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.
