Nice school

My experience at Nice School was a little tainted for a few reasons. First, obviously, I had a head’s up on the situation that I was going into before I even arrived. But I had also heard that the kids were amazing and was committed to doing what I could do to make their experience better. My first trip to Nice was a little more intense than I had planned, partly because of our traipsing all around Arusha town and having no sense of direction, followed by my dalla dalla trip into frontier land and then the walk through the town closest to Nice and the little walk along the path up to the school. The trip just felt remote and unfriendly and I wasn’t particularly comfortable. I tried to remind myself that I was here to be uncomfortable but I was having a difficult time discerning between discomfort and unsafe.

Marianna is the “director” at Nice School. I put director in quotes because I find it difficult to call her anything of the sort. She runs the school out of her mother’s house - there is a small classroom constructed between the house and the fortress-like walls that surround the property and another much larger classroom that had been built by donations from a previous volunteer. The yard of the property between the house and the classrooms is a dirt covered patch of land with lines of laundry hanging overhead. My first introduction to Mariana was a little surprising because she was wearing her housedress and her hair was wildly chaotic, which I have now learned is signs that an African woman is likely between hair styles. But why was she wearing a housedress and shuffling around her house in slippers while the kids were outside in their adorable little uniforms in the classrooms? She kept saying “Welcome, welcome” and “Karibu” (welcome in Swahili) but she repeated it so often it was almost every third word and it did anything but make me feel welcome, I felt a little like I was in the twilight zone. I can only imagine that I had a deer in headlights expression on my face so she was smart to send me out to the classroom so I could become enamored with the kids. One of the two permanent teachers grudgingly handed me a stool to sit on and gestured to sit in the corner with a group of children. The children all stood up immediately and yelled at the top of their lungs “Good morning madam!” I did not know what their protocol was so I responded with a “Good Morning”. They immediately followed up with “Fine, thank you Madam!”. So, for future reference, the correct response is “Good morning, how are you?” pretty much without exception.

The larger classroom was packed to the gills - there were children-size plastic tables lined up together, three in one section and another three in another section. Tiny plastic lawn chair style seats surrounded each group of tables and as I sat there, a little bewildered. I counted sixteen children around one group and fifteen around the other. Next to the table area was another section of smaller children sitting only in the plastic chairs; every time I tried to count them I lost count since they weren’t in rows or any specific order but there were about thirty children in that half of the room. There was no room between the chairs and when a child would try to get up they would literally climb over each other to get out. Maybe this was preparing them for a life of taking dalla dallas. My stool was jammed between these two groups and the children were of course immediately fascinated by me. I smiled at them and they were smiling and waving and trying to high five. It was difficult to resist indulging them - they have sweet little cherubic faces and were dressed smartly in little red sweaters and they were so eager for attention is would be impossible for even the most heartless of people to melt in this group of kids. One point for Mariana.

The two teachers were courteous but not friendly, they spoke to each other and to the class in Swahili so I sat there feeling a little irrelevant. I did note that they were both better dressed than Mariana, as in they were wearing proper clothes to walk around in - not a Mrs. Roper style house dress. I found it odd when one of them started pouring herself tea from a thermos and began nibbling on some type of snack she had brought from home at one point. Why weren’t the children eating? Why was she eating in front of them? The other teacher didn’t eat anything so I stayed quiet and did my best to try to figure out the norms of this new environment. After a command in Swahili the children started handing me their rumpled notebooks and the teacher handed me a red pen and told me to grade their work, which was simple enough - they were learning the alphabet.

This became the pattern of the first few days - I would sit there feeling somewhat useless, trying to ask what I can do and was then handed a stack of books to grade while the children sat there, as patiently as their youth would allow, while I would grade their work. Sometimes I was allowed to write a new exercise into the book for their homework but there was not much that occurred in the way of formal lessons, just a lot of sitting around while the teachers graded and wrote. Not only for me, for these poor little kids that must have been bored to tears! I tried not to be a distraction to them but they clearly enjoyed having an adult in their presence who would respond to them kindly. The tone used by the teachers was almost always a scolding yell. There was no kindness in their tone, just a firm shout, ordering something to happen in Swahili. I think it was the way they had been trained to teach, the tone of voice, the distance, the painfully slow process of grading and writing in the books, regardless of the fact that the children were likely learning to hate the tedium of school. I saw them act kindly towards the children in “off” moments so I don’t think they meant to seem so terrible, I think it was all they knew.

It wasn’t until my second day, after getting lost in Swahilini, that the awkward process of teatime with Mariana began. I thought maybe it was special that day, to make me feel comfortable after getting lost, but quickly learned it was a daily occurrence that I’d begin to dread. Mariana would come fetch me from the classroom and tell me it was time for tea. I’d take off my shoes at her backdoor and wash my hands in her shower room and perch on one of the couches in her living room, surrounded by Jesus posters, sipping tea and nibbling on white bread while Mariana sat across from me looking slightly Jabba-like in her position and attire. We would make pleasantries and I’d ask about whether the children were supposed to have porridge or break time. AWKWARD. Mariana said that she did not have the money for porridge or for a porridge pot but since the children would go home at 1pm for lunch it wasn’t really necessary. I wanted to say that it wasn’t necessary for me to have tea if the children weren’t able to have a break either, especially since I don’t think it helped my relationship with the other teachers who remained with the kids. I don’t mean to sound so judgmental, it was not that I didn’t appreciate her graciousness, it just didn’t feel particularly sincere and given that the children and other teachers were not given a break I didn’t want to appear entitled. Thankfully at least my inquiry about break time helped to reinstitute a break, that I’m not sure really existed or not.

The kids went wild during break time, they were after all, children, who had been forced to sit for an extended amount of time with the patience I could not imagine any American child able to exhibit. My third day was the first day that we had a proper break and I also met Morucha, the other volunteer teacher, who had been out sick for my first few days. She suggested blowing bubbles for the kids and I have never in my life seen kids react like that. They would scream at the top of their lungs like the Easter Bunny had just appeared each time a stream of bubbles would come out. Then they would jump to swat at the bubbles as if their little lives depended on it, desperate to touch one. It didn’t take me long to realize the strategy was to continue moving the bubbles around the small yard, otherwise I’d get pinned against a wall blowing bubbles into a pack of semi-rabid children. Their enthusiasm was endearing in a frightening kind of way - as if they don’t really have the chance to play, so when they do it’s with all this frantic, pent-up energy.

One of the early experiences that shocked me was not unique to Nice school, but I later found is the norm in Tanzanian schools. I looked down at the table, surrounded by little children, to see a razor blade. I gasped, uncertain of how it would have appeared there and grabbed it quickly. The kids must have seen this reaction before because they mimed out the action of sharpening their pencils. Not like the “old school” pencil sharpeners that we had in grammar school, mounted on a table or windowsill where we’d insert our pencils and turn the knob. No. Blades they used to file down the tip of the pencil like a spear. Well, in actuality they weren’t very spear-like, they were tiny rough nubs, but either way, razor blades!!! At least the erasers weren’t unsafe, they were just the smallest crumb of eraser that you have ever seen that the children were amazing about sharing and passing around when someone else needed it. So obviously that very night I stopped off at a stationery store to buy a few handheld pencil sharpeners and erasers. As helpful as these new tools were, there was also a period of a few days when there was a sudden need for sharp pencils. The kids were so enamored with these new efficient sharpeners that they were intentionally breaking their pencil tips just to have them sharpened again. Oh well, I think in the long run it was still an improvement over the razors.

NOTE: If you are easily disturbed by the thought of a chicken dying skip this paragraph

One day I was coming out of Mariana’s house after another fantastic tea session and putting on my sneakers when I realized that chickens were being slaughtered in front of me. I hadn’t thought too much of the chickens in the yard that morning - I noticed them but there was also a chicken coop in the back so I didn’t pay too much attention. But I was about to tie my shoe when I looked up to see a man holding a chicken upside down in the air in one hand, preparing to lay it down and behead it. It was like it was happening in slow motion, I saw a chicken head on the ground, the hole full of blood, the giant knife. I shrieked and ran away with my shoes untied and the children laughed yelling “cookoo! cookoo!” (cookoo is chicken in Swahili). Needless to say I didn’t go back into the house or anywhere close to that area of the yard again the rest of the day.

SAFE TO READ AGAIN!

Morucha and I discussed how we could improve the situation at Nice and I shared my concerns based on the experience of past volunteers. We felt we were in a bit of a quandary since it was very possible that anything we donated would get sold as soon as we left instead of being utilized to improve the situation. I loved the kids but I was also torn because I didn’t feel like there was much I could do to change the way they were being taught and even from a participation standpoint, I was frustrated that without knowing more Swahili there was little to do. Morucha said it was likely that she was going to change placements since she still had a few months to go - she wanted to make a difference somewhere and didn’t want to waste too much time deciding. I wanted to feel needed as well - to be in a placement where I felt like my presence and my actions could actually make a change. But it was so hard to imagine leaving the adorable little children I had already become attached to.

During one of my last few tea sessions with Mariana she told me how she was planning to admit another ten students to the school next term. It felt like the last straw to me; she already had seventy students without enough space, teachers, or any possibility of getting a decent education. How would adding more students help to make it any more likely that any of these factors would improve? It was virtually impossible. In my mind it proved to me that Mariana is not taking putting the interest of the children first, it's all about the Benjamins.

On another note, each day after school the kids would walk me “home”, which didn’t make my decision any easier. The first few days they would be walking home and when they would realize that I was fifty or so feet behind them, they would come running back to take my hands and I would then navigate the narrow path from the school to the road with three to four little tykes desperately grabbing onto each hand/arm. It slowed the pace considerably but it was such an amazing feeling, it was probably my favorite moment each day. When we’d reach the road a few kids would drop off and go in the other direction and our group would get a little smaller. As we’d pass through the village, more would drop off here and there as they came closer to their alley or turn-off. After a couple of days they would wait for me outside the gate at school for our daily walk home. I struggled with the decision of what do to. I knew that if I was going to change I should do it soon, it wasn’t going to get easier.

In the end I decided to change after visiting Fruitful Orphanage during a field trip. The kids would be amazing anywhere I went - but the biggest difference for me was that the children at Nice wanted attention, like any normal child does. The children at Fruitful didn’t just want attention, they were desperate for affection - they were orphans and this most basic of human desires for physical contact was something that they simply didn’t have. On top of that, Fruitful was still a relatively new orphanage, being run by a man named Isaac, who himself had been an orphan and wanted desperately to help other children experiencing a difficult life. Trying to get the orphanage fully operational and able to provide for these children was something tangible that I wanted to be a part of. One day with those kids was all it took. I went back to Nice school one more time when Andrew visited but couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye that day. I waited for TVE to confirm that it was OK to switch over the weekend and told Mariana by phone on Monday. Just looking back at the pictures of the children from Nice makes me sad but they have parents and families that can afford to send them to a school like Nice, so in the end I know my choice was the right one for me.

A visit to the Maasai

My travels through Madagascar, Uganda and Tanzania all highlighted the vast differences in cultures, not only from the life in the U.S. that I’m accustomed to, but between these incredibly different countries as well. This was, after all, part of the reason I chose to volunteer in Africa; to experience the fascination and excitement that led me to major in anthropology way back when. But nothing has ever really compared to learning about the Maasai people firsthand. The Maasai are a nomadic herding tribe located primarily in northern Tanzania and southern Kenya, which has been aptly named the Maasai Mara. I seriously contemplated volunteering with the Maasai in Kenya initially - I had already been accepted to the program in Tanzania and thought perhaps I should make the most of my time and travel in Africa by visiting more than one country. I narrowed it down to Kenya and Madagascar and weighed the pros and cons of each program but in the end, the program details stated that most Maasai home stays do not have electricity and running water. Electricity was not an issue, but my inner anthropologist cringes with embarrassment that I couldn’t handle life without running water. 

Anyway… exploring the traditional cultures was something I was incredibly excited for. As soon as we drove away from Kilimanjaro airport I was astounded by the immediate abundance of Maasai people in their brightly colored robes, called shúkà, just walking along the side of the highway herding their cows and goats. The sight seemed so exotic, like something out of a book, it was difficult for me to wrap my head around the idea that this was just normal life. Our van approached Arusha and the arid savannah became more green and the traffic increased as we neared the city but I was surprised to see that there were still a noticeable number of Maasai men in Arusha, wearing their traditional shúkà. My next venture into town was the first day of placement when TVE staff members chaperoned us to and from our home stays to placement, showing us the correct dalla, stop and route. My placement included a ten - fifteen minute walk through Arusha town in between dallas and again I encountered a number of traditionally dressed Maasai men along the route. They all wore their hair very closely cut but not all wore the traditional black rubber sandal that appears to be made of recycled tires, instead some wore sneakers or other modern footwear.

It took little effort to convince some other volunteers to do a visit to a Maasai village for the upcoming weekend - the biggest discussion was whether or not we should bring a goat. Just as you might bring a bottle of wine to dinner at a friend’s house, it is customary in Tanzania to bring some type of gift to visit a home, or in this case, a village. We had a vegetarian and a semi-vegeterian in our midst so I understood where they were coming from but selfishly I was curious since I wanted the most authentic experience possible. But to be fair, going to visit a Maasai village wasn’t a particularly authentic way to visit a group of people. So no goat - instead we stopped at the market before we left and brought cornflour, sugar and oil, all of which we had been advised were useful gifts. A security guard, Zacki, from one of the volunteer houses was Maasai and we were to visit his village. It took just over two hours to reach the village which was located within Arusha National Park. The second half of the journey was my first taste of what the local guides refer to as an “African massage” - the bumping and jostling a passenger feels as their vehicle blasts along a dirt road.

As we got closer Zacki removed the jacket he had been wearing over his shúkà and finally we veered off the main dirt road and drove across the flat savannah to our left until we passed a few trees and bushes and we were able to see the circular roofs of some huts in the distance. The village was separated from the savannah with a perimeter of bushes; some were planted while other seemed to have been moved in large chunks to supplement and formed a circle with two openings. The van parked in front of one entrance and we climbed out and waited awkwardly as our guide ushered us to enter the opening. We all wanted to follow someone but instead we were encouraged to go in without a leader and we did that uncomfortable shuffle where it’s clear nobody wants to go first so you all try to move together without anyone having to lead. It wasn’t as if anyone was scared, but without knowing what to expect and what the norms were, it’s safe to say that we were all nervous to offend someone. 

We shuffled into the opening and about thirty feet away was a small group of Maasai men and women facing us. The men all wore shúkàs and carried wooden staffs and the women wore shúkàs over dresses and large beaded collars around their necks; they were chanting/singing a song as they began to approach us in a formation. The women each removed one of their collars, as they were each wearing multiple collar/necklaces of various sizes, put one over each mzungu woman’s head and took our hands and led us into the village where we did our best to join in with the chanting song. I tried to make my collar bob up and down the same way they did with a little knee bounce but surprise surprise, my rhythm was off. Stan was the only mzungu man so he was draped with a shúkà and given a staff, which he seemed to take an immediate liking to.

The group of Maasai grew around us but we were now part of a semi-circle, holding hands with a local person on each side, trying to keep up with the chants and bouncing, this went on for a while with some variations where one group would break off to approach the other in what seemed like the second part of a greeting dance. They seemed fairly entertained by our attempts to keep up and as goofy as we mzungus must have looked, it helped to take the edge off a relatively awkward experience. Zacki was one one side of me and kept giggling and telling me that I was a Maasai. I can only imagine that he felt I deserved an “A for effort” in my attempts to participate and found my clumsy dancing pretty funny. I didn’t want the people of this village to feel like we were visiting them the same way tourists visit a zoo, but that dynamic can be difficult to avoid; I suppose I hoped that their laughter was a combo of laughing at us and with us, which in some way, leveled the playing field. After a bit, the Maasai men began their famous jumping and it was remarkable. One man would move forward from the line of us and jump up straight as an arrow with his wooden herding staff also perfectly straight and they would get a few feet off the ground, jumping a couple of times and then landing their final jump with a final stamp as they landed. They took turns, each going a few times, sometimes two jumping together, but seemed a challenge to each other as well. We were pressured to give it a go as well but obviously, our attempts failed to match theirs.

When we finished thoroughly embarrassing ourselves we were led to one of the huts, called bomas, that we were able to visit. The huts are all constructed by the women of the village, as much of the work and chores within the village are attended to by the women. The doorways were low and the walls were constructed of a mixture of dirt, water and cow dung. Surprisingly there was no odor of cow dung whatsoever. We entered what was considered a “sitting room” which was a narrow room with another room on either side. On the left was a bedroom for the children which contained a large low bed with a “mattress” of rope and dried cow hide, stretched tight. The woman whose boma we were in had seven children who all shared the one bed. The other room was the kitchen and the mother’s bedroom. The kitchen consisted of a small pit with some dimly glowing charcoal and a few plastic cups and bowls hanging from a piece of wire from the roof. The mother’s bed was tucked behind a wall but constructed the same as the other bed. I was nervous I would accidentally step into the fire because it was so dark inside the hut; when you step inside from the bright daylight it’s like going into a cellar with no windows. My eyes did eventually adjust but I couldn’t imagine how long the nights must be in such a dark place. I was also surprised that the interior of the boma wasn’t particularly smokey given that there was no chimney or ventilation for the cooking fire built into the structure.

Someone asked how old she was and our translator asked her but she did not know since she had not had any proper schooling. We asked if anyone knew how old her children were but they said she did not know that either, she only said that they were from small to big. Our guide then explained that each village had one father and each boma was for one of his wives and her children. This village had eight bomas, and therefore there were eight wives of the father. He then went on to explain that men get their wives by chasing them into the bush and raping them and then they were their wives. We were pretty horrified and later found out that was completely untrue. The woman does not have a choice in who she marries, but it is determined by her father and the man she is to marry, and in many occasions, his father. A dowry is paid in goats and cows. Once a woman is married she wears large beaded earrings that hang from the stretched holes in her ears to indicate that she is married. The older men also stretch their ears but they do not wear jewelry in them - although one man did have a prescription tube in his stretched earhole, which I think was more for the stretching purpose than decorative. Some of the men wore beaded ankle bracelets and others had a spiky piece in their sandals that was also adorned with beads. I asked if it was an indicator of their status but was told that the spiky piece went between their toes, much like the strap in a flip flop and was purely for holding their sandals on better. The men and women all wore their hair very closely cut, if not shaved entirely with the exception of one man whose hair was elaborately braided, pinned with metal clips and even painted. We learned that this indicated that he was a warrior and an unmarried man looking for a wife. There are a series of statuses that men go through in Maasai culture, starting with circumcision as a child when they “earn” their shúkà and continuing as warriors and then various stages of “elders”.

In the center of the village is another circular area enclosed by thorny bushes where the cattle and goats are kept. There were no cows present during our visit - they are taken out for water and grazing and during the dry season spend most of their time outside of the village, tended to by men of the village who live a nomadic life, following water sources with the cattle. The nearest source of water to the village was a stream about 3km away so water is a valuable resource and explains why milk and cow blood is such a big part of the Maasai diet. They can obtain fluids from the animals more easily than they can obtain water. In fact, we learned that they can let up to 5 liters of blood from a cow and the cow will recover within a few days; which helps to explain their access to a fairly large quantity of blood without having to deplete their livestock.

In a time when Ebola is still a very real threat, learning about these rituals was an alarming realization of how so many people can easily become infected due to the continuation of their typical daily practices. This is much more involved than figuring out how to treat the sick, create quarantines and address funeral rites that facilitate transmission. This would involve significantly influencing the daily life of populations that have intentionally avoided adopting a more Western lifestyle - all to avoid something that they have only heard of but not experienced firsthand. Tanzania has been lucky so far, and countries in central Africa such as Uganda and Rwanda that border areas of Western Africa, have been vigilant to avoid the introduction of Ebola into their countries. But the scariest thing about Ebola to me is that as a virus, it will continue to evolve until it is irradicated and that evolution can introduce new strains with new modes of transmission. I think about it only as much as I have to.

Back to the Maasai - after we visited the boma we wandered slowly around the village where we had our turn interacting with the kids. I say our turn because whether it was intentional or not, it was like the visit was broken into phases - dancing, boma visit, hanging with the kids, village tour and then shopping. The kids were shy at first but very curious. One of the bolder and more precocious girls was very handsy with my camera. I let her take some photos - the kids loved looking at photos on the digital screen and I can only assume they have little exposure to technology. Although, we had to laugh when early on during the dancing phase, one Maasai man had to step away to answer his cell phone. Judith was taking pictures on her iPad so of course the kids went completely bonkers trying to see the pictures on her screen and eventually a group formed around her where she showed pictures from throughout her trip.

Many of the smallest children and babies had dripping noses and runny eyes, which then attracted flies. It was heartbreaking to see and reminded me of the commercials that use to run on TV so much more frequently in the past, showing pictures of sickly, malnourished children in Africa, covered in flies and looking dejectedly at the camera or off into the distance. It was a little too real to see it in person. There was a baby whose face was just poking out from under a wrap that held him on his sister’s back. His poor eyes were red and drippy and he didn’t even react to the flies that crawled around the corners of his eyes.

We continued to make our way around the perimeter of the village and noticed that not all residents were as welcoming of our presence. Clearly the visit was pre-arranged with Zacki, one of the older sons of the village father and Zacki’s mother and family would benefit from our visit. I don’t know to what extent the food items we brought or the fee/donation we paid for the visit, would be shared throughout the village either. I have been very sensitive about asking for permission before I photograph people throughout my trip and I didn’t even ask the people closer to the back of the village - it was clear they were not part of the welcome wagon. I took a picture of some baby goats instead and was then shooed away. I assumed animals were OK but apparently they were off limits as well.

We wrapped up our visit with the dispersement of the lollipops. I had insisted on bringing some type of candy for the kids when we shopped for our visit, and not knowing how many children there would be we had brought a massive bags of Blow Pop like lollies. First the children were all lines up from biggest to smallest and Stan walked down the line passing out the lollipops. Since we had plenty left after we finished with the children, the adults started to ask for them too. Stan passed them all out and we got a chuckle watching the adults clamoring for the lollipops even more than the children had. It was time for the shopping phase! I admired the elaborately beaded collars but knew it would be something I wouldn’t be likely to display at home and would also probably be pricey. I settled on a small beaded necklace that was representative of what I had seen and wasn’t too expensive. I was glad to help in supporting the livelihood of the women in the village and avoided the awkwardness anyone who hadn’t selected an item experienced as the women kept trying to put bracelets and such on them to buy. By the time we left nearly everyone in the village had a giant lollipop in their mouth, the flies were a little too present thanks to my sweets and we were ready for phase two of the African massage.

Dalla dalla, dalla lalla, dalai lama

Ahhh… travels through Africa. Nothing has ever made me appreciate the concept of having my own car like this before. After two weeks in Tanzania I can say that I’m not a big fan of the dalla dalla. One of my housemates was adorably confused early on and kept calling it a “dalla lalla”, which of course quickly morphed into dalai lama. Convenient yes, comfortable in any remote sense - very rarely.

I’ve been slacking on my entries because I’ve been so much busier in Tanzania than I have been in my previous locations. But, slacking aside, it makes sense to start my entries about Tanzania with a post about the dallas given the role they have played thus far. I was incredibly sheltered upon arrival and was picked up from the airport in a van owned by the local volunteer organization (TVE). My first introduction to the dallas was two days later on my first trip to placement. One of the TVE managers took two other volunteers along with me to show us how to travel to our placements. The other two were nursing students from the Netherlands. We took a yellow dalla together from the volunteer house to the main Arusha bus stop and then wound our way through the city by foot. We arrived at the hospital they were to be placed at and waited in the entry area for the hospital director. While we waited we were astounded by the “wheelchair” we saw - it looked like a joke from a BBQ gone awry. The bottom of the frame was a basic wheelchair but the chair itself was a plastic lawn chair. Yikes. 

The hospital director finally arrived and we were able to continue the journey to my placement at Nice school. We continued on foot through Arusha until we reached a different “bus station” where it was explained to me that there was no specific colored dalla to look for - I had to find one where the conductor was yelling “Swahilini". The first one we found was packed to the gills so we waiting for the next one and then boarded and waited for it to fill to the brim too. Not just seats, mind you, the small standing area near the doorway as well. A dalla dalla is essentially a cross between a passenger van and a minivan - it has four rows of seats; the back row seats four, the second to back seats four - once the final seat over the wheel well is pushed down, and the two front rows seat three. When I say a row seats three or four people, that is not three or four by American standards - it means three bodies are squished together so any sense of personal space has to be abandoned. There is usually a backward facing bench behind the drivers seat but there is definitely not enough legroom between the bench seating and the front row. Once the seats fill up, people fill in the standing area next to the door - of course the roof is low so this entails contorting yourself into a hunched position and bracing yourself by holding onto the seats. The conductor stands in the doorway with the top half of his body out the window beckoning to people on the side of the road for more passengers. When it’s time to pay he jingles a handful of change at you and you pay up. 400 Tsh per ride, which is equivalent to about 25 cents. You let the conductor know your stop and he bangs on the van to alert the driver, slides the door open as the van slows down and the awkward process of extracting yourself from the mass of bodies begins. The only people who seem to move out of the way are the standing riders - the seated riders pretty much stay where they are so you’re left crawling awkwardly over their bodies through the cramped space and nothing feels as amazing as being outside on your own feet again. If you’re incredibly lucky and get on a completely empty dalla you can get one of the two seats in the very front on the bench seat with the driver. But those are special days.

The second dalla to Swahilini was interesting - the passengers seemed a little less sophisticated, which I’m using quite loosely here, than the passengers in the first dalla headed into town. There were large bags of rice and produce being shoved under the seats and many of the women wore more traditional mumu type dresses and headwraps. I was surprised there wasn’t a crate of chickens on board. Before I had time to think about it we left the paved road and bounced along a deeply rutted dirt road. The buildings began to change as well, there were less concrete buildings and more structures built with sticks and mud. We got off at a stop called “corner” and walked the remainder of the 15 minute walk to school. The town felt like a frontier town with it’s shack lined, dirt road. I felt a lot of eyes on me and they didn’t feel friendly, or even particularly curious. We left the road and walked along a path that trailed along a small stream adorned with empty plastic bottles, wrappers and various litter. There were occasional buildings but we didn’t encounter many people and in all honesty, I began to wonder how comfortable I would really be doing this walk alone. Suddenly we were there - we walked through a small opening in a gate and were at Nice school. I’ll save the stories of the school for another time, this one is for the dallas! 

We didn’t reach the school until almost 10:30 since the travel and waiting at the hospital had taken considerable time. I was feeling particularly alarmed at my lack of directional awareness. I generally have a very good sense of direction, I’m a visual person and maps play a big role in figuring out my whereabouts but the only map I had was from a guidebook on my Kindle. I was pretty sure this frontier town was not on my map. I couldn’t make sense of which way to walk through Arusha town to catch the second dalla since we had gone to the hospital first and I was not feeling particularly confident about this new commute. The girl who navigated me to school waited and navigated me home as well; home was definitely easier but I asked her to accompany me again the next day for the morning trip to make sure I knew the way directly from my home stay.

TVE had stressed during orientation that they would have someone help you travel to your placement for as long as needed. I think it would be a good investment to hand out some decent maps, and I learned later that has been recommended by many previous volunteers as well. What do we know? ;) The second trip the following morning trip helped me get my bearings and I was comfortable getting home alone. Day three was especially exciting though - somehow I missed the stop for “corner”. I think it’s pretty likely that the swerving of the dalla to avoid the deep ruts and the crowded interior which prevented me from seeing out the windows might have had something to do with it. So I ended up at the end of the line in Swahilini. Apparently even more of a frontier town than “corner”. A very kind local man who had been on the same dalla stayed with me to help me sort things out; which involved buying and adding credit to my phone, calling a few different TVE staff members until we reached one and then conversations in Swahili to inform them where I was. I felt terrible that I was holding up his day. I offered to just take the dalla back to town and start over. He told me in his broken English that he didn’t want to leave me there because there “are many robbers”. We took another dalla back to “corner” and he insisted on walking me to the school, even though I knew the way at that point. I think he also knew I was good for a tip, but he deserved it, I have no idea what might have happened had he not been my guardian angel that day, helping me reach school safely. Fortunately that has been my most dramatic incident with the dalla dallas to date.

We were warned to be extremely careful with our belongings since many thefts happen during calla rides. More than one volunteer has been the victim of a pickpocket or had their bag slashed open and items removed, sometimes without even noticing. I brought nothing more than a small amount of money to get me back and forth, water and my phone. Unfortunately one week into our stay a very serious incident occurred as one of the other volunteers was assaulted on a dalla. She had been traveling alone and was seated in the back of the van. When the van reached town people got off at the bus stop but the conductor pushed her back in, closed the door and the driver continued to drive the van away. She offered her money and phone but it was clear that was not the intent. Had she not been wearing scrubs under her coat the situation might have been much worse. The scrubs startled the conductor when he assaulted her and gave her just enough time to kick him and escape. It was a frightening reality of what can happen. TVE responded by visiting each residence and telling all volunteers that we should not travel alone on dallas. I was relieved that nothing more serious had happened but felt terrible for the girl who was attacked. I was glad that TVE responded so quickly and agreed that in reality, it is probably safest if people travel together.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, my most priceless dalla moment to date was when Andrew visited and we were taking the dalla back from school. We were squeezed onto the bench behind the driver where I ended up with four legs from two different women wedged into my crotch. Good thing I’m flexible. Andrew had a man’s legs in his crotch as well so I felt like we were both equally mortified. The ladies seemed to find it very entertaining, laughing and speaking to each other in Swahili, clearly we were the butt of the joke. We did our part to sit there and look as casual as possible about it while the entire dalla full of passengers stared at us facing them. The vehicle continued to stop off and pick people up until not only was the standing area full, but the door remained open and the conductor and a passenger hung out the door. Andrew whipped out his GoPro and took a quick video which gives a laughable glimpse into the scene but doesn’t fully show how many adults were crammed onto this vehicle. I miss my commutes on Nosy Komba!