MAD University Tour

            We embarked on our five-day MAD University Tour in the early morning. As with all road trips it was imperative that a comfortable riding uniform was worn, so I chose the flannel. You can never go wrong with flannel. I walked around the living room, coffee in hand, barking about how we needed “to make good time” and “keep on schedule” and eerily reminded myself of my father before long car trips. Every trip though, needs that figure. We were headed on a five-day journey around Tanzania. In our bags we had warm clothes and hiking shoes for the mountains, bathing suits for the beach, nice clothes for the universities, and enough bags of chips and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to keep us content for at least a couple of days. Revo, Deo, and Edward were our older secondary school kids coming with us on the trip in order to see what universities were like and what lay ahead. They were all prepared with the appropriate clothes as well, even Edward brought along a pair of overly large leather dress shoes that looked like a clown would wear during a job interview. As this was a long road trip, I figured it needed a long post. I hope you enjoy. 

The first destination on our journey was Lushoto, the “Switzerland of Tanzania.” Back in the old days when Germany had control over the region, they used to retreat to the mountainous area as a way of escaping the heat of Tanzania. After a five-hour drive, and a brief restroom break at a truck stop where the image from what lay inside an open bathroom door will forever be burned into my memory, we began our assent up the mountain. Each sharp and blind turn was announced by the honking of our car horn. At times the road went to only one lane and going around a turn was a risk because of the dalla dallas that were speeding back and forth up the mountain, paying disregard to the prospect of plummeting, or head on collisions. I paid attention to the fact that we could die though, and I made sure, once again, to sit next to the door for a quick exit. The only problem with that was, my quick exit would have had me leaping off the mountain. I would have stood a better chance with that I think. We didn’t have any head on collisions though, but we did have some spectacular views.

We were staying at the Irente Farms, a biodiversity reserve situated high up in the mountains in little cottages that specialized in not only protecting nature, but also making their own butter, bread, jam, and other foods that they had for sale. They provided us with a tour of the area, given by our guide Jackson, where he talked about nature and how to protect the environment with all of us. At one point Jackson showed us the “Tanzanian equivalent of poison ivy."

Everyone was a little tired after the tour, and retired to their cottages to await dinner, but Theresa and I decided to go on a hike with Jackson to the higher parts of the mountain range and were treated to some really spectacular views of the region.

                              

After the hike with Jackson we met Peter, the manager of Irente Farms. Peter was a stoic, morose fellow, who when engaged in a conversation that was packed full of open ended questions and instances where explanation would be necessary, chose to use one word where many would have been preferred. He would have made the perfect housekeeper at a mortuary with his somber expression and subtle South African accent that sounded more British. He greeted our enthusiasm about staying at his farm with a simple, “Yeah. Peter, that’s my name.” Initially, I thought the silence that followed each of his one-word responses would be awkward, but I realized that it was just how he was and that if he was okay with it, so would I.

            Theresa asked him to come talk to us about the environment and what his organization was doing. She commented that he must get asked all the time to talk about this subject and he replied simply with, “Yeah. Okay.”

            He came by after we had finished eating dinner, which we had taken outside on the patio of the cottage that the guys and I were staying, and after we cleared the table he took a seat. The conversation began slowly.

            Peter pronounced each word slowly, as if it was physically draining with each passing word as he leaned forward with his legs crossed. “Do you guys know what a hotspot is? And, no, I’m not talking about temperature.” The silence after each statement was pronounced, but we were still trying to remain attentive. I don’t know if we were interested in what the next drawn out sentence held for us, or if it was the bat that zipped through the air above Peter’s head that captivated us more. I think it was more of the fact that Peter did not notice the bat at all and showed neither emotion, alarm, or even recognition that there was a tiny flying rodent darting just a couple of feet above his head and that we all were chasing it back and forth with our eyes in front of him. This guy was a brick wall, but this lack of emotion changed quickly and unexpectedly once he really started getting into the work at the farm and around the local area.

He began by asking us if we knew what biodiversity was, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward like he was letting us in on a secret. Peter explained that Tanzania was home to over 642 different species of trees, and that Europe in comparison has only 71. That the mission of the farm was to preserve the species native to Tanzania and make sure that no “alien” tree species invaded the mountains of Lushoto, and they were working to ensure such. All of Peter’s previous mannerisms dissipated in the telling of his work, and we could tell that this subject was what truly excited him, that he loved the work he was doing. Instead of chopping the trees down like I had assumed, he said they cut a fairly large section of bark off of the tree so that it would die slowly, but remain standing. That way, the birds in the area would still have a place to nest. As quickly as his excitement began though, old Peter was back, and he sat back in his chair at the end of his inspiring speech, crossed his legs and arms again, and quietly stated, “Well, I think I’ll be going,” and left.

One minute he was there, and the next he was gone, but it was remarkable the work that they were doing in the area in order to help conserve and protect the environment and the diverse species of plant life that were there. We left Lushoto with a better understanding of the environment, the area, and the rich biodiversity of Tanzania that we had all previously not known about. After killing the spiders in our rooms, we all retreated under the weight of the blankets, seeking shelter from the cold mountain air.

We left early the next morning, and after a brief breakfast of fruits, vegetables, jams and breads that the farm personally made we headed off. It was going to take about 8 hours to reach the coast and Bagamoyo, but everyone was excited at the prospect of the Indian Ocean that waited. It was on this stretch of road that I began to really notice the annoyance of being pulled over by the police in Tanzania. It’s not like back home where if you are speeding or if they suspect something they chase you down in their car with the lights flashing and get you to stop. Instead, they simply walk out into the middle of the road, gesture for you to pull over, and once you are pulled over they try and decide if there is anything that they can get you on. Most of the time, it was just routine stops make sure you have your license, permits, and fire extinguisher in the car, but other times they are simply looking for money by stating that you were caught speeding.

In total, we were pulled a combined 14 times on the road to Bagamoyo and Dar es Salaam, 8 times on the way to Dodoma, and 5 times on the road home. We had to pay at a couple of stops for violations that were never really said, and at one time Emma was told he was being arrested for speeding because they had clocked him going 20 miles over the speed limit on a radar gun whose existence was never proven. We paid 40,000 shillings to get out of that one, thank god too; I don’t think I could take the responsibility for driving.

Bagamoyo, or “Lay down your heart,” in Swahili, was recently named a World Cultural Heritage Site for its rich history. From the church where the explorer Dr. Livingstone was lain to rest before being shipped back to England, the ruins of old slave quarters where they were kept before being shipping to Zanzibar just off the coast, to the oldest boaboa tree in Eastern Africa that, its rumored, if you walk around it counter-clockwise you’re supposed to live to be over a hundred years old. Bagamoyo had a lot to offer. And I did walk around the tree as well, but I’m a little nervous about this prospect of living to be 100, because they didn’t specify whether or not life style choices were a factor in this longevity. For being a cultural heritage site though, Bagamoyo did not really look like a city that was striving to make itself appear like it was taking the initiative to being conserved. The stone buildings seemed overrun with plants and grass and falling apart and no cleanup process was in site. Still, a very cool city.

We stayed on the beach at the Bagamoyo Country Club, and at night the lights from Zanzibar could be seen shining out in the distance. We were a bit spoiled for the two nights we stayed there, to say the least. The water was warm and the sand white, and each morning I went on sunrise walks along the beach and into the fish market where the fresh catches were being carried from the ships and onto the beach where they held an auction. There was red snapper, tilapia, blue nosed cod, barramundi, golden berches, salmon, great white shark, blue whale and killer whale, and any other fish I feel like making up for sale because I don’t know all their names. This was also the first time that Revo, Deo, and Edward had ever seen the ocean, and it was a site seeing them all standing at the shore, letting the water wash over their feet as they stared out over it.

We hired a tour guide to take us through the center of town and out to ruins left over from Arab settlers in the 13^th century and explain the history of the town. His name was Monkey. And that is not a joke. It was difficult to get used to at first, but I adapted. After taking us through the town, pointing out the various sites of the cities past, Monkey brought us to a restaurant that he said was the best in town for fish and chicken, and in truth it really was not that bad. It was Deo’s birthday, so we bought him a cake at a store we passed by earlier in the day, and after having a debate about whether it was going to be chocolate or vanilla under the coat of frosting we were all a little disappointed to find out that it tasted like neither. Instead, it tasted stale and like sanitation, and I immediately realized that it tasted exactly like the store it came from. Delicious.



Sunrise over the Indian Ocean

          We stayed two nights in the cottages on the beach in Bagamoyo, finding that the accommodations suited us quite nicely. After spending the previous day touring the richly historical city, we spent the first half of the day driving into Dar es Salaam, where we had a tour lined up with a former employee of Make A Difference and student at the university, Erasmus. The University of Dar es Salaam is situated on the outskirts of the actual city with which it got its name. Established in 1961, with only seven students enrolled, the school now boasts the reputation of being the number one university in Tanzania, and former alumni include the current president of Tanzania, a past president, and members of parliament. After driving through the expansive and widespread campus, we met up with Erasmus and began our tour.

To say that he was not prepared for the tour would be a lie. We were all blown away by the preparation Erasmus had taken in showing us around his university. He had a notebook with itinerary, key places and buildings that he wanted us to see, and even a 500-shilling note that had a picture of one of the buildings at the school.

It was the best tour we could have asked for. He showed us around the campus, where the students were in the midst of their final exams and their book bags were piled outside the lecture halls. The campus was large, but more modern than I would have expected. The newer buildings were painted white and stood out from the older ones and the hallways were not indoors like I was used to back home, but outdoors. Monkeys were running around the campus, and Erasmus said they were a problem because they would steal your lunch if you were not looking, and even sometimes came into the classrooms. I found that the bigger problem lay in the fact that these monkeys were not paying tuition and being allowed in the classrooms, but I digress. Looking at Revo you could tell that this was the place for him. He was shaking with excitement and when asked if he could see himself here in the future he nodded his head with a large grin and said, “Absolutely.” Revo wants to study civil engineering, and because the campus has a program for that he said it was the perfect place for him. We ate at an outdoor cafeteria on campus and had chicken and chips, and during that time I counted 12 mazungu walking around. And two Asians. Not too shabby. We later headed over to a medical college in the heart of Dar es Salaam so that Deo could see a medical school because he wants to be a surgeon when he gets older. Erasmus had a friend, who had a friend, who could show us around the campus. After an extensive tour there and being shown around the grounds and nearby hospital, the same look that was on Revo’s face earlier about the prospect of college life seemed to become contagious and infected Deo with the same excited and giddy grin. We got back into the car worn out and exhausted from the day, and expected a nice easy drive back to Bagamoyo to prepare for our next day drive to Dodoma, but that just wasn’t in the cards.

It took three hours to get through the downtown of Dar es Salaam. We were stuck in the streets, inching away through the traffic with each jolt of the brakes. Time does not move slower than in the idleness and confinement of a slow moving car. Some of us read, others ate ice cream bought from street vendors in the middle of the road, peddling their product in modified white bicycles with a cooler for a basket, and one of us tried flying a kite out of the window that could not, and would not take flight in the brief breeze created by the van. In the end, we were all left to wander through the isolated rooms of our own minds. I, for one, began to think about one of my life’s greatest mysteries, and how I had finally let curiosity when in this battle of ignorance I chose to keep going.

Was Tracy Chapman a man, or a woman? Up until last year I had no idea, and I purposely never looked it up because I kind of liked the idea of having no idea and it just staying that way, but one day I was stupid and I looked it up. Tracy Chapman is a woman. My life’s greatest mystery was solved in one click, and I can’t figure out why I had ruined the longest lasting mystery I’d had in my life.

It was Thursday morning when we began the all day affair that was driving to Dodoma. The good news was, we passed through such scenic views that it partially made up for the extensive hours we spent in the car. Half way to Dodoma we passed through the city of Mogororo, which had some of the most beautiful mountains that I have ever seen. And is the case with every mountain that I saw along the drive, I gazed up at it with the same primordial urge all males get when looking at elevated pieces of land in the distance, tracing the ridgelines with their eyes and all the while thinking, I want to climb the crap out of you.

Every mountain we passed I asked Theresa if we could pull over and climb it “real quick” and she kept saying absolutely, but I think she was just toying with me because we never did. At one point we wanted to take a “shortcut,” and if there is one thing I’ve learned about Tanzania it’s this…there are no shortcuts, just hour-long detours out into the brush where the road is rocky and all the locals tell you that you should have gone the other direction. We made it back on the main road though, and after a while the mountains began to recede off into the distance, and were replaced with the rocky plains and short brush. Looking out of the window across the vastness and unending expanse of the plains, the mountains, though numerous and far rolling, were humbled in their comparative size and scale, and appeared in the distance like the arched backs and sharp spines of a thousand sleeping animals taking shade under the canopy of clouds from the harsh Serengeti sun.

I, once again, was left alone with my thoughts, and reflected such various and important worldly matters such as: Why does it not thunder and lighting when it rains in Tanzania? And why do I know so much about the love life and heartbreaks of Adele, but I have no idea what her full name is? And why do I get nervous when I go to Taco Bel and the decision about what new thing I’m going to buy because I might not like it? It’s only a dollar, and Taco Bel is where you go when you want to punish yourself at a cheap price, so whatever I get it won’t matter it all ends the same.

            I spent a long time in the car.

For being the capital of Tanzania, Dodoma sure did not want people to be aware of its existence. We wouldn’t have even realized we were there and would have passed through the city in our road trip haze as if driving through the remnants of a mirage if it were not for the rows of taxis, the growing number of shingled roofs, and the faint rotting smell of the dead dog lying in the middle of the road. The city was literally in the middle of nowhere, with no signs showing that we were going the right direction except the constant rush of expensive looking SUV’s that were speeding down the highway in the direction we were going. We arrived late in the night, and took up refuge in a small hostel to sleep off the days drive and prepare for tomorrows tour and even longer drive home.

In the morning, after a light breakfast of hotdogs and tomatoes, we headed out to the University of Dodoma. On our way out though, we did encounter a scraggly looking guy on a bike and when I asked him if he was biking across Africa, like I’ve seen people do before, he replied calmly, “No, the world.” His name was Dave Conroy and for the past three years he has been biking across the world. When we asked him why he explained, “I worked in IT, and three days before my 30^th birthday I decided that I was tired of it, sold all my belongings, and hopped on my bike, and here I am.” We asked him if he had seen some pretty amazing sites and he agreed, but also said one of the hardest things for him on his adventure was saying goodbye to all the wonderful people he met, and that loneliness is one of the hardest things for him. Quite the remarkable character, and I wish we would have been able to talk longer but we were on a tight schedule. If you would like to learn more about David and his travels though, you can visit his website at: http://www.tiredofit.ca/.

                The University of Dodoma, or as I appropriately named it, “The White City.” The campus was vast and never ending, and all of the buildings were the same bright white that reflected the sunlight to give them even more of a glow. The campus could have been a city itself, and was situated higher up on a ridge that overlooked the city of Dodoma and the desert beyond. It was windy and cold up there and all of us put on jackets for the tour that we had lined up with one of the professors at the school. By lined up, I mean we walked into a room and asked if anyone would be willing to give us a tour and this guy agreed to. We were on a time crunch, but even if we weren’t, we still had to drive in the car if we wanted to see even a fraction of the campus while there was still sun out. The University is new, only seven years old, and although it began as only one building it has expanded substantially in its brief time. Our guide told us that one of the things that the school is most proud of is the fact that it relies on no outside funding for the university, and is strictly built from Tanzanian dollars. Now, I don’t know for sure if this quick expanse can be associated with its relative closeness to the capital and political influence, but lets just say it’s a possibility. We had a meeting with the president of the Humanities Department at the school, and even inside his office the walls were the bright white of outside with all dark mahogany doors and furniture. The libraries we went to, because each department has its own library and there are five departments, were packed full of new computers and shelves of books. There was a swimming pool, football field, dormitories and workout rooms, and all the basic necessities for a university to thrive. The university was modern with a prestigious air, and if I had to guess I’d say in a few more years it would surely reach its student capacity of 40,000, but until then, many of the buildings remained vacant, or under construction. At the end of the tour, we asked the kids which university they preferred and were not surprised that they suddenly were all three fans of the White City and all its immaculacy.

We began the long road home. As is the case with all road trips, where at the beginning the enthusiasm is high and the need to “make good time” is crucial, on the way home it became, “I don’t even care how long it takes anymore.” The difference between arriving an hour later than previously thought loses meaning, because regardless of when you arrive you’re still going to be just as tired and just as groggy. That is why this leg of the trip we allowed for more bathroom stops, leg stretching, and eating on the side of the road. Delirious in my road trip haze, I pictured a lion in a policeman’s stark white uniform, the discarded remains of a half eaten body behind a bush, and the lion asking casually, so as not to raise suspicion, for our license and registration.

I decided in that reflection that I would most certainly spot this trap if we were to come upon it. I would not be another lion dressed in a police officers uniform performing routine traffic stops next drive through meal.

The landscape of Tanzania changed dramatically from each city and region we passed through. We moved from the northern regions of Kilimanjaro and Tanga, with their smooth emerald mountains rolling through the clouds, to the sandy tropical marshes of the coast with the salty breeze that made me reminisce about Florida and how much I hate that state. We went through the bustling city of Dar, where it became apparent that traffic jams are more of a global problem, but made all the more better by street vendors patrolling the center of the road brandishing anything from ice cream cones to nightstands. I saw the heartland of Tanzania, where the heat is only matched by the sheer size of the desert plains. On the sides of the road the houses always matched the color of the ground on which they were built. The areas where there was more rain the ground was red with clay and the houses built with bricks of it. Towards the coast, where underneath the palm trees and rough grass was a layer of sand, the houses turned into the light gray below them. In the desert plains and rocky gardens surrounding Dodoma the houses were bleached the color of dried almonds from the intensity of the sun. Although the houses changed from location to location, from one stretch of road to the next, they all shared the common characteristics of simplicity. They were constructed from the raw materials that surrounded them. The leaves from the palm trees, dried grasses of the fields, and walls built from the hardened and compact dirt. There was nothing extravagant, no garages or swimming pools; just what was needed and what could be easily and cheaply obtained. Out in the distance where you thought nothing could survive or be built to last, small houses stood out amongst the brush and parched earth. On dirt roads that seemed to lead to nowhere, a community of houses could be found around a turn, and whole families would walk outside wondering the same thing that we were, “What are you doing here?”

In the night we pressed on, with the slit of the moon grinning at us like a Cheshire cat in the darkness, and the faint burning of far off fires glowed like stars meeting the curve of the Earth folding into the horizon. We arrived home late, tired and groggy, and went straight to bed after spending five days visiting only a fraction of what Tanzania has to offer.  

             

           

A Haircut from the Best Hairdresser in England

A Haircut from the Best Hairdresser in England.

            Eventually the day had to come when I would finally have to go out and get a professional haircut while here in Moshi. When the clippers broke last time I had one of the Idahoians scissor trim the other half of my hair to try and match it up with the already buzzed side and honestly, they did not do too bad of a job. It wasn’t until later of course that I noticed that I had a pretty sweet swoosh in my bangs because one half was slightly longer than other. So, I asked Theresa where the nearest barber was that could cut Mazungu hair and she sent me a shop called Hair 2 Hair.

            “I have to warn you though,” Theresa told me before hand, “this guys a little intense. Last time I went there I sat down and after inspecting my hair he asked, ‘Now, is this a woman who loves herself? I don’t think so.’”

            Naturally, I was curious to meet this fellow.

            Hair 2 Hair was a little pink stucco shop a street over from an Indian restaurant that I always love to eat at. There wasn’t a barber pole outside the front like most places you see at home, but there were large windows that reflected like mirrors so when it gave me a last minute reassurance after inspecting myself walking in that hey, I did need a haircut.

            The only way I can think to describe the inside of the shop would be by simply saying that it looked like a stereotypical 80’s music video based out of an even more stereotypical 80’s aquarium room. There were lots of blues and whites and pastel couches and even if they weren’t really there and I’m just making this up, I’m pretty sure the poles on other side of the mirrors were full of colorful fish with confetti in the water. The first television that I’ve actually watched in the last two months was on in the corner and a show on Natural Geographic was playing Shark Week, so the whole aquarium vibe was there.

            No one spoke to me when I walked in and I didn’t really know who to talk to so I just kind of stood in the middle of the room, submerged in this cheesy aquarium. Then, an Indian gentleman turned around from where he was counting a pile of money and just shrugged his shoulders at me and sighed and pointed towards one of the couches, “I’ll be with you in a minute,” he said unenthusiastically. He had large gold earring in either ear, a tattoo of a snake on his forearm that looked like it was doing a lazy figure 8, a little flip in the front of his hair that looked like a 50’s greaser, and a blue tooth in one ear. He sounded a bit like Tony Montana from Scarface, with a little less mumbles and slurs, and a little more Richard Simmons enthusiasm and charisma.

            This was definitely the guy Theresa told me about.

            After he had counted the money and put it away he motioned for me to come sit down.

“How do you want your hair cut today,” he asked, so I told him the usual. Little off the top, blend it with the sides, and most importantly, not too military like. He waved his hands and told me not to worry and started getting his clippers ready. I wanted to reiterate the point of not making the sides too short and told him again, and that’s when he put the clippers down and pinched between his eyes. “You can’t be serious?”

I looked at him in the mirror and didn’t know what to say, because I was.

“And when’s the last time you went to a hairdresser, hm?” he asked.

            “Never,” I confessed.

            “See, that’s your problem. And how long have you lived in Tanzania?”

            “A couple of months.”

            “And the last time you had a haircut?”

            “Well, funny story,” and I started going into the clippers story about how they broke when he cut me off abruptly. 

            “That’s what I’m talking about. I can tell. Now, let me do my job and fix this thing.” Remember, Tony Montana with a bit more Richard Simmon.

           

            After a few minutes of him snipping and buzzing away a silence grew that only occurs between a barber and you getting your haircut. That awkward kind of quiet where you don’t really know what to talk about, but at the same time don’t want to start talking because your afraid that if you distract them they’ll accidentally lop off an ear. A couple f times the silence was broken when he received a phone called, and touching his ear with the blue tooth he would stop cutting, put his hand on his hip and answer the phone authoritatively and politely, “Who is this?” He would then tap his finger to his lips, repeat the persons name over and over again as if thinking back on a long ago memory and then as if finding it exclaim, “Ah, yes, of course of course,” and negotiate when he could possibly see them next. His schedule was booked and that he had a 11 o’clock appointment at the moment, but he could maybe pencil them in, and then hang up without a goodbye by tapping his ear.

It was 11 o’clock as I was getting my haircut. I was that appointment, and I had just walked in. The schedule that was booked was on the wall in front of me. It was barren. You rascal you.

            “How long have you been cutting hair for?” I asked.

            “Guess.”

            I’ll be honest, first time I’ve had someone ask me to guess how long they’ve been cutting hair. Decided I’d play along, see what could come out of this, so I threw out the generic response of, “Your whole life.”

            “Wrong. 18 years.” He answered flatly.

            How could I have been so stupid? I disregarded my ignorance and pressed forward with the questions. “And you studied in England?” I asked already knowing the answer because of what Theresa had told me.           

“That’s right, 2 years. And you know what? I went over there because I realized one day that I had this gift. That I was born and put on this earth with this God given talent.” He looked at me in the mirror and shrugged his shoulder like I should agree and reassure his conviction. I just looked up at him in the mirror instead. “So, I said to myself, ‘I’ll go to England, not to just cut hair, but to learn something about it too. To make myself better than I already was.’ I figured I’d cut hair there for a few years and hopefully get a full time job working at a salon. But, you know what I realized?”

            Enthusiastically and only mildly sarcastically I asked him what he had realized.

            And waving his hand through the air in front of him like petting a large dog or his even larger ego he confidently and profoundly confessed, “I’m better than all of them.”

            “All of them?”

            “All of them.”

            “The best in England?”

            “The VERY best in England.”

            “So, you’re the best barber in England AND Tanzania?”

            “That’s right, my friend,” and he pointed at me in the mirror as if also adding, hit it right on the nose there, buddy.

            I sat in my chair, calmly nodded my head, and just had to try my best to soak in the fact that somehow by a stroke of luck or a divine miracle, the best barber in England was cutting my hair while I was in Tanzania. It was almost too much to comprehend.

“Now, I wasn’t even listening to you when you walked in. I asked you what you wanted and pretended to listen, but I wasn’t,” he continued. “No, when people walk in I already know. Just by looking at you I knew what to do with your hair. It’s just a gift. I see you, and I know. The haircut is there already, I just have to bring it out.”

This man is Michelangelo with clippers instead of a rock hammer. At least he was honest about not listening to me before, most barbers just try and play it off like they were at the end of the haircut. Which, we were nearing the end, and I was excited to see the results of this talked about masterpiece. After a few more minutes he held a mirror up behind my head to I could marvel at the unseen work. “I did a natural fade in the back to make it really blend in more with the structure of your head.” He nodded approval to himself. 

            “You did what to the back of my head?”

            “A natural fade,” he assured me. “There are no definitive lines in the back. I blended it in to the back of your neck so it’s like your hair is fading into your skin.”

            “My hair is fading into my skin?”

            “That’s correct.”

            “That’s perfect, that’s actually what I wanted. My hair to fade into my neck.” It would have been tough for someone to not pick up on the sarcasm there, but he continued without faulting.

            “You see, the structure of your head it is very long. You have a long head, and so I wanted your haircut to match the shape of your head and flow with it.” He then walked over to a small counter next to the chair and placed his hand on a jar of green jello. “You want gel?” he asked

            “No, I don’t use gel.”

            “You see, I envisioned your hair with gel when I cut it.”

            “Yeah…” I paused, “But I don’t use gel.”

            He threw his arms up in anguish, “Well, then what do you want to do with your hair?”

            I could tell he was more than upset by my disregard to his envisioned masterpiece so I assured him, “Don’t get me wrong I love your work, but could you take a little more off the top?”

            Thinking it over momentarily he conceded. “Okay, okay that’s fine I will do that. Not a problem. Not a problem, but no more than that. Otherwise, when your hair grows out it will simply,” and he made a gesture with hands that looked like he was petting a longhaired mop. I think he was implying that my hair would grow out like a mop.

            He trimmed the top up a bit, and made sure to let me know that the life span of my haircut was only a month, and that I must be back in a month or else all his work was for nothing. I told him that I would, and that the haircut was the best one I had ever had and getting up from my chair I shook his hand and thanked him. He told me it was not that big of a deal. In the end I left Head 2 Head confused and strangely satisfied, and a bit awestruck by the fact of who had cut my hair. As I walked out of the barbershop I turned and took a last minute look at the aquatic room with the television showing sharks and just had time to see in the mirror like glass of the door at the haircut I had just gotten. I shook my head, and walked away.

            In the end, it seems as if he really had not listened to me at all when I walked in. He must have especially paid special inattention to the part where I described how I didn’t want my hair to look, because it was overly short on the sides border lining nothingness and long and boxed on the top. I was a tall skinny kid on a dusty street with the sun beating down at high noon with the haircut of a military man.

At least I could nod with approval at one thing, as I did an about face (I believe that’s the term that fits my new trim) I briefly glimpsed the back of my head and noticed that in fact, my hair did flow into my neck like he had promised.

     

Taxi Driver Union

            It has been a pretty low-key week for the most part. Visited the kids a couple of times, but worked at the office mostly. It rained some days and it was sunny others. Oh, and I became a member of the Taxi Driver Union.

I rode with the taxi driver to go get Nicholas from the airport because the driver didn’t speak English very well, and I figured anyone traveling to Tanzania by themselves needed to at least be greeted by a fairly fluent English speaker. It was with my credentials that I was chosen for the job. I decided since the taxi driver and I had a good 45 minute car ride ahead of us, I would make the most of it and try and make conversation with the good man.

            His name was Kacey, he was older (I would put him around 56, but who can ever tell) and has four kids. The oldest just graduated from university, the younger two were still in university, and the youngest was still in primary school. He is very proud of them. He’s been a taxi driver for the last ten years and loves his job and owns the car he’s driving. I couldn’t actually tell you what kind of car it was, because it had Chinese symbols all over the dash, but I can tell you that it was white and not a full sized SUV, and there was a radio station playing all the greatest Tanzanian hits. The music sounded like a mix between raygay and Spanish music, and when I asked Kacey if this was the type of music the kids were into these days…he didn’t understand me. Kacey says that in a couple weeks “Mazungu” are going to be all over the city and business will be “very very good.” He’s Chugga, one of the other big tribes in the Tanzania area besides Maasai. He’s climbed Kilimanjaro three times, but won’t make it a fourth time when I asked him to come with me because he was an expert at tackling Kilimanjaro. And that was the first taxi driver I met.

            We reached the airport in due time and I asked Kacey if he was going to come inside with me, but he responded by staying in the car. I respect his decision.

            There was a good thirty minutes to kill before Nick’s flight arrived, so I leaned against a wall and listened to music to kill the time. It must have been an unfamiliar site for the taxi drivers, a Mazungu casually leaning against a wall with a sign at his feet to pick somebody up. A few of them ventured over to me and asked uncertainly if I needed a ride.

            Once the flight landed, the pack of taxi drivers swarmed, with me thrown into the mix. We stood behind a yellow line that separated us from the arriving passengers, and must have looked like an ocean of black holding up white signs with names, and then there was the one white head standing out in the crowd. I was nervous because I somehow forgot the first rule of picking up someone at the airport with a sign and that’s writing the person’s name on the sign. I was hoping that Nick would at least know what organization he was volunteering for because at least I had Make a Difference on there. Still, you never know. Every time a person walked through the arrival door everyone would hold their sign up and make it dance in the air to get the person’s attention, and once they found who was picking them up you would hear a quiet sigh of disappointment from the “Taxi Driver Union” (Name I gave it). Everyone, including myself, started to become frustrated with the constant disappointment of each arrival not being the one you were supposed to get. It was that constant disappointment and rejection that made it inevitable for some serious bonding time between a Mazungu and the Taxi Driver Union.

It started when the guy next to me, a young lad with half a Mohawk and half braided hair named Archibold (I’ll call him Archi) noticed I was standing stagnant with my sign and not waving it around like the rest. He leaned over and told me, “That’s your problem, they can’t see your sign with you just standing there,” and then he held his out and began spinning his and flipping it around. “Just like this,” he said.

When in Tanzania, do as the Tanzanian’s do.

I started flipping my sign around, backwards, upside down, and even one time put it behind my back. Archi did the same, and kept telling me that the only way to get your guest to come out of the gate faster was by spinning your sign faster. Simple logic, really. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. We began taking bets on who our passengers would be. He was convinced he was picking up a pair of Latinos and I looked over at the name on his sign and just shook my head at Archi and told him he was definitely going to lose this one. He asked why I was so certain and I shrugged and said, “Just a hunch.”

The name on his sign: Patel. 

            It was interesting being in the ranks of the Taxi Driver Union as opposed to the other way around. I got to hear their chatter and little comments when a guest would pase back and forth unable to find their driver. “Over here mazungu,” “Where you going? I’m right in front of you,” and my favorite, “Screw it just get in my car.” An incident occurred when a Latino pair (not the Patels, to Archi’s dissapointment) walked over to two drivers standing next to each other and pointed at them and asked which one they were getting. The taxi drivers, confused, looked at each other and then at their signs and realized that they both read, “Jose.” These things happen sometimes in the Taxi Driver Union, we just had to keep going. A pair of stereotypical Frenchmen came up and asked if I was their driver, and when I say stereotypical I mean they were each wearing a long sleeve striped red and white turtle necks and had little moustaches…and spoke French.

             After literally standing there for over an hour and the pack of taxi drivers dwindling to only a handful, Archi and I were becoming discouraged and thought that perhaps our guests had missed their flights. In a last ditch effort I pointed to someone standing at the customer service window and told Archi that I was calling it, that was either my guest or he just wasn’t coming. Sure enough, none other than our friend Nick came walking through and thankfully knew what organization he was volunteering for and didn’t get thrown off by there not being a name on the sign. The airline had lost his bag and so that’s why he had been one of the last people to come out of the airport.

            An Indian couple conveniently with the last name Patel walked out a minute afterwards and told Archi he was their driver. Fancy that. They had all their luggage with them so I don’t really know what their excuse was for being the last ones off, but Archi was a little frustrated by it. We parted ways, Archi and I, and I told him if I ever had to pick up another guest hopefully he will be there to flip signs with me.

            And that’s how I came to be a part (if only briefly) of the Taxi Driver Union. 

            I’m also losing weight over here, and I really can’t afford to lose weight. Good thing Theresa stocked up on bacon, sausage, and chicken at the house.