11 December - "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas"

We woke to the rich, resonant sounds of Bing Crosby this morning, interrupted by the ubiquitous roosters. We laughed, because, of course, we are dreaming of a white Christmas and at times, missing home quite badly; but, also because, it is the first bizarre reference to Christmas that we’ve seen or heard here. Refreshingly, in this most religious country, Christmas is referred to only in a religious context. There are no baubles, no Santa suits, no hurriedly scribbled Christmas cards, no queues at tills to buy unwanted gifts. None of that. And it’s quite refreshing and uplifting. It reminds us that Christmas was a pagan winter festival, replaced by Christians to celebrate the birth of Jesus. The winter festival, the fending off of spirits of the cold, rituals to welcome the spring, the retaining of evergreen as symbols of fecundity – none of this is part of Christmas here and it suggests that those pagan rituals are still quite important to most British people.

Shopping for clothes in the market should have been fun, but it wasn’t. It’s normal to buy second-hand clothes and check them thoroughly for stains and tears before parting with your money. I bought shirts, Caroline bought a dress, but the tailor is looking more and more like good value. One problem we still face, is that, unlike in the smaller shops where our faces are known, when we walk round the market, a whisper trickles ahead of us, through the crowd, ”.....wazungo....”, so that at every stall there is usually some young buck trying to prove to his mates that he can screw more than anyone else out of the gullible wazungo. We try and seek out the mzee, the older traders. They are less easily impressed, less eager to trick you or rip you off.

The shirts like the mango juice we bought, which to our shame, we discovered too late, had been imported from Egypt, are not made in Tanzania. The processing of resources is what adds value and yet so much of what Tanzania produces is not processed here, but exported for others to process. Nothing has significantly changed since Germany used Tanganyika as its back garden for growing the highly valuable ‘sisal’ plant, for use in the textile industry. When I commented on the effect of the rains in town earlier in the week, I should have also noted, that every Tanzanian who has commented, has referred to the rains with thanks. People are very aware of what they mean for crops, for livelihoods, for people’s lives. Subsistence remains the way of life for the majority of Tanzanians, just as it was when Germany occupied this territory over one hundred years ago.

Off to the Post Office for another taste of Tanzanian bureaucracy.

“Can I have five stamps please?

I paid the money and waited.

“I want to collect a parcel!”

“Just wait.” And he started browsing carefully on his computer screen

Oh good. I thought. He’s going to find the parcel on the system.

After five or six minutes, he gave me an A4 sheet stamped with a receipt stapled to it.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Receipt for the stamps” Not a record of posting, just a receipt for the stamps.!!!!!!!

“And what about the parcel?”

“Just wait.”

After another five minutes, a man appeared and asked me for my name and address and the date of posting the parcel. I waited another five minutes for him to return and say.

“Not yet. Try on Monday.”

I turned to leave, hot and frustrated, to find all the doors locked and barricaded. The Post Office had closed, and I was locked in. I had to be led through the bowels of the building to a car park on the opposite block, to where Caroline and the bicycles were waiting, and then walk the entire length of the block to return to my starting point, with nothing more than a receipt for five postage stamps, worth £1.25 in my wallet.

Returning to Christmas and greenery, one of the greenest things we’ve seen so far is the vivid green grass snake that nearly tripped Caroline up on the College driveway this morning. She had been concentrating on the large green lizard that had just scampered across our path and we were wondering whether the goats on the football pitch, now showing patches of greenery after the rains, were tethered and being legally grazed. They reminded me that I must burn our rubbish, before the goats, that were merrily eating the contents of our pit, save me the job. At home, we’re tracking the progress of snails up and down the walls of our house. They are large snails, the sort you’d find in Alice in Wonderland. They scurry rather than slide, and have such distinct markings, you’d want to name them. I’m beginning to turn my thoughts to what might be our Christmas delicacy in Zanzibar.