Econolodge might not be the most classy hotel, but for us on a budget, it's great. Clean, really nice bathrooms, and if you get a room facing the same direction as the entrance, it's really quiet to. Some of the rooms even have little balconies, wich is great for the ones who smoke... It's location makes it easy to get around, the harbour is within walking distance, and there's taxis everywhere. It's also a short walk to the nearest dala-stop. The price is good for a big city (about $17 for a twin), the rooms get cleaned every day and they have a safe for your valuables downstairs. Oh, and if you somehow manage to break the lid on the toilet, they won't charge you for it...

Ok, it's been a while, I have a lot of cathing up to do on my blogging... But here we go!

Dar es Salaam, "Haven of Peace". I'm not so sure about that, I've seen quieter places for sure! Got to the airport, hurried trough immigration got our backpacks and ran outside to find a toilet (You might need one after so many hours on a plane). Just to discover, there ARE no toilets outside. You have to go before exiting immigration. Though luck.

Found our way downtown, to Libya street. Quite a few bugdet hotels there, but before you get into one, you have to manouver trough all the safari salesmen. That's actually quite easy once you learn how to say no thank you very much, but as Tanzania newbies, it took it's time. Don't want to be impolite, you know.

Finally, we checked into Econolodge, wich luckily had reeeaaaaaly nice toilets. Nice and clean, and our own little balcony, yeih!

Wanted to check out Dar before heading further, so in a few days we visited the botanical garden, wich luckily was for free. Would have been very disappointed if I actually payed for that... Was a couple of dried out bushes really. Go in a small mess with a police officer as well, he claimed we did something illegal to take pictures of a big bird. We didn't want to pay, and played really stupid tourists, and in the end we called our new friend Ali Baba who talked to the policeman, and suddenly there was no problem at all. How peculiar!

We also spendt quite a few hours at the excellent restaurant/cafe Chef's Pride. The owner is really lovely, and always up for a chat. He has great advices for things to do around Tanzania as well.

Went to the national museum to, not really a "must-do", to be honest. But, beeing the only people there, we had a lot of fun taking funny pictures of each other... You don't get any more fun than you make yourself, right?

The harbour and markets were swarming places, nice to go there for a chat with the locals, but difficult avoiding buying loads of stuff you don't really want to make your backpack even heavier. We managed to buy nothing at all, so quite impressed with myself, beeing the little shopping-maniac I am.

The big highlight of our stay was when Ole, really hpot and tired, bounced down on the toilet lid - and broke it into pieces. Almost cramped with laughter, especially when he actually brought the pieces down to the reception to explain what he did... The owner here is pretty nice to, so we didn't have to pay for it. Just felt slightly awkward every time we passed the reception after that.

Summing it up: Fun city for a few days, but skip the botanical garden, will you?

What is this? Illegal Border Crossing #6?!

It was a good thing I asked Alice before I left my stuff at her place if she was going to charge me.  My assumption was that it was free, but something told me to confirm.  Sure enough, the stereotype she told us about her tribe being money hungry is true.  She was going to charge me 300 ksh per night to leave my stuff there for a week.  This is after giving her more money than most Kenyan's make in a year already in rent.  This is after she confirmed that she will have no other visitors who need to rent my bed.  So, I packed up all my stuff and stored it for free at Gilbert's house.  This also gave me the opportunity to prove I am totally incompetant when it comes to getting babies to stop crying, show off my ugali cooking skills again, and have a prayer said on our behalf as we started our journey.

Then we stayed at the Leopard's Lair Lodge for just 550 ksh per night in Nairobi as it is right next to the Akamba bus station where our bus was leaving the next morning at 6AM.  What a lovely place!  Cockroached lined walls.  Sleep to the sounds of mosquitoes flying in and around your ears.  Hookers to greet you in the hallway as you make your way to the community toilet and showers.  It wasn't too bad , though, because it had hot water showers!

Made the mistake of getting some Picana Pure Mango drink for breakfast before jumping on the bus.  It was a mistake for two reasons.  One... didn't know breakfast was included on this bus.  Two..bumpy ride plus mango drink equals barf.  Or maybe it was the two hard boiled eggs they gave me on the bus.  Well, they only gave me one but I decided I hadn't had much protein during the last few months and traded a chipati for an egg with Gilbert.  Big mistake.  Mango and egg barf does not smell good on a long hot 14 hour bus ride. 

When we got to the T-Zed (that is Tanzania to your non-East Africans) Namanga border crossing, my head was fully inside my Nakumat bag making horrible noises as passengers filed off to get their passports stamped.  The driver was completely unaware of the horrors going on in the back of the bus, so he continued across the border to wait for everyone on the other side.  When I could finally make my way down the aisle, he said we better run quickly back across the border before immigration caught us.  LOL.  I was not running though.  I was walking like a delirious zombie.  I really had a hard time shoeing off the mob of people trying to sell me money and other trickets.  Thank goodness Gilbert was there to push them off, fill out my paperwork, wait in the long line, and escort me back.  A few nice ladies saw me waiting on a bench and realized that I was the barfer on the bus.  One wanted to give me some drugs and the other made me promise to get a malaria test when I got to Dar es Salam.  She said she had had it 4 times in the last 3 years she has been in Uganda.   It was very kind of them to take interest in the poor muzungu.  I handed over the $100 USD they want for a Visa from us Americans and took the worst post-barf black-eyed photo of my life to be permanently stuck in my passport for it.  Then it was off to enjoy the view of a new country.

We passed through Arusha, Moshi, and Same (which looked the same as the other cities...baadumpbump!)  It went from beautiful desert to tropical forest.  We stopped for lunch at Mwamba. My lunch and every meal for the next 24 hours consisted of bisquits (not sweet enough to be a full cookie and not bland enough to be a cracker) and a soda.  Got my first Pepsi in months there.  Cost was 500 ksh.  Gilbert's Coke?  1000 ksh.  Who's the muzungu getting ripped off now?!

We had heard that if you don't get off the bus at the bus station in Dar and instead stay on as the driver takes it back to the office you can get a cheaper, shorter taxi ride to the hostels.  So we did just that with the one other muzungu on board, a girl from Isreal traveling on her own.  Not sure this was really a great idea.  It was dark out.  Not a well populated neighborhood.  And we were swarmed by pushy taxi drivers the minute we walked out.  The girl was planning to go to a $30 USD hotel, but I was bound and determined to get a $12 USD one.  So we waited until we were sure she was off safe before negotiating for our ride.  I know what it is like to be in her position.  Alone in a strange city at night and hoping to find someone who is going your way  The bus driver told us it should cost 2,000 tsh (16 tsh to every 1 ksh and 1300 to every USD) for a taxi to the... it's fun to stay at the...YWCA.  These guys all wanted 10,000 tsh.  Crap!  Eventually the bus driver offered to walk the girl to her hotel which was only a few blocks away.  We negotiated down to 4,000 tsh but, of course, both Ys (W and M) were sold out.  I was bummed because I had never stayed in one. Thought it would be....wait for it.... fun!  We told the driver to take us to the next chepaest one in the Lonely Planet called Safari Inn for $16 USD.  Gilbert is directing him in Kswahili and translating for me.  When he asked the guy how much more he wanted to take us there, he said that they would negotiate when they got there.  That part did not make it in the translation.  Bad move!  Never move until you know the price.  But, poor Gilbert has never travelled and doesn't know all the tricks.  But that was not the only trick!  He did not take us to the hotel we requested.  He took us to one in a very scarey part of town called Hawaii.  It is off of Mafia Street, so that should have been a clue.  They wanted $20 USD for their rooms. (I will soon learn that everyone wants USD here.  They don't let foreigners pay for too many things in Tanzanian Shillings.  Weird!)  And the driver wants 4,000 tsh more.  That does it!  I become Ultra Beeotch!  I will give you 2,000 tsh and no more!  You didn't even take me to the hotel I requested.  You are obviously getting a cut from this hotel for kidnapping us.  Plus you are getting 4,000 tsh more than wer were told is fair.    Stop telling me that your family is starving!  Scram! He follow us inside.  Annoying !  Will soon learn this is the tactic they all use here.  These annoying people who follow you everywhere are called papasi which means knat or something like that in kswahili.  They won't leave until you throw more money at them.  I couldn't wait to get into the non-draining shower and use the hole in the ground toilet they had down the hall after the 14 hour ride.

Ferrys to Zanzibar start leaving at 7:30am.  But, you can't get on one if you were silly enough to only have Tanzania Shillings in Tanzania.  You have to wait for Western Union or one of the other money changers to open at 9am to change them.  So, we had a nice breakfast down an alley and then turned in 44,000 each of the tsh we just got out of the ATM for $35 USD.  The one and a half hour ferry ride costs the same as the 14 hour bus ride across the border!  Ended up on a 10:30am ferry.  There are many companies to choose from and many fake ticket sellers on the street.  Watch out for them trying to sell you resident tickets which are one third the price.  You will get caught by immigration at arrivals.  We got lucky and were upgraded to First Class when the Economy class didn't have any seats together.  This meant a bigger seat, air conditioning, a movie, and a cookie.  Thought it odd that we were on a boat leaving a Tanzanian city for a Tanzanian island, but they still made us fill out yellow cards and go through immigration.  I guess we could have picked up some foreigner in the middle of the ocean. 

We ended up staying another night in Dar es Salam on the way home.  Did not stay at Hawaii.  Did not fall for the taxi driver tricks.  We booked in advance via phone at Jambo Inn.  High security.  Great Indian/Chinese restaurant downstairs.  Took 25,000 tsh.  In room toilet and shower.  Actually gave us helpful info on how to get to the bus station in the morning when we were unable to book a ticket in advance due to the office closing before we got back to Dar. 

We ended up sharing a taxi with a poor German man who had been told the taxi was 20,000 tsh.  He had negotiated down to 10,000 tsh.  We were told it should be no more than 3,000-5,000 tsh.   After 10 minutes of negotiating in the dark at 5am and us potentially missing the bus and them getting mad that we shared this info with the German, we paid 7,000 tsh.  We were taken to Obungu station where hundreds of buses were ready to leave to various parts of Africa.  We eventually found the Akamba going to Nairobi and paid the driver the same amount we paid to get there.  Only difference... no meal included and no barfing!

At the border crossing I laughed when I guy try to sell me a Kenyan passport cover.  He told me that Al Kaida will see my US passport and they dont' like us.  The terrorists will get me if I don't buy the cover.  Gee, really!  You mean they won't notice my accent, clothing, and color of my skin?

CLICK NEXT ENTRIES TO FIND OUT ABOUT ZANZIBAR!  DISCLAIMER: THE PHOTOS YOU SEE HERE ARE OF ZANZIBAR; NOT DAR ES SALAM.

 

Vandaag maken we weer een hoop kilometers. Gelukkig zijn de wegen in redelijke staat en kan de truck goed doorrijden...tot we in de miljoenenstad Dar es Salaam (Dar) komen. Hier rijdt alles kriskras door elkaar en wij moeten naat de andere kant van de stad. Zo'n 10 km buiten Dar slaan we ons tentenkamp op direct aan het strand...behalve wij! Wij hebben namelijk een upgrade geboekt: een heel leuk strandchalet met balkon (en hangmat) en uitzicht op de Indische Oceaan!!! Het zeewater is heerlijk warm en de cocktails aan de strandbar zijn ook lekker. Dit is genieten!!!

Here I am in transit again, in Tanzania soon.
Back pain from carrying the luggage, the plane trip, the stress (the most terribly stressful period of I have ever known, in the past few months), and perhaps the blues upon leaving again (comme souvent coupant court aux différents champs du possible). A massage would be most welcome, but the airport only provides with manicure facilities for a short treat in-between planes. Funny how conversations engage easily in transit places, even from the very departure in Roissy with two or three French travellers who may have ignored me on Paris streets on the very same week.
My blues is fading away as the plane is taking off. I also feel relieved, everything disappearing in a clear red-orange sky, as the plane is rolling for landing. The horizon, over there, far-east, is making a blurry cut between the dark blue night and the red rising sun not to be seen yet. Is a moody mood soluble in beauty?

Donc après un an ou presque, me voici à nouveau dans l'une des villes les plus agréables d'Afrique de l'est.
So here I am back to Dar after 11 months. Air is warm but windy, sky is clear, roads are busy. My "room" is spacious, and I am not taking a picture out of consideration for the friends living in their few-square meter big appartment in Paris (or for the few people in this country who live outside, without having the facility of the wireless internet access I get here). View out the sea, the palmtrees line in the garden coming out of the sunset light, and such a beautiful and pleasant setting that you need to go and take a look by yourself every morning when the air is somehow cooler, in order to make sure and convince yourself that you don't live in a postcard.
The sound of wind tube bells is jingling lightly outside, and so is the water fountain. From inside, falling asleep, I could almost believe I am in the heart of nature, in the middle of wildness, in the core of Africa!

But no, this is not what I will tell about here. I'd love to, and I might eventually go "out there into the wild", but some technical requirements assign me in the heart of a real, big, populated, dynamic city.

Some ask, I smile. Okay, this time I will write a bit of news while away. Impressions of the social ways, daily encounters, and life in a few of the African cities and capitals. Why only words, words, words...? Well, last year I came with my camera and brought back mainly pictures; now I set my eyes free without a filtering lense. A blog is said not to be very good without any visual document to support and illustrate it. I let you picture and imagine the whole thing from the words!

My clothes once folded into the big drawers and other wooden furniture of the "room", I can take a few glances at Dar, from the car leading me to work.

The harbour is here, busy, one of the biggest.
Huge trade volume shipped to Asia, India, China and the Middle East; this part of the world doesn't need Europe and the West, Bandung and South-South relations finally visible and active in a concrete and possibly long-term way, 50 years after. Tanzindia is the name of a newly created insurance company, a mastodonte in the sector.
Street advertising is wild, street activity is wild, street begging and living is not wild, it is the point-mort, black spot, downside of this fantastic system that looks like it works, like it is working, like it will be working for some time. Who knows? What does one choose to finance with big money? Education? Health? Culture and science? Anything allowing a people and a society to assert the means of their pride, instead of providing them with bare means for survival; at least I don't believe one should come before the other. Finding ways to feed some expressive needs, not only need some expressing food.

For now, shapes and shades are back to my eyes, before the music of swahili and the taste and smell of the food. Vivid shades of colours in clothes, buildings, cars and trucks; shining shapes of an elbow under a shirt, of a cheek above a smile, of a spindled calf below a long skirt. All this so diverse that they make one dizzy before any other sense comes supporting the sight of life. And touch is so closely related to that sense! This is how powerful it is felt, through such an intense sense of seeing and absorbing what you can see, than your body can almost touch it just by seeing it, picturing the texture, the grain. The intensity almost makes you scared, for only one sense makes you feel all of the other ones. Everything is smooth, everything is rough, and I am back to this land of contradictions, that bears so well those of human beings.

(to Alex)

The dhows sailing, from dawn ‘til dusk, in the bay within the coastline. When the sun is setting just as this evening, yellow and blue are melting in an astonishing layer of alternative shades, from the dark of the wall ahead, to the yellow of the sand behind it, the blue of the glittering waters darkening slowly, then again the golden waves bordering the sky, and the dark blue of the horizon line again, a yellow layer of sky spreading lighter and lighter ‘til the other side on the West, where the blue dark night is already falling. A couple on a bench is watching; a group at a nearby table has stopped talking; I am speechless. What if beauty was worthy enough to make every move stop? What if it really mattered, after all? Would you give anything for beauty? When I was younger and idealistic, I was told that beauty matters (the old chorus that men only live for money, power and beauty - at least that some would die and give away much for trying to get this trinity or one element of it just once in their lives). Back then I refused to believe/accept that beauty is one of what we die for. I now believe it more willingly. Up to you to tell me what is this beauty we trade our souls for. A very unique landscape? Art? A beautiful body? What is it that holds YOUR breath?

This is a concept developed by the driver I am working with here in Dar-es-Salaam, who was telling me about the hard situations faced by many neighbouring countries he had worked in. As a truck driver crossing borders to deliver oil, Modest went to Uganda, Congo, Sudan, Zambia... and feels totally sorry and devastated by what he saw when travelling there: destitution in villages, populations stuck in areas growing no food any more, fights and violence in rural regions... What reasons: economic issues or conflicts? Needless to say both are linked, but he adds to it “tribe pollution”. The conflicting interactions between people from different tribes, do pollute human relations indeed - but I like the phrase, short and compelling. In Kenya, where he’s been, he was surprised to see how your tribe origin is paramount in people’s attitudes to you; he tells me (and confirms the feeling of many people here about their country) that in Tanzania, mutual help would never depend on the tribe you belong to. It seems to me Zambia is also a place where people hold their national peace and peace of mind too dear to really yield to clashing rapports. If you add to tribe pollution the ever-increasing poverty gap, and how unfair it is considered (worse when actual facts do provide with a justified perception), it is then easy to understand how people would kill for a cell phone, just as in South Africa - most famous example of a country where one would kill for stealing any tiny object, hence reputation for safety very poor. A deeply dysfunctionnal society, someone once told me. But Madagascar would be the same, people now kill for money whereas they used not to a few decades ago; so are the US... (the common point? maybe a growing wealth discrepancy between people). Such are some places where little or none respect for human life is to be found. But I am glad when I can hear sometimes someone telling me it is not the way it should be, that there is no fatality/predisposition, that they don’t think it’s normal or meant to be. Here is someone from Tanzania who feels deeply concerned about the situations of populations in these other countries, without his words coming from a diplomatic official speech, nor from within these areas striken by destitution. Just from an average guy making his living in an African country where nothing such happens or is even conceivable... The blasés make me bored.

A surrealist but basic conversation, half-Chinese half-Swahili:
- nihao! says one man
- nihao! I reply
- karibu, he goes on
- asante, I thank him
- jambo!

Waiting for an elevator:
- Good afternoon!
- Good afternoon to you! - I answer back
- How are you?
- Good, thank you! How’s life?
And so the conversation goes. The person turns out to be an interesting designers pushing the local clothing creativity to an exporting standard with collaborations with Italy in the process. But no matter what, it's direct and spontaneous.
I must admit taking pleasure in asking more than what one is allowed to ask in other places, just because I know I can do this here without people finding it weird, just because I am free to be nice without nothing more about it than just talking with someone, just because I like to use this freedom in feeling free interacting with people.

It is a left drive here, and I am still enjoying the novelty of it, the pleasure of not feeling totally accustomed with new things striking the eyes. It won’t last long, and already I don’t see what had been obviously different in my first trip here: the dirt roads within Dar-es-Salaam out of the main paved streets, mosques almost every corner with El Aid coming up next week, people in their clothes, traditional big squares of cloth or large pieces of dress and carrying loads, public workers endlessly sweeping the streets and tiredlessly pushing the dust of the tarmac roads to the sides, stone breakers working under the tree (didn’t see children today, only a few women there). Tas de détritus/small pile of waste, and the house of a minister in the background in this “very safe and tranquil” area I am told. The dhows sailing in the harbour, the low tide and high tide and the smell of the sea. The awful traffic jams on Ocean Drive.

Back to Kariakoo and its marketplace today: fruit and veggies of all kinds can be found here, in a colourful and joyful mess of sounds, shouts, laughs, phone rings, honks! Tomatoes, zuchinis, aubergines, cucumbers, red, white or yellow onions and peppers, watermelons, black grapes, oranges and apples, sugar canes, guavas: they all compete for a space in the midst of the narrow dirt streets where cars, goats, bicycles, trolleys and people already strive to make their way without ever elbowing or stepping on each other. My skills still lag behind, but then in Asia people often didn’t bother bumping into each other...   
“Everything is fresh from here, someone tells me, except for the apples and some of the oranges from South Africa. But the oranges from there are not very good because of what they put inside.”
Who said organic was for the wealthiest...? What a reverse thought we have now come to in Europe, requesting what any possible person aware of what is good, already knows from tasting... Putting common sense far in the back of our minds, for the sake of productivity and endorsing our production system? And despite fertilizers and pesticides helped to address post-war needs for food, they now make many small producers dependant on heavy expenses in countries where the poor access to health care doesn’t make this food ideal... - not even mentionning Monsanto making them dependant on seeds.

Land in Dar es Salaam on Air Malawi Limited 301, leaving 7:05 pm, arriving 9:35 pm.

The next morning, everything changed. After meeting the second half of our group the night before, over a silent and exhausted group dinner, we all teamed up in the morning to meet some local non profit programs.

Isa, our smiling, always professional, business suit wearing driver arrived to pick us up for each of the following two days. Turns out he is a pro at navigating the complicated , eternally "under construction" dirt roads of Dar and has seemingly limitless patience in the chaotic and dangerous traffic of minibuses packed with dozens of people, motorscooters, bicycles and cars that flood the streets during "rush hour." Clearly, the two million plus people who live in Dar do come out during the day afterall (just not on Sundays).

Angelina from Village Enterprise Fund was the first woman who came to show us the great work they are doing in the community by making micro-grants (the precursor to the much discussed micro-loans which require you to already have a business and some money to qualify for). We all loaded into Isa's van and set out together to see the Abraham's Sons Marketing Group in action. An hour later, we arrived, in one of the central provences of the city of Dar, a very sprawling metropolis.

"Hi Guys!" "HI!" "Hi Guys!" "HI!" "Hiiii Guys!" "HI!" We could hear the group of about 80 men and women shouting and laughing as we disembarked from the van. We entered a very modest cement house to find the large group gathered into a small 8 x10 room in sweltering heat at 630am, all with wide smiles on their faces. One man, in a dress shirt and tie stepped forward to address their group. "Ok guys, I am going to tell you about the 5 steps to make a sale, ok? Step 1 - Introduction. Ok what does this mean?" and he begins to explain in swahili, pausing midway through his lesson to lead the group in some kind of chant, then dropping back to wrap up his lesson in English (for our benefit undoubtedly) "... Ok and last you Close, you say thank you to your customer and tell them you will see them again soon. HI GUYS!" and the group responds "HI!" this goes on until the next tie-wearing sales manager steps forward for his lesson the 7 steps to success. All in all 5 sales managers continue this routine for about 30 motivating minutes, complete with chants and role playing to keep their audience of sales reps engaged. The walls of the main room are lined with the lessons, as well as a list of the day's top sellers (posted daily). The energy was palable and the enthusiasm contaigous. I couldn't help but wonder what US business would look like if they had similar morning meetigns everyday.

John, the Director of the site was proud to pass out sodas (Fanta at 10am?!) and to show us the more than 15 accounting books where he hand wrote every transaction for each salesman everyday. If they packed their bag that morning with 4 plastic plates, 2 flashlights, 6 batteries and 5 water bottles to sell in their door to door territory, then each item was carefully accounted for - both their original purchase price and the suggested retail price. There would be more check ins that night. The numbers and the heat in the small, dark cement space made my head spin. I wanted so badly to hand John a laptop computer, knowing it could save his team hours everyday and help them earn more too. At least a second calculator for the office would come in handy?

The program began when Village Enterprise Fund met a handful of women who were selling fish door to door at homes where the occupants couldn't always afford the bus fare to town for their food. Village Enterprise Fund trained the women in business, suggesting they start to sell items that aren't perishable and then granted them $50 to expand their business. Less than one year later, the business is booming with 5 sites like the one we visited, all with local site directors and managers who have increasing responsibility and opportunities to share in the profits. The site we visited turns an annual profit of $65,000 this year with big aspirations for growth. In a place where most people earn less than a dollar per day, the owners and management are extremely proud of their accomplishments and rightfully confident in their ability to do better and better.

Other than the sales manager who whispered in my ear "Be my wife" during the morning motivations, I seemed to make another friend during our brief stop. I don't know if it was my slightly translucent white shirt that had him transfixed or if it was just some fascination he had with American women, but nonetheless we had a lengthy photo shoot together, which he even brought his girlfriend in to join, which eventually had to be cut off by John, the Director. It reminded me that I really need to work on circumventing my concern for hurting people's feelings sometimes and actually assert appropriate boundaries every now and then...

We loaded up the van, as the 80 salesmen trickled out of the building and off to start their 8 hours on the road. I left with high hopes for big sales and a full heart from the warm smiles. I made a mental note as we drove away - send a letter to my friends at HP to see if they can donate a laptop...

Leaving San Francisco Friday evening, we arrived in Dar Es Salaam Sunday morning, thus concluding the oddest weekend ever with the longest day imaginable. By 8am, we had checked into our rooms and were eager to start our Africa experience. By 11am, I was baking in the shade poolside at the Holiday Inn and had fallen deep asleep, only to wake up to the odd sound of a peacock cry every few hours or so. By 3pm, we decided it officially felt like the day was lasting weeks and ventured off to a nearby marketplace to try to get acclamated to our unusual surroundings.

Driving through Dar on Sunday was as strange as the sound of the frequent peacock cry and similarly eerie. This was the largest city in Tanzania (a country 1.5x the size of Texas) and there was no one to be seen. We drove for 30 minutes through the town center, along the coastline of crystal clear water (it was hard to believe our driver's warnings not to swim in the toxic beach, until you cracked a window and smelled the sewage) and past the foreign diplomats beachfront mansions, all the while never spotting more than one or two people resting here and there under a tree in the shade.

After lunch, our representatives from CARE International picked us up and we headed out to meet with a group of women they had trained and helped fund in support of their local businesses. Our van pulled up in front of a dried out lawn and a small group of children flocked to the side windows. I dug into my purse to see if I had anything to give them and shared the left over juices in the ice box from lunch. These kids loved posing for photos and were elated to see themselves on the digital preview screen. When I looked around next, everone was gone and one of the neighbor's had to point me to the building they had entered into while I was playing with the kids (this was to become the routine at every stop we would make...).

As I walked up the stairs I could hear the sound of a woman's song in Swahili over a chorus of some 40 others singing background. Walking into the room, I was overwhelmed by the colors of the women's sarongs and skirts and amazed by the foreign sound of their beautiful voices. A man sepped forward to greet us and explain that this was a meeting of 3 local neighborhood groups of women, each who meets regularly on their own but sometimes join together for CARE sponsored business training. He invited us to introduce ourselves and explain about Spark, then we sat in as the 3 women's groups conducted their separate group meetings.

First the lockbox comes out, then the key (each kept by separate women). Each women receives a small bookelt with her cash inside. Once the books are passed out, they ask if anyone would like to purchase "shares" from the bank. A stamp is placed in the booklet for each share bought that day. Cash is exchanged and then they ask if anyone needs a loan for their business. If so, the cash is distributed from the bank and document in the booklet. Shares in the bank earn interest and the women use the loans to help grow their small businesses selling homemade clothes and jewelry. They keep their profits or buy back into the bank. The money they make (about $1/day) is too much to bring home around their husbands and neighbors but too little to be able to open an account at a bank. So the women's own bank is the safest physical place to keep the cash, as well as an investment. All of this was entirely too difficult for me to understand, took multiple explanations and a few days to absorb before I got it. I really should have taken an econ class at some point in my life...

I asked our translator if the women had any questions for us and told him to tell them we are very impressed by their success. A proud looking woman said something in Swahili which was translated into what I suspect is a watered down version of what she actually said. "We are still poor, how can we improve our business? We still need help, can you get us more business training so our families and neighborhoods can do better?" My heart sunk. We scribbled down notes and promised to send them information about business that would help. They looked doubtful and unsatisfied with our reply. I understood completely and felt ashamed to be there so empty handed.

As the group concluded their meeting, we reconvened to see some of the items some women had brought to try to sell to us. The simple clothing and beaded jewelry were displayed with a pride that made my ears tear. At first it was clear that no one in our group could imagine themselves in one of the pink and green tunics or understood what to do with the orange and green crocheted circles, but all eyes were on us and someone had to make a move. I think it was Karen who spotted a tablecloth to purchase and with that, the palable tension was lifted and the women started to show off the jewelry and other items, as more purchases were made.

While we were shopping, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and a woman handed me a small piece of paper and introduced her self. On the paper was her name, phone number and email address. I wrote down mine and a few others from our group joined. Eventually I think she acquired all our contact information. I was happy to see her email in my inbox when I arrived home to the US.

Bottles of soda were passed out and the local government representative said a few words to thank us for being there. For some reason, as he spoke I was in awe of the way he carried himself and his eloquence. I secretly envied the integrity their politician exuded. As the women began to sang again, I couldn't help but start to cry (thankfully I had on my sunglasses). I was frustrated at being unprepared to help and saddened to have not done more during the brief visit. Again, I made a mental note - be sure to send business training information...

Tuesday morning we woke early for our 3 hour van ride out to the Rufiji district of Dar Es Salaam. Teddy, from CAMFED, was escorting us out to a secondary school where CAMFED funds a group of no income girls (tuition is government paid, but uniforms and books to go to school can be costly).  This group of girls is similar to the one that Spark recently funded through CAMFED in Mozambique, so we are excited that, despite the 3 hour ride, we will be spending the day at the school with this special group of girls.

When we arrive we are greeted in a small, hot office by the school's principal. His English is well practiced and his words clearly well planned. He tells us about the 500 students who attend this co-ed school and focuses particularly on the struggles of the girls who travel from far away to attend the day school and must cram into rented rooms in the area, with no money to pay for their meals while they spend months at school away from their family and villages. He shares with us a proposal he created to find funding to complete a dorm project he started with original funding from the Canadian government. He built a structure to house 80 such females so that they will be safe from the temptation of prostituting themselves for shelter and food in order to go to school. The principal is frustrated to lose students, compelled by law to drop out of school as they become pregnant from this risky behavior. His urgency is clear, these girls need a safe place to stay so they can make it through school and have a better life. It will cost him $55,000 to complete the project - adding electricity, water, bathrooms, a chaperone's house, a lounge area and 80 bunk beds to the building. The supplies purchased and made from the strong local ebony wood, will last more than 50 years. It strikes me as a worthy investment.

We tour the school and then head into one of the classrooms while the group of 13 girls funded by CAMFED are summonds from class to join us. Most of the girls are muslim and wear what this Catholic girl considers a nun's habit, white and all, but is the school uniform version of a berka. The girls each introduce themselves, some trying English, others sticking to Swahili. Primary school is taught in the native tongue with English as a required class but secondary school immerses students into English by teaching all classes in the language. As I know from my 10 years of French class, an immediate immersion is bewildering. If I was taught high school in French, I might have failed out my first year. I sympathize with their struggle. After introductions, Teddy walks over and hands me the chalk. I had asked on the busride over if we could help out in any way, perhaps with English or something. I wanted so badly to do more to give back while there, to circumvent the possibility of feeling as sad as I had empty handed the day earlier.

I panicked at the site of the chalk and the 13 sets of big brown eyes looking at me. Fortunately, Shannon jumped to my rescue, suggesting we break off into groups to work with pairs of girls and a translator. Phew! The two girls I worked with were quiet. I tried simple questions like How many siblings do you have? What is your favorite color? But discovered vocabularly like siblings and colors hadn't been learned. Teddy helped translate for a little bit but then wandered off, leaving the three of us to communicate on our own. I used a half eaten bag of M&Ms to show the colors. The girls asked for paper, so they could take notes. I tore a piece out of my journal for each girl. One page had a quote on the bottom, written in English and the girls were eager to sound out the words. I found another page with a quote so that they each had some English to practice when they looked back at their notes. Once we tackled siblings and colors, I decided to grab my book "Eat Pray Love" from the van so we could practice reading aloud. That went well but it was clear they weren't understanding what they were saying, so I decided to practice feelings. This was good fun for everyone, as I made goofy faces of expressions and drew smiley faces of all sorts to convey "happy" "sad" "angry" and other feelings. The girls laughed at me - alot. I gave them the chocolates and an English newspaper. I noticed they kept the M&M wrapper and another piece of what I thought was trash as we all got up to go back to the principal's office at the end of the afternoon.

We each washed our hands as we entered the office and came in to find a large piece of watermelon and papaya laid out and each place setting, along with soda in bottles, of course. We enjoyed our fruit and were heavily questioned if we didn't eat the whole thing down to the very skin of the fruit (I had to hide some papaya under the watermelon skin so I wouldn't be reprimanded). The principal said a few final, well rehearsed remarks and we boarded the ride with Isa at the helm for our several hour journey back home.

Our time at the school was amazing. As we left, I kept thinking of the stats I read in the request for funding that we had seen. Of the 80 girls who would fill those dorm rooms, typically 10% get preagnant each year and another 5% will also drop out. Of the 65 or so who remain only about 15% will pass their exams at the end of year 2. Of the 12 girls qualified to take the year 4 exams, about half will pass. Meaning of those 80 girls, only 6 ever finish secondary school. The sacrafices all of them make just to try and just to get there to that classroom is staggering. I feel honored to have met such dedicated girls and worried about their futures. The only small comfort I rest on is that they have a dedicated and concerned principal working hard to help improve the odds against them. I wonder who in the US might be willing to help fund the completion of that dorm, I make another mental note to try to find someone...

After the school, we went to see three women businesses that CAMFED had helped start. These women, aged 18-25, fit the same no income poverty level from similar regions as the girls we met at the school. They had either never started school or dropped out along the way, so CAMFED funds and trains them to start their own businesses.

As we arrived at the first business, a small open room that faces the street, I saw a teeny little boy crawling over a sewing machine in the neighboring space. As I took out my camera, he waddled over and I found a small granola bar in my bag and his mom let me give it to him. I could tell she was excited about it, so I sorted through my stuff and found another one for her. The boy's bright eyes were matched by the blinding yellow of his shirt. His swollen belly and mishaped head were clear signs of malnutrition. Clearly his mother's seamstress business was hardly substantiating their needs. We listened to the CAMFED funded woman talk about her hair salon next door as she held her newborn baby, its twin resting nearby. It was evident that these women worked hard but made little money. Again the increasingly familiar feeling of helplessness sat in as I tried to think of ways to offer support or help capable of making a meaningful or lasting impact. I could think of nothing.

We walked across the street and the heat was too much for Stephanie (who reminded us of her Siberia ancestry), so she headed to the van and Isa sat with her trying to cool off. The rest of us walked up to a small stand flanked with bars and a woman with handkerchiefed hair stepped forward. She introduced us to her husband who was working behind the bars in the small ministore full of simple grains and small household items like soap or batteries. The space was impressive. She passed around small homemade muffins for each of us and told us her recipe - flour, eggs, sugar and water. The muffins, though simple, were surprisingly tasty but I was discomforted by the stares from the small group of kids and neighborhood folks who had gathered to watch us consumer our free samples. The guilt of taking without giving overwhelmed me and I whispered to someone next to me "Should we offer to pay?" but they correctly responded "I think that might be considered rude, as they meant to extend a gift." I agreed but couldn't rid myself of the guilty feeling.

A few minutes drive down the road, we stopped at a house that had a thatch roof covered porch out front. Stepping under the roof and sitting down at the picnic table, a translator explained that this businesswoman had launched her own restaurant in front of her home with CAMFED's help training and funding some initial supplies. Now she serves dozens of meals everyday. Her meals are simple - soup or sometimes eggs or chicken, but her prices are reasonable. We asked if she had any questions and she had only one "Do you like my restaurant?" We all agreed that very much we did.

We spent another 15 minutes outside as there was a group of young girls who were posing for the cameras and having a great time looking at themselves. When someone brought out a video camera, they danced and played. Clearly natural performers. I hope they can find themselves a larger and worthy stage sometime soon. Their smiles and eyes captivated our hearts and it was hard to load the van for the three hour trek back to the hotel.