Some old friends, some new friends and some keki

I feel it’s time to tell you some more about the people we’ve met since we’ve been here. The peculiarities of daily routine are more or less accepted now and not so peculiar, but the idiosyncrasies of the individuals we rub along with, are what make life so interesting.

There’s Philbert, the former schools inspector. Philbert and I meet about once a week over a couple of beers outside Upendo, on a dusty piece of ground outside the old steel container. He and I are discussing the idea for my next project, which is to deliver language training to secondary school teachers and to this end he has already met the District Education Officer. Money is tight but there is much enthusiasm for the idea and Philbert and I are hoping that he will be involved in directing and administering this small project should it get off the ground. Philbert lives modestly, round the corner from Upendo – but seems to know everyone and everyone I meet seems to know him. We spoke this week of the relationship between tribes in Tanzania, something which had been a focus of Nyerere’s life and work in building this new country. Philbert explained that the tension and humour between tribes is very much present in human relations, but is managed through an acknowledged humour, or watanne. Philbert explained that there is no direct translation of this word, but it describes the ability for the Makonde, the Matumbe and Machinga tribes, for example, to mock, laugh and patronise each other, but never fight.

Then there’s Deo, a young firebrand who, when he’s not singing and shimmying in the choir on Sunday morning, is a clinical officer at the district hospital and a director of a small NGO supporting AIDS sufferers. He is a very, very busy man, who has recently announced his intention to stand for Parliament. He and I have done the rounds of large local employers recently, asking for sponsorship. As we made our way to the Port Master’s office, I asked should we not make an appointment.

“Ah no. That is not the African way. If he is in his office he will see us.”

I doubted the effectiveness of this approach but in the event, as Deo had predicted, he met us and after one or two further short meetings agreed to sponsor our event.

We have new wazungo friends also. A young American couple, Christians from Arkansas, with a Landcruiser and a huge barbecue. Have you pictured them? Got it? You’d be wrong. They’re lovely. A gentle couple with a sweet one-year old, they are here for at least ten years, supported by their church and have no arrogance as to what they might achieve, but instead seem to accept humbly whatever life seems to present.

Young Kelvin continues to study hard. He comes round for the odd lesson, some help with a letter-writing competition, but really he enjoys playing with every gadget we possess – camera, binoculars, laptop, solar charger - but is ever respectful of our time and space. He lives with his auntie, his mother being in Tanga with Kelvin’s half sisters. There is some tension here from time to time from which I’m eager to steer clear, but occasionally the role of the wazungo who take an interest in Kelvin’s life, is obviously discussed between Kelvin’s mum and her sister.

Then there’s Paschal, the young man who was first my Kiswahili tutor, but whose taciturn manner and inability to speak slowly meant that I learned little. It didn’t help, either, that I would never learn my vocabulary. We’ve dropped the idea of my learning Kiswahili now and instead we go together to watch football and spend time together. This week-end was his graduation party.

I’ve not quite understood it fully, but I think that, because there is such a lapse of time between the exams and the certificate, by which time all the students have scattered to the four corners of Tanzania, the end of term party is held before the examinations. One of the tutors had donated a goat, I had helped with printed invitations and the students had stayed up late washing the floors of the classroom to prepare for the most stunning dressing one could imagine for a dusty room with concrete floor and grubby windows.

The class of 2010-11 had clearly been working hard for most of the night. The room was dressed in burgundy and white, the pitted chalkboard covered, as were the splintered doors. The tables clothed and the staircase finished with burgundy and white silk bows. Paschal had been involved in much of the organisation of the event and when we arrived, we were shown to our seats, served our goat and rice and listened and laughed as the MC called people out for special praise. Everyone danced at every opportunity. No-one went to the microphone unless he or she was moving to the African rhythm. Some of the girls had had identical dresses made for the event, and dotted around campus were elegant young women in gold evening gowns and pink satin dresses. It could have been a tribute event for Diana Ross and the Supremes.

The highlight of the afternoon was the cutting and distributing of the keki, a brown sponge affair cut into minute squares. The purpose of the cake was to create mild embarrassment by calling people out by name and watching them feed cake directly into the mouth of another, a form of harmless courtship ritual, which was fun because those involved showed such authentic coyness. Mama Caroline and Mr Adrian were duly called to the front to feed each other cake from a cocktail stick “in a British way”. We tried to appear suitably solemn and boring and failed. Much mirth ensued.