A HASH RUN - MEETING MINUTES

THe following are the minutes from the Hash Run we attended - I don't write the minutes, some raunchy Brit (Mama Hash) does it, so don't blame me if you find it offensive. And don't say I didn't warn you!!

Run no 1318 - 1 June 2009

Location: Spitz’n’Swallow & Camp Bed’s Abode opposite DYC

Hares: Camp bed, Spare & Just Greg

On another bloody Monday only made worse by the lack of decent company the run was according to Just Sid (doesn’t he lack a proper hash name...) ‘amazing’ – whatever you’re on, I want some! The walk on the other hand was crap-ish and on a scale from 1-10 given a 9 – must be an American way of counting.. Just look at their economy!

The front hare – Just Greg (at least for now) – seemed to have a problem both with holding the checks and with hats in the circle, and had a down-down for this.

Announcements:

- Next week’s hash @ the Jingle Residence on Transit Supermarket Road

- Shaggi hagish and his loyal MLP look-a-like horsi announced a 501 Darts tournament to take place at the GnD on Tuesday Evening 2 June.

- Daisy announced that USMC Latin Night 2^nd edition would take place @ the Marine house at the American Embassy on Friday evening 5 June – Which is also the Danish Constitution Day.. Hooray!! – Bar opens at 19.30 (that’s half seven or 7.30 pm!)

- Shaggi (who just can’t get enough of warm safari) encouraged the Hash to show up at TTCL on New Bagamoyo Road on Saturday afternoon 14.30 for 15.00 to support the hash team participating in the Knight Challenge – hash heroes!

- Dominatrix then foolishly tried to persuade the hash to get out of bed and go running at 6.30 (that’s am!) on Sunday morning.. Half marathon starting at Swedish school. You won’t be there either sweetheart, not when we’re done with you!

- And on behalf of Tiny, who managed to show up half way through the run and leave before the circle, once again the Vodacom fun run & marathon taking place on 21 June was announced– also bloody early on a Sunday morning.

Lots of down-downs to SnS the wannabe darter, the mighty knights of the Hash, an extra round for flatulence for his inability of keeping his mouth shut when others are talking (that’s actually even when they are NOT talking), Just Castro (seems to be a HUGE backlog on naming people) who was promoted to Sergeant today and many more...

Today’s RA Prawn generously handed out down-downs first to forgetful ones and then the triple was taken into use first to the Ripper, Camp bed & Just Greg for doing a useless job setting the run and afterwards trying hard to screw it up. Then the official chosen few and the unofficial few and finally SnS & a wide selection of accomplices for getting lost on the walk.

Virgins:

Mafisa from Arusha-sha, brought by Jingle Boobs preferring missionaries..

Swair from San Fransisco, brought by SnS, preferring woman on top – sounds a bit exotic for a GUY from SF..

Mike from Seattle, brought by Sns & Camp Bed, likes it lobster style

Mara from Ohio/Seattle, brought by Sns & Camp Bed, wants it on the table!

Andy from South Carolina, brought by 3 fingers, Likes it all

Erin from Chicago, brought by Tiffany, does it criss cross..!

Returnees, lack of t-shirts and purchasing of such.. Swair returning after 10 years, Hot Safari & Topless Wonder being hash haberdashery department, Prawn.. Drink it down-down-down..

Hashit..

The ‘Purple Dame’ Ripper kindly handed over the hashit regalia to Just Greg for his useless attempt of being a hare, since other nominees were Nasty for liking the rubber gloves – another hash hero! – and SnS for... No f*ing idea, but the GM also wants to have sex tonight so Karibu Greg, tough sh*t! Down-down to the hashit soon formerly to be known as Just Greg and his just as useless Godfathers..

Suggestions were: Front running Bastard (which of course isn’t valid), Wrong Turn, PREMATURE EJACULATION or Hare the f*ck are we?

And without any alternatives Just Greg will here after, blessed by the great gizmo in the sky, be known to the hash as PREMATURE EJACULATION

The swarm of virgins re-entered the circle for the usual lame attempt of singing SLSC but what’s to expect from a bunch of piss-heads...

ON ON!

H G

OUR BIRTHING STORY

After learning we were pregnant only the day after moving to Tanzania, I went on a full rampage to get as much information about pregnancy as possible.  We found out fast that many people delivered healthy babies in Dar es Salaam.  It’s just that there are only two birthing options; natural delivery or cesarean.  Most women, particularly the foreigners, opted for natural delivery.  And so it was that we became immersed in the world of natural birthing. 

In Dar es Salaam we took an abbreviated course on the Bradley method taught by an American doula living in E. Africa for over a decade.  Later, in Seattle, I took a course in Hypnobirthing.  I listened to birthing affirmations and did yoga every day.

We elected to return to Seattle for the birth early on in the pregnancy.  Close to Mike’s parents’ house is a terrific birthing center and a doctor who supported our preparations for natural birth and had worked with our doula before.  I felt pretty confident about delivery and definitely nervous.  Two weeks prior to my due date, I was already 3.5 cm dilated and 70% effaced!

A day after my due date, it looked like Morgan was finally on his way out.  I had back labor starting at 7am that continued until I went to bed at 1am that night.  A long, 2-hour walk, a hot shower and drinking lots of water helped to diminish the aching but it did not go away entirely.  That night, I took a shower, shaved my legs, washed my hair, and then even styled it a little.  Mike and I tried not to get too excited, but we were feeling like this was the start of our delivery.

Then, at 4:30 in the morning I woke up to mind-numbing pain in my back.  I got up, went to the toilet, and saw that I was bleeding a little.  I woke Mike up and forced him to go look at the toilet.  And, being a prince, he actually did.  We called our doula, and then the doctor at the birthing center, who told us that the blood wasn’t a lot and may only be a broken vein, but I should come into the birth center for a quick check just to be sure.  If it was nothing, I could return home to labor more comfortably until I progressed further.   

I got 2 more strong contractions in my back during the phone calls, but felt like I could manage them if I could get a chance to relax in between.  But then my plans all went to pot.  Suddenly the contractions started coming very hard and very fast.  They  were 1 minute apart, and 15 seconds to 1 minute long.  It took us an hour even to get into the car.  On the 5-minute ride to the birthing center I had 2 contractions.  I walked into the birthing center and could barely get ready to be monitored because of the contractions.  They were all in my lower back, and I either didn’t have any contractions in my front or I simply didn’t notice them..  I lost track of time but I remember the nurse forcing me to lay down so the on-call doctor could do an internal exam on me.  Woh nelly, was that the worst pain ever!  Suddenly my water broke and there was blood everywhere.  I focued on my hypnobirthing like a madwoman, and Mike let me grab the back of his neck while I counted down from 40.  (I don’t think I ever made it past 37 without losing track).  I was dilated to 5 cm, totally effaced, and the baby’s heart rate was down to 55 bpm (normal is 120-140).  The doctor looked at me calmly and said she was very sorry but she was making the call for an emergency cesarean immediately.  My own doctor was on her way, and later told me she nearly hit a construction worker trying to arrive in time. 

When they said cesarean, I felt a wash of relief – with all my obsessive research and study, I knew something wasn’t quite right and I was strangely glad to hear that the doctor recognized it also.  It was a shocking thought, considering that my biggest nightmare was that I would be put under a general anesthetic and miss the whole birth, and now I was facing exactly that.  Mike didn’t show a hint of fear, even though he later admitted he was terrified.  I spent most of my time on my side grabbing his neck and trying to do my hypnobirthing.  And as far as I’m concerned it totally paid off!  By the time I was rolled into the operating room, Morgan’s heart rate was back up to 120.  Mike was next to me and I was sitting up on the gurney hugging him while he helped me to focus on the hypnobirthing.  Suddenly the emergency cesarean was no longer necessary.  Crisis averted, but I was still bleeding everywhere and the contractions were supa-fast.

My doctor arrived and Mike and I discussed an epidural.  It seemed like keeping me relaxed was the key to avoiding an emergency cesarean and the general anesthetic I feared so much.  I never wanted natural childbirth just to prove something, and I’d always believed that there was a time and place for epidurals.  Sitting in the OR bleeding, watching Morgan’s heartrate fluctuate and narrowly avoiding my biggest fear, it was my time to ask for medical support.  I accepted to have the epidural so I could coherently discuss with my doctor what was going on.  At that time I had dilated to 7cm, and I had been at the birthing center for less than 2 hour.s

When the haze from the contractions mellowed from the epidural, my doctor had a serious talk with me.  She explained that I was experiencing back labor because Morgan was “sunny side up.”  She suspected that I had a tear in my placenta, and possibly a fully abrupted placenta (torn away from the uterus).  Because I bordering on transition and progressing quickly, and because she knew we wanted to deliver vaginally (now that delivering naturally was out of the question), she said it was technically possible that I continue to labor.  However, she wasn’t comfortable with it.  I would have to be on the fetal monitor the entire time, and given the bleeding I likely had a placental abruption, and she was worried she would have to make the call to wheel me into the OR at a moment’s notice for the emergency cesarean.  Basically, it was pretty risky.

Then she said the words that really stuck in my mind – she said that she felt like the baby wanted to get out fast.  I believe strongly that babies come when they are ready, and I’ve researched how babies may be the catalyst for labor .  I, too, felt like Morgan was trying to get out, perhaps because something wasn’t entirely right inside.  I also knew from my research that a placental abruption can be life threatening.  Vaginal delivery seemed idiotic at that point.  So we agreed to the c-section, and I was wheeled into the OR for a second time, except this time I would be awake to watch the birth, and Mike would be beside me for the entire time.

I can’t say enough about the team in the OR, or about Mike.  Mike just smiled and stayed calm, and he never appeared to be worried (he later told me he was terrified.)  I asked the doctor to tell me what was going on step by step during the surgery, and she did.  When Morgan was born, they brought him naked, bloody, and screaming to me so I could see him, then handed him to Mike for skin-on-skin contact.  Mike cut the umbilical cord (he said it was tough) and held him for the next 30 minutes while I was sewn up.

During that time, Mike learned how to swaddle and hold the baby.  He kept raising the baby’s face to my face so I could kiss it.  I started to feel numb in my chest and head, and didn’t feel so hot.  Mike continued to shove Kidogo’s face in my face and I loved it but simultaneously wanted it all to stop immediately so I could pass out.

Finally, I was stitched up and wheeled into my room.  By then I had feeling back in my arms, and I could hold Morgan.  I don’t remember what I felt at that moment, but I remember the nurse asked if I wanted to breastfeed right then, and I said yes.  Morgan latched on like a champ, and even though it hurt a little I fell in love right then looking down at him.  Mike was already totally smitten, he kept reaching over me trying to pet Morgan, I thought he might just take Morgan away from me so he could hold him again!

The doctor came in to make sure I was okay – she did in fact find a blog clot in the placenta, which means there had been an abruption from the urerus, and if I’d tried to deliver vaginally I would have ended up in emergency cesarean.  It was good to know that we’d made the right call.  My memories of the birth are happy ones, because I was awake, got to see Mike and Morgan bonding during that time, and could hold and breastfeed my baby immediately after the surgery.  We laughed, made jokes, cried with joy, hugged and kissed, and I would have had none of that if I’d had to have an emergency cesarean.

I am also very glad to have studied the natural childbirth methods.  I firmly believe that they helped us to avoid the emergency cesarean and to make the decisions that we needed to make.   I also believe that these technicques, particularly the hypnobirthing and yoga, have contributed to a strong and quick recovery.  

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Up the Duff: Natural Birthing Classes in Dar

Most of the ex-pat women I know who have children have given birth in their home countries for their first child. The one woman I do know who gave birth here in Dar es Salaam is an American who’s entire family lives here, and they moved here from Zimbabwe. I suppose if my entire family lived here and I had no contacts in the USA, that would make a lot of sense. The one lesson that is most important in childbirth is to have a support system. If you can’t get it where you are, go somewhere else. That’s why for our first child we are returning to the USA instead of going closer to home.

Our doctor made it clear that she would not deliver a first-born, and we would need to go to the Agha Khan hospital because they have better equipment to care for the mother. However, she stressed that no wear in Tanzania is adequately prepared to deal with taking care of a newborn in distress (oxygen, etc.) Because of that issue, she recommended that we consider returning to the USA, Europe, Nairobi, or Johannesburg for the birth of Kidogo.

Agha Khan has great technical resources (the Agha Khan foundation is fantastically wealthy), but they are somewhat behind the times in patient care. I did meet with a doctor there………. It didn’t work out. There was a total disconnect between my western sensibilities and her Afro/Eastern mentality. I wanted information, and I came with a list of questions. She was overwhelmed by my questions and responded sort of like a limp wrist. Clearly, she came from that all-too-common African/Indian medical culture of the doctor simply proceeding with a check-up then telling you when your next appointment will be. She didn’t share anything to me about the state of my own health or that of my baby, but simply dismissed me. When I asked her where I could get information on pregnancy, she told me look on the internet. The next day I learned that there are English-language bookstores all over Dar es Salaam (in coffee shops serving iced lattes no less) with a large variety of pregnancy manuals, mostly from the UK.

I decided to take my prenatal care at the European clinic, in conjunction with a pediatrician clinic that is run by Tanzanians all trained in Europe, even though it does not have the super tech equipment of the Agha Khan hospital. The decision was an easy one: I didn’t even have to pull out my list of questions, my doctors, Western trained or European, know intrinsically what I needed to hear and dispensed information rapidly. They then directed me to appropriate resources for further investigation. Since then, I’ve been very happy with my care, and each issue has been attended to efficiently and immediately. To date I haven’t had any major issues, but I know that if I do they will be spotted quickly.

Since I’ve had more time to know Tanzania, I’ve learned that there are a host of skilled midwives, African, Indian, European, American, and many doulas and yoga instructors that assist with natural birth. Epidurals, unfortunately, are out of the 1970’s spinal tap era, and drugs are not to be trifled with. The hospitals are well equipped to handle cesareans if necessary – in fact the gossip is that they will give you an unnecessary cesarean if they think you can pay for it.


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You Know You're From Yellow Springs If......

1. You know what it means to be a herb.
2. You think that Dino's is better than Starbucks or anything else.
3. You have seen Antioch students tanning nude on campus.
4. Pedestrians ALWAYS have the right of way.
5. You think sidewalks are silly - you walk down the middle of the road.
6. You remember the Bubble Man.
7. You can easily pick out the tourists by their tie-dyed tee shirts and find it funny that they even try to blend in.
8. You're always a little surprised (and more than a little excited) when people from other parts of the country recognize Yellow Springs by name.
8. You watch the fireworks from Gaunt Park Hill.
9. You've often wondered what percentage of people you would be able to name were the entire population of Yellow Springs to form a line-up.
10. You're used to the sound of the F-16 jets flying over from Wright Patt.
11. You recognize non-Yellow Springers by the way they emphasize the "Yell" in Yellow Springs instead of the "Springs."
12. You don't really need a car because you have a bike and two legs.
13. You will always call Tom's "Weaver's."
14. Your bike has been stolen at least once.
15. You think it's bizarre that people in other parts of the world actually bother to lock their doors.
16. You can't imagine why anyone would want to live in Xenia.
17. If you went to Mills Lawn, then you hold secret sterotypes about Antioch School kids; if you went to The Antioch School, you hold secret stereotypes about Mills Lawn kids.
18. You're accepting of everyone - except Republicans.
19. You know Niki Dakota and Vick Mickunas by their voices.
20. You are surprised if there aren't 10 or 20 protestors at the Limestone/ Xenia Ave. traffic light on a Saturday morning.
21. Your face has been on the cover of the YS News at least once.
22. You still paint your face with rocks from the Yellow Spring AND go sledding at Gaunt Park and you probably always will.
23. You've trick-or-treated at the Erickson's house.
24. You and possibly one of your parents was taught by Curds.
25. You sometimes have to drop Dave Chappelle's name in order to get people to pay attention to you when you describe where you live.
26. You arrive everywhere on "Yellow Springs Time."
27. If someone says " New Year's Eve Ball Drop," you picture a broken disco ball wrapped up in leftover Christmas lights that may, or may not, fall at midnight.
28. You couldn't drive over 25 MPH in town if you wanted to because the stop signs are so freaking close together.
29. At least one police officer knows your name, your parents' names, where you live, and, if your dog is adventurous, his or her name also.
30. You or someone you knew broke their arm falling off the eagle's perch.
31. The Corner Cone, or whatever they decide to call it, will always be the Tastee Freeze.
32. You were warned as a child to stay away from IGA Land on Halloween.
33. You think that the police report is the most comical part of the YS News.
34. The second Saturdays in June and October are days when you wish that "Tourist Season" was more akin to "Deer Season."
35. After your parents divorced, one of them came out of the closet.
36. You used to prank-call Herbert Lemaster.
37. You hid Mrs. McCurdy's phone. When she asked you about it, you smiled and told her you liked her overalls.
38. You measure distances in yards.
39. Litotes are part of your regular speak. I.e., "I'm not mad at it" really means "I like it."40. You know what a skillet is, and it's not a piece of cookware.
41. Antioch students will always seem older than you, even if you're old enough to be their professor.
42. You still aren't exactly clear on what SPRAWL is, but whatever it is, you're pretty sure you're against it.
43. You can still remember the first time you successfully climbed the giant pebble.
44. You "played" Perry League tee ball. You ran to fence and back to warm up and then spent the rest of the game building dirt mounds on third base until it was your turn to bat.
45. You don't expect stores to open untill 10:00am. Well, make that 10:15am. . .
46. You walked in the "We Live Here!" parade.
47. You remember the controversy over the removal of a dead tree from in front of the Trail Tavern.
48. You were thouroughly inconvenienced by the construction on Dayton St., and refused to use the detour.
49. You have been, on multiple occasions, very perplexed by the fragmentation of President St.


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Traffic Cop Hurdles in Haiti and Kin

We have been stopped by corrupt officials in many countries; Haiti, the Dominican Republic, Kenya, Congo.  I even had to sit through an "inspection" in Buenos Aires with my university class last January.  In Haiti, however, we had several advantages, one being that we spoke the language, and another being that Haiti is the Wild Wild West and no one knows what is supposed to be happening.  In that sort of situation, anything can happen, and it's more likely you can talk your way through situations and negotiate solutions.  If your intentions are good, it works out.  If your intentions are bad, it works out.  You need to have a strong moral compass.

Generally, the car we used in Haiti was a business car associated with FINCA, which was a partner of USAID.  Therefor, we were given special license plates, similar to diplomatic plates.  We rarely got stopped, and when it did happen it was usually by inexperienced cops who were stunned we spoke Creole.  Amiable conversation usually won the day.

Once, I was driving a rental car with a Norwegian family.  THe traffic cops stopped me, and I portrayed myself as the driver for my boss sitting next to me.  The cop asked if we were american, I said no, we were Norwegian.  THe cop asked what language we spoke, I said Norwegian.  The cop got flustered, asked if it was like English, and I said no, it was like Swedish.  That did it, he didn't want to deal with us at all, and waved us through!

In Kinshasa, you have to lock your doors and roll up your windows.  Otherwise the police will jump into the vehicle with you and force you to either take them where they need to go or take you to a police station where your car will be impounded.  I've seen it happen at traffic stops.  Once a FINCA business car was "hijacked" by a traffic cop, back when FINCA was still a partner of USAID and therefor had diplomatic plates!  THe US Embassy had to intervene to tell the police that they were obliged to return the vehicle.

But my favorite story is still when I was singled out in a traffic jam and, being new to driving in Kinshasa, I was naive enough to actually pull over.  (by the end of my first year, I figured out that everyone usually just swerves around the traffic cops, or else sits there and blocks traffic until they let you go.)  My 2nd mistake was to roll down the window to speak to the gang of cops hovering around my car.  I knew enough not to let them INTO the car, as they requested, but one managed to reach inside and grab my car registration, then scurry to the other side of the boulevard.  They refused to give me back registration!!!!

I was so furious but tried to think of what to do.  Paying a bribe just means you have to pay again and again, and I was absolutely not going to live in this city paying bribes to cops all the time.  I called up Mike who was with the FINCA driver to get their advice.  The FINCA driver is a total mover-n-shaker in Kinshasa, and I thought if anyone knows how to handle this situation, he does.  THey were close by so they showed up along with another FINCA colleague.  It was a wonderful scene: the FINCA guys are all 6'4" and big, and they walked like a gang up to the gaggle of traffic cops.  Mike stared down the one with the registration and simply said "Give it back now"  The group stuttered out a few "calmez vous" and meekly handed it back. I never had a problem at that intersection again.

I was stopped fairly regularly after that, often without any explanation or reason.  But I soon caught on that it was better to avoid the regular cop stands, swerve around them, or sit blocking traffic reading a magazine until they let you go.  I made sure I had all my ducks in order, and obeyed all the traffic laws (well, as much as everyone else did) so that I knew there was no actual reason to stop me.  (But the fact is that in Congo I don't think anyone knows what the real laws are, especially not the police.)  Pretty soon the harassment was almost entirely stopped.  Somehow, they knew the gig was up with me.  By the end of our first year in Congo, I started to sympathize with the cops: their job is so crappy.  They stand in exhaust fumes, the hot sun, all day, for something like $30/month, and they usually don't get paid for several months at a time.  At Christmas I handed out water bottles and gave them a small bonus, on my own terms without their request and without being harassed for it.

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Culture Clash: Islamic Nation

Amateur observer: Islam in TZ, month 3

Muslim dress mixed with Western dress is the norm in Dar es Salaam for men and women. As you can expect, Westerners, Indians, Arabs, and people from other Middle Eastern nations dress the same as they would in their own countries. Dar is a very tolerant place. Tanzanian’s themselves are usually Western style, and our Muslim landlord dresses beautifully in Western and African dresses draped in Indian shawls.

The Abaya, full black robes with a veil covering the face from the nose down and black gloves, are a common sight in Dar es Salaam. You see them in the streets, often without the chaperone that the media tells us is supposed to accompany theses conservative Muslim women when they are out in public. They carry flashy purses and wear super heavy Cleopatra-style eyeliner. The outfit itself is a paradox. Nearly all of them I see shopping in the malls or going to movies are totally decked out in sequins, making the women look like disco balls when they move in the sun. A roving disco ball contradicts the whole purpose of the garment, which is to be hidden from the world, right? And the veil is usually totally ineffective. Whenever these women bend over to look at something or pick something up, the veil falls forward and the full face is revealed. It’s one of our favorite people-watching games, “did you see her face? Yeah, caught it!” It’s our little innocuous thrill at glimpsing the asininely forbidden. (yes, I just made a judgment there.)

I must admit I know I nothing about the community of people who wear the Abayas, or if they would even be open to a foreigner asking them about their dress. My instincts, based on influences like media and growing up as an American, tell me that if I tried to ask one of these veiled women for directions in the street, their husband would be neighborly and assist me. Let’s face it, someone draped in head to toe black with a veil is not screaming “I’m friendly, feel free to ask me how the weather is.” The black veil abaya is intimidating and keeps the woman from being harassed, spoken to, and touched. So when they walk by themselves into a boutique, isn’t it intimidating to say “how can I help you?” and I wonder if men and women can offer shop assistance or only women?

But the sequined disco ball frocks, unaccompanied shopping trips in the street, heavy eye make-up and flashy purses give a different story. These are not Taleban women, wearing the frock under threat of violence. There’s some sort of balance between choice, religious obligation, and tradition that I just don’t get because I’m from a totally different world. Again, a culture clash.

Dress as a culture clash is not something we’ve ever had a problem with, and to be honest I don’t agree with making head scarves into a human rights issue. Westerners who attack how Muslim women dress usually don’t seem to have spent a lot of time with religiously active Muslims (neither have we, but we work and live alongside them everyday) and I think are confusing traditional obligations with violent intimidation. I admit to this: I secretly believe that covering women eyelash to toenail relates to a fair amount of evolutionary baby-mama paranoia gone wild. But I also believe that changing traditional dress has to come from the Muslim world, and as a Westerner I don’t have the spiritual equipment to allow me to understand why women have to cover their heads and bodies but men dress like they do in Texas and Arkansas. (Well, okay, most Muslim men dress more chicly, actually.)

Most Muslim women who dress conservatively in Dar es Salaam, but not in full black and not with the face veil, are very approachable. They have power in their places of work, and (if they are foreigners) usually hold supervisory and managerial jobs in banks, corporations, service agencies, etc. Like every other business, some know exactly what they are doing in their work and handle themselves professionally, others don’t. The black veils do NOT come out in the work place. I don’t know if it is because Abaya wearers don’t work, or if they have a different dress for work. Few of the conservative dressers choose to wear gloves, but some men and women will choose to bow their head politely during an introduction rather than shake the hand of a person from the opposite sex (this rarely happens in professional relationships).

Sometimes you see conservative Muslims sitting altogether in restaurants, and other times the women are segregated from the men. But I have never felt that the conservative women in Dar are shy. And they talk loudly and gesture widely just like a soccer mom at junior league game in shorts and a fanny pack. If you are sitting looking at a map next to a conservative family, I mean full frocks (face uncovered) and the men in beards wearing doppas, there’s a good chance that they’ll ask you what you are doing and if you need help. Dar is like that. Actually, come to think of it, that same scenario happened to us in Mumbai, also, and the family itself was from South Africa, so maybe it isn’t just the city culture, but the Muslim culture as well…………….

In Kinshasa, we lived within a kilometer of a mosque and heard the call to prayer in the morning, at 7am, and at sunset. It was lovely to hear, soft, and didn’t wake us up if we were sleeping in. It’s a different story now. We don’t live in close proximity to a mosque, so someone has taken it on himself to walk through our neighborhood with a bullhorn from 4-6am screeching prayers. I know of no polite way to say this: the dude can’t sing. It’s terrible! The first time I heard it I was offended, but now I have to chuckle. If he were onstage the audience would throw tomatoes at him. Luckily he rarely passes directly on our street, so often we just sleep right through it.

Dar is no stranger to Islamic extremism and terrorism. In 1996, the US Embassies in Dar es Salaam and Nairobi, Kenya were bombed nearly simultaneously in coordinated attacks. Over 200 people were killed and more than 2000 injured. All but 6 of the dead were local people. Al Queda took credit for the bombings, and US security strategy immediately shifted to the African frontlines in the form of humanitarian and development assistance. Bush’s visit to Tanzania in March was downright popular, they loved him. The reason? He pledged $750 million to Tanzanian in development assistance, and then he went hopping out with Maasi. As one Tanzania reflected, Bush was in a mosh pit with Maasi warriors carrying daggers, when in the USA you couldn’t get that kind of contact with him. Bush remains that guy you could sit and have a beer with (oops, meant to say soda water J), which in the USA wins elections. But in Africa, it wins elections and allows you to take over the military and central bank, change the constitution, ruin the economy, and stay in power for decades until an entire generation of citizens can’t write their own names and are in no position to know for certain that their leader is bad, because, after all, he’s a good guy to have a beer with. But I digress…………

Yes, a terrorist attack happened in Tanzania and yes, it is a Muslim country. But it ought to be apparent to any non-Muslim coming here that to equate Islam in Tanzania with terrorism is highly offensive. It’s not something I would ever bring up with colleagues because it’s like saying because I come from the USA I must be a cowboy. It’s just extreme. Apart from some Muslims choosing to take on conservative dress, religion is no more apparent in everyday life here than it is in the USA. I’m still not going to approach a woman dressed in a black veil until someone tells me that it’s okay, but apart from the cater-wauling going on every morning through the bullhorn, I don’t feel like I’m asked to make extreme or uncomfortable changes in my behavior or dress in Tanzania. The disco-bar down the street blaring hip hop offends me more than anything else here. It is a new and interesting life living in a Muslim country, but then again Tanzania is very tolerant and accepting.

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Introducing the Paka: Cappy & Canelo

Paka means “cat” in Swahili. It was the first word I learned in Tanzania (apart from that stupid Jambo song that Hollywood plays whenever it sets a movie in Africa.) The reason I learned it first is because we brought our cats with us from the Congo when we moved to Tanzania. Travelling in and out of the Congo, or any African country, is a special experience, and doing it with animals even more so. I was very worried, especially after hearing that a USAID employee lost her cats at the Kinshasa airport when a porter dropped the cage and it busted open. Not until she arrived in France was she told her cats didn’t even make it on the plane! After hearing that story, I bought 2 rolls of duct tape and made sure the cages were completely secure no matter what happened

First of all, to bring animals on any flight you have to make the reservation in advance, which is just asking for trouble in the Congo, because of course this gives the cargo people time to alert the airport officials that some rich foreigner is ripe for the pickings. The moment we walked into the airport we were accosted by men in white robes claiming to be veterinarians. Guys in white coats are NEVER hanging out at the front of the airport, so clearly they had been called in just for us. Then came an hour-long negotiation about what kind of "tax" I was supposed to pay on the cats. They never actually looked at the cats, and kept insisting I had to pay an import tax. They even produced some decrepit looking law book from the 1950s which said I had to pay an import tax. There was no possibility of explaining what the word “import” actually meant!!

Finally we settled on $20, but then had another problem when I insisted on a receipt with full name and identification. Didn’t exist. I got something that sort of looked official but was certainly not a receipt and I had to insist that they write their names and phone numbers on it, just in case somewhere down the line more “vets” required yet further import taxes. But happily then I was directed to the sanctuary of the Kenya Airways Cargohold, where at least I had some recourse (and the Kenya Airways Cargo HQ phone number to complain to) if I got shaken down further. A nice tip insured not only that the cats got on the plan but that I also received a text message from the boss confirming it (always get it in writing!)

In Kenya, we had a 1 hour layover, and I already had the number of the Cargo people, so I called to make sure the cats would make the transfer to the next plan. Of course, Cargo had no idea about it. By the time I got onto the tarmac to board the plane, there was still no confirmation about the cats, so I spoke to the crew on the ground about whether they expected to receive cats. I then stood there on the tarmac, and politely declined to board until I saw the cats arrive. They were actually totally cool about this, even though I sort of held up the plane by a few minutes. And then the cats arrived, I was ushered quickly onto the plane, and all was well.

Until we got to Dar es Salaam, that is. Going straight to the cargo hold, we said Paka and there was absolutely no comprehension or expectation of cats arriving from Kenya Airways. There were, however, alligators and other reptiles boxed up for travel to the USA, which was really intriguing. After a big run around, driving back and forth from the cargo to the airport to get signatures, they finally located the cats. But, then we also had a bag in cargo. We asked to have the bag released as well, on the grounds that “the cat food is in the bag.” More running around, and 6 hours later, the bag was released. But when they went to look for it, it wasn’t there. It hadn’t even arrived. After all that effort I’d spent in Kenya making sure that the cats arrived, it didn’t occur to me to also make sure that my bag would arrive as well. Unfortunately this was the start of Easter weekend, which in Tanzania means 5 days national holiday. (which makes sense, being a Muslim country and all……….. ?)

We had nowhere to take the cats at that point, because it was nearly midnight and we had no house. So we tentatively covered up the cages, parked in front of the front door of the Holiday Inn, waved off the bell hops, and booked it across the lobby with screeching cats under blankets up to our room. Mike, who was thoroughly enjoying himself, nonchalantly hopped back down to get our bags like we didn’t just run cats into the hotel illegally and everyone saw. I stayed in the room waiting for the inevitable knock on the door from management. But it never came.

In the end we didn’t get the bag left in cargo until the next week, so we needed to search out grocery stores that sold cat food. I went traipsing all over downtown asking everyone I saw for “Paka” food. No luck, so I ended up buying some puppy chow instead. That worked for about a minute, and then I think the cats caught on that they were eating dog food and walked away in disgust. After that, it was Holiday Inn room service leftovers and whatever sausage I could sneak out of breakfast.

For the next week our refugee cats hid in the room with us. We wouldn’t let the maid in to clean, and I made a makeshift litterbox in the bathroom. But by the 7th day they’d started marking their territory. We knew where the house was that we were to move into, but the owner was making a lot of repairs and we couldn’t move in for some time to come. So we dumped the cats in the garage there with food and litter for another week until we could move into the house ourselves. By the time we finally insisted on moving into the house, the cats were thoroughly traumatized. Cappy, who is the bully, was visibly depressed. I’ve never see a cat depressed before, I didn’t know it could happen, but he was clearly unhappy. Canelo, on the other hand, never was too bright to begin with, so recovered quickly.

The paka are now back to their old habits: sleeping during the day and playing jungle cat at night. But for the first time they have to contend with a host of other animals in the yard, and it’s been tough going from their coddled city life in Kinshasa to “country” living on the Peninsula of Dar es Salaam. They’re crap at trying to catch rabbits, and were getting beat up regularly by the local strays. But they’ve toughened up a little, and now Cappy is the valiant defender of the back porch, and Canelo keeps the wandering kittens at bay. They still haven’t learned how to climb trees, though, and think the guinea fowl are shite (couldn’t agree more). And the rooster terrifies them. But they keep the mice away!

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