trees at school and cute kids do play with old bike wheels in the street. All of these things are true so I guess there is a little bit of the exotic Africa here. I would hate to disappoint.

I am well and apart from a few stories of minor violence nearby I feel completely safe. That is, apart from Papa Boa, the homosexual half bat half human who violates men while they sleep. Apparently if he violates you it is imperative that you tell everyone the next day or he will do it again the next night. So unless I meet this guy, you need not worry about me.

Love to all at home.

Matt

Blog 16

Greetings from Tanzania.

Since last we met much has happened so I shall give you the dot point highlights and you can choose whether to read this bumper edition.

• Matt visits his scouser roots
• The bike is sold without fuss
• A week in Eastbourne
• London to Cairo, Cairo to Nairobi
• Welcome to Africa, welcome to Nairobbery
• The bus trip to Arusha
• My first impressions of Edmund Rice Sinon Secondary School

After riding through Scotland I emerged back into England, chasing a bad weather system. The result of this was that while the National Health Service released a health warning entreating London's elderly not to die in the sun, I was treated to pelting rain and temperatures of under fifteen. I rode through England's most picturesque landscape, the lake district, and stayed in a converted old writer's house. With the rain falling outside I settled in to a couple of ciders and sat at my window, writing prose where a century before some of England's best was penned.

The next morning I headed to Liverpool, the place from which Mr Fyfield my great-grandfather left for Australia at the start of last century. The people from Liverpool are nicknamed scousers for some reason unknown to... well everybody it would seem. They have a reputation for being aggressive and uncouth and I certainly saw elements of that on my night out. I decided, given I had one day in my ancestral home, that I would investigate the most wonderful thing to come out of this town and the worst. Before anyone makes any wise cracks, the Fyfields are not the worst thing to come out of Liverpool!

In order to experience the best export I made my way down to the Cavern Club, a reconstruction of the club in which the Beatles got their start. They played a remarkable 296 shows here in just over three years. The club was destroyed, but a little while back, the foundations were uncovered and since then it has been reconstructed exactly as it was in the Beatles' heyday. Paul McCartney, Oasis and pretty much every big alternative band have played on the reconstructed stage, and now so have I. The house band for the night invited anyone who played an instrument to come and kick one of the band members off the stage and take their place for a song. This is how I managed to get a run playing drums to 'A Hard Day's Night' in the club where it was first played. I probably played about as well as Ringo. It was a big buzz.

The next morning I headed down to the Albert Dock to experience the worst of what Liverpool brought to the world, the transatlantic slave trade. Liverpool is host to the international slavery museum, a harrowing interactive museum tracking the most horrific story in human history. As it once again sunk in what our ancestors had done I felt a renewed sense of historical responsibility. Interestingly, I recently heard a speech by a Nigerian economist in which she argued that Africans should not be ashamed of getting aid from the West as Africa was forced to give aid to the West for hundreds of years. Africans are now just getting their aid back.

With this sobering thought, I left Liverpool and headed south on the last ride the bike and I would take.

I had been stressing for some time that the bike would be hard to sell, because I couldn't tell if the engine was running perfectly. I really should have done that bike maintenance course before leaving. In the end, the young guy who bought the bike didn't even want to ride it, he just listened to it and said 'yep, no problems'. Well, once again much worry wasted.

The night before handing over the bike I had camped at a little field attached to a farm. The farmer had once been a car detailer and so had some special wax that had the bike gleaming in no time. The highlight of this night was the bunch of British Telecom guys who were staying there whilst completing a long term fibre-optic job in the region. They were being given sixty pounds per night for a hotel but thought that camping for eight pounds and pocketing the rest was a much better idea. They had rigged up a big flat screen TV at their camp and so we watched Spain win the world cup final, pausing to play cricket in the breaks. These guys seemed pleased to have different company at their campsite and I was glad for some guys my age to chat with.

Boarding a train for London then Eastbourne, I'm sure I caused alarm in the local population as I carried all my worldly possessions in a garbage bag, having sold my luggage with the bike. Once again, Barry was there to welcome me 'home' and I settled in to prepare for my African adventure.

Europe and Africa almost touch, but they couldn't be more different. My Egyptair flight was a breeze, landing in Nairobi only an hour late. It was great to emerge from an airport I have seen many times before, into a city I was at least braced for. I didn't at all feel the massive culture shock I did when I first came here. Nairobi is a big bully of a city, frowning at all who dare to tread her streets but although the crime statistics are high and the pollution terrible, it has a vibrancy that cannot be denied. The roads have been improved since I was last here and thankfully order has returned to the city after the post-election violence of 2007-8.

I was staying with the Christian Brothers in 'South C', a nicer suburb of Nairobi, but taking the infamous matatus across town to see my aunty each day. For the uninitiated, matatus are Toyota vans that seat fourteen passengers and their bags while they plough the manic streets of Nairobi, taking middle class folk along predetermined routes. There is no timetable and often the matatus drivers will race each other to the next stop in order to collect the new passengers. I find them fun and contrary to popular traveller opinion, they are usually filled with good people who are all too happy to help you with whatever you need to know.

I spent two days with my aunty Susan, who is a Missionary of Charity (Mother Teresa nun) in Huruma, a very poor area of Nairobi. At their compound they give dignity back to those who have lost it or had it taken from them. Mother Teresa was determined to be the face of Christ to the poorest of the poor and that is precisely what happens in Huruma. The sisters have six main ministries, each assisting a different group of God's poor. They have:

• a primary school for orphaned or poor children
• a home for abandoned and orphaned little children
• a home and school for mentally disabled children
• a home for mentally disabled women
• a food distribution ministry to the hungry of the area
• a visiting ministry to the lonely and stressed of the area

While I was visiting, a wealthy young couple were in the final stage of adopting one of the little children. This is such a joy for the sisters as they know that this little one will have a good and loving family. The couple's extended family had all arrived and were fawning over the lucky child, playing games and clearly showing great affection to each other. It was a joy to see. Unfortunately the opposite happens all too often and children are abandoned due to economic hardship. I can't imagine how hard this must be on the mothers who have to give up their children. The sisters are always there, waiting to care for those with no-one.

I realise this all sounds very sentimental, but it is the reality. I could end this section with an in depth description of the slum areas but I choose not to here. People here live in abject poverty, but they live and it is this life that is energising, not the despair. It is this that the sisters see so it is what I choose to see.

For us as Westerners it is easy to see only the dirt, smoke, sewage and dilapidated buildings of the slums and fail completely to see the people. In the past I have been very guilty of this. Last time I was here I only travelled in taxis, taking pictures from behind securely locked doors of the alien creatures out the windows but I think I missed the essence of life here. This time I travelled on the matatus, walked alone down the dirt roads of the slums and I wasn't mugged, beaten or harassed once. When I looked past the poverty I saw a society in which everybody is intimately connected with their neighbours and interacts in a real way with all passers-by, for good and bad.

I'm not painting a peaches and cream vision of slum life. This area was the centre of the post election violence with neighbours turning on each other, choosing to burn down houses rather than seek reconciliation but at least they interact! I think it will take some time to process my third visit to a true slum area, but I know there are elements of this culture that I wish we could embrace.

Early on my third day one of the Christian Brothers – who had been perfect hosts – walked me to the bus stop for the seven hour trip to Arusha, Tanzania... home for the next five months.

Bus rides in Africa are pot luck. The roads are always awful, the driving suicidal, the traffic always near-fatal and the scenery always stunning. It is the state of the vehicle and the company on board that are the variables and on this occasion I won the lottery. The vehicle was comfortable and small and all but four of my companions were on a big group trip together. Aged between forty and fifty, they had a tradition of travelling together somewhere in Africa every two years. As residents of Nairobi they liked to escape the hustle of the big city and see the rest of their continent. This time they had chosen to travel to Moshi, one town past Arusha. One of the women had prepared heaps of food for the trip and as such the rest of us were forcibly fed for the whole journey. Sweet.

Arusha is Tanzania's second biggest city and is hub for tourism with Kilimanjaro and the Serengeti within easy reach. It has the feel of an old colonial city and is situated exactly half way between Cairo and Cape Town. I am in the middle of Africa. Thankfully, the school I am now working at is five kilometres outside the town in an area that feels like a little village. In fact, our house is a short walk from a little area called Endo, which is considered it's own village.

I am living with two other volunteers, Jen and Stu. They are both Aussies and are great value. Our house is a very chilled place and I feel very at home already. Due to an odd turn of chance I get a big room with an en-suite... not what I had expected in Africa.

Well I'd best leave it there. If you have made it this far I am very impressed. You are wonderful and you deserve a prize. If you come to the office at Edmund Rice Sinon Secondary School, Arusha, Tanzania, East Africa and mention the keyword 'Ndyzi', you will get one ndyzi. Congratulations.

Note... ndyzi means banana.

Love you all and hope you are all well.

In the next edition you will get a full run-down on village life. Mamas and dust to boot.