Walking into town on most if not every day will spark conversation.
The children in the
Kilakala, or at least near the house where I live, will greet me by name and ask where I am going. Some will greet me with "
Shikamoo", a greeting out of respect, and I will answer "
Marahaba", meaning "I thank you for your respect." However, as soon as I walk out any further things change.
People are always outside on their porches or in front of their houses making mats, selling vegetables or charcoal. The older children attending classes at school, but the younger kids are staring at me walking past them. And the greetings I or any other volunteer get isn't "Shikamoo", but "Mzungu!", "White Person!". I don't believe it be hurtful or disrespectful, but just a word that has been used to describe foreigners. So I take it in stride with a smile. And another smile and another because this doesn't just happen once or twice, but everyday. So you can imagine me walking down the same street passing those same four, five and six-year-olds children and getting bombarded with "Mzungu!" Things changed today. The first "Mzungu!" I hear walking into town came from the same kids I saw yesterday. So I walk over to their porch where the kids are sitting along with a few Mamas and maybe a Bibi (grandmother), and I greet the elders, "Shikamoo."
Then I look into the little children's eyes and ask, "Jina lako nani?", "What is your name?"
"Nema," said the little girl.
"Mimi, naitwa Quinten. Sawa?" "Me, my name is Quinten. OK?"
No Response. So I repeat my name hoping they get the point and then ask how things are, "Mambo vipi?" To which all the kids respond, "Poa!", "Cool". Two down, and many more to go.
I leave that house and turn down the road towards the market.
"Mzungu!" Damn it!
The main road into town is paved and busy with cars, trucks, bicycles and motorcycles of which half probably don't have a driver's license and those that do have one need more practice behind the wheel. Instead I take the back road into town.
This quieter road passes by an old cemetery marked with wooden crosses, each boxed in with a rectangular cement border. Next to the cemetery is the local soccer field. The posts are coconut tree trunks and the crossbars made of bamboo, nailed to each wooden post.
Leaving the soccer field behind, I cross a cement bridge over a small river and into the Kilakala market. There are shops selling bananas, coconuts, potatoes and other vegetables. Shops with fried whole fish, shops with hanging chunks of meat in the doorway and even a small music shop with CDs. There are bars to sit and have a cold beer or soda.
Even here the soft drink giants have a market. Coco-Cola and Pepsi ads are everywhere. Where ever a free space is available I only see Tanzanian Telecom ads. These are also the only ads on TV and I have quickly memorized their tag lines."
Zain. A Wonderful World."
"
Vodacom.
Pajoma Daima."
"
Tigo. Express Yourself!"
Still walking along the dirt road, I pass through the market and behind the local prison. Prisoners in orange jumpsuits are busy sweeping the earth and gathering garbage under the "watchful eye" of the guards busy playing a game of
guards. A fence with holes separates inmates from the "
Mzungu."
Still further I pass by a school for the hearing impaired. I usually see them playing soccer in the adjacent field in the afternoon and was invited to join in a game yesterday.
Past the school for the hearing impaired is a primary government school. During the morning many people sell candies, nuts and home-made
freezies along this road. It shouldn't be surprising that school children in their blue and white school uniforms form swarms around the vendors like bees around a hive.
Hoping that all the kids are distracted, I take my chance walking through the swarm to get to town.
Everything goes smoothly.
"Good morning."
"Good morning," I reply.
No matter what time of day, its always "Good morning." Must come from greeting the teacher at school. What follows is the only other English they know, "How are you?" Now imagine hundreds of school children repeatedly asking how I'm doing. By the time the last kid asks me I'm not doing so well anymore. The same happens back in
Kilakala. Children using the only English they know.
After the sea of blue and white I walk past not one, but two coffin makers. Eerie to say the least. Although better here than right next to the cemetery.
Before town is the Tanzanian Ministry of Finance and the courthouse.
I make it into town in under 30 minutes and the mountains are always a beautiful backdrop.
Let's hope that the walk back home is just as exciting! Even though the anti-malarial "
Apo-
Mefloquine" is providing enough excitement in my dreams already.
