The brides, the bishop and that Don Estelle look.

I’ve mentioned this before, but evidence is all around of a huge difference between Africa and Europe – things are expensive here, but time is very, very cheap. The evidence of poverty is everywhere in this country.

Yesterday, in the market, where women sit on the floor to strip and bundle spinach, for sale at 200 shillings a bunch, a man had set out his repair workshop. He had stripped an ancient, electric kettle and was painstakingly, with only a small screwdriver to assist, rebuilding it. It was the sort of kettle that is thrown away every day in the U.K. – virtually valueless, because a brand new replacement from Comet, Tesco or Argos is so cheap, we barely think about it. He might make 1000shillings for repairing it because its owner would pay that rather than pay the 25000 shillings for a new one.

More evidence of a country with time on its hands was yesterday’s sermon. The bishop spoke passionately for thirty-four minutes. My bum ached, I was sweating and I had to work hard on concentrating on anything other than how much I wanted to get on with Mass; but I was in a very small minority, when he had finished speaking, a spontaneous cheer and some ululations erupted from the congregation. He clearly knows his audience.

It was the Feast of the Holy Family and for about twenty young people it was their first Holy Communion. The girls were more glamorous than the bride we saw on the beach later that day – shimmering white dresses, gloves, even ear-rings. It was clearly a big day and as the choir sang at the end of Mass and the clapping grew with more fervour, some women roused the congregation urging us to clap and sing louder. This was these young people’s big day and it was our responsibility to make it a memorable one. It was always going to be remembered because the church was stuffed with cameras. As the young ones received the Host for the first time, a gaggle of photographers pressed close to the bishop, a camera with a huge light flooded the scene and for a moment communion looked like a film set. It was the young brides, and the cool, shimmying, bespoke and besuited young boys, though, not the bishop, who took centre stage.

We’re leaving Stonetown today for the east coast and hopefully some quieter days. Life as a mzungo, with money in my pocket, amongst people who have so little, but where touts and ticks will initiate the most far-fetched conversations in the hope of parting you from some of your money, is irritating, tiresome and depressing. In Mtwara, we are used to children calling “shikamoo” as a respectful greeting to someone older than themselves. In Stonetown, young children approach us and say, “Give me dollar.” This experience is challenging because of course we, the rich ones, the beneficiaries of the unjust trading relationship that separates Europe from Africa, are the ones who have created the injustice, and as a consequence have to accept responsibility for these small but ugly manifestations. Young people who see wazungo and think they want some of that money is hardly something we can fairly criticise.

But, for now, I’ve had enough. I told one man off the other day for haranguing me to visit his shop. I told him he was rude, that he had not been raised to act like that and that neither he nor I were personally responsible for poverty or peace. We are however both accountable for our actions. I kept my hand firmly in my pocket; he grumbled at my parsimonious sermon and then quickly turned to approach a more cheerful tourist.

I wish I didn’t stand out so much as such an obvious tourist. I thought that by wearing the wonderful and garish shirts, I might blend in. In fact, to blend in, I’d need to wear an Arsenal, Chelsea or Manchester Utd shirt. In my large white hat, loud shirt and big shorts, I look more like Don Estelle than Julius Nyerere.