Friday Find: Miami Bar

(Summary: story of eating out one night in Tanzania.)

Kamala is my favorite driver and a very good friend.

One night in Iringa we were in meetings until late. Then Kamala and I went to dinner. Since it was late, none of the regular restaurants were open so we walked from the hostel to the Miami Bar. Spoken in Kiswahili you wouldn’t recognize it as named for the glamorous city of Miami Vice. Sorry that I don’t have any pictures of the place, I didn’t think to bring my camera.

Although Miami Bar is the hopping place in Iringa you won’t find any South Florida art deco or shiny chrome here. There were four rooms and the center one was a kitchen with billowing smoke filling the room from a charcoal fire. Typically, you manage the food and the drinks separately in local restaurants so you need to meet with the cooks. The food gets much discussion. I understood only a little of Kamala’s negotiation with the chefs. We ordered the house specialty – a pile of goat meat char broiled.

He showed us a partially cooked leg and we chose how much to cut off and finish cooking. We watched the bone be hacked apart, the meat get carved, treated with lemon juice and salt and tossed back over the fire. Satisfied, we went to find a seat.

The place was pretty full so the waitress woke a sleeping patron to throw him out and make space for us. He resisted. A second waitress joined the battle and both voiced loudly their displeasure with much shouting. With the commotion a small man appeared, presumably security, and the sleeper suddenly became more alert and found the door without a word. Kamala, my driver explained that in bars it is fully acceptable to go to sleep and leave in the morning as long as there is room. Triumphant, I was given the pleasure of the once restful, now warmed chair cushions. I didn’t want even want to lean back.

The place was about 95% men; a lot of them were wearing business suits. The room we were in was arranged with cushioned chairs around low tables. There were a couple of TVs showing sporting events, and some music in the background. I noticed as the meal progressed that a couple of the women who were sitting with men would get up and leave with one. And then come back and give the index finger “come hither” and another man would get up and go to her and they would leave for a while. You draw your own conclusion. I drank my ‘Ndovu moto’ (warm Elephant Bull brand beer).

After the first beer was finished, the meat arrived by chef special delivery. Another man came with the requisite pot of water to wash our hands. Then we ate the goat meat with a second beer. Goat meat is actually really good. I’d recommend it to anyone. We had a sauce of pili pili (hot peppers) on the side prepared by the chefs with lemon juice, salt and finely sliced peppers. It is a fire hot, burn your lips, tongue, throat and sinuses sauce. Don’t touch your face – especially anywhere near your eyes – after you’ve dipped your meat in this sauce. Actually, this is true until about the third or fourth washing of your hands with soap. I know from experience.

Kamala said that it was a nice place. I like Kamala a lot.

Here's a picture of Kamala (the mechanic) trying to help a boy fix his bicycle. Unfortunately the only tool we could find was a rock:

Expat

When the calendar hit July 1st, I suddenly realized I wasn’t going to be home for the 4th of July. What really surprised me was that I was going to miss it.

Anyway, I worked at my computer all day – from 7am to 5pm – because it was a Saturday and I had no appointments. In the evening Chilwa returned from some family obligations and I was sharing with her my own family’s traditions of the 4th. One of these is barbequing (choma). She showed me a Chinese made fake Weber grill hiding in one corner and we decided to do some outdoor cooking. After a bit of discussion she sent the kids to the market. They returned with three freshly plucked chickens, potatoes, green peppers, bananas, a pineapple, onions and locally made charcoal.

I cut the chickens into pieces. They were still warm with their recent life and the internal organs were mostly still attached. As a westerner accustomed to chilled meat from the supermarket, this was a new experience. We oiled and salted all the vegetables, put everything on the grill in stages and slow cooked it over 2 ½ hours. While we ate I put the pineapples out and grilled them. They are best when they are lightly burnt. I served them drizzled with wild honey. Delicious.

Happy 4th of July!

Friday Find: A Good Driver

When you are in a new place with both a language and a cultural gap, a good driver can be a lifesaver. A good driver, not only knows where to go, he (in this culture it is rarely ‘she’) is your culture guide, your handy translator, your camera man, your Zagat rating agency with best local finds, your warning sign and safety net, and yes, your new friend. The truth is that with the local traffic you put your life in their hands. But also, they can become your trusted advisor in so many other ways.



On this trip I have had three drivers. The first, Chicha is a great guy. He speaks wonderful English and is a trusted taxi driver in Dar es Salaam. His father had a taxi (teksi) and Chicha paid him the car ‘rental’ according to the local customs. He didn’t know this was his in his father’s mind, but when he had paid his father enough money to buy his own teksi, his father gave him the money to do so. You can see that Chicha comes from good stock and it is part of him today. He told me his name is pronounced like ‘teacha’ so I call him ‘professor’.


The second driver I have had is Roger Lajab. Roger is a young man who speaks very little English. The first day when I was done with my appointments, I told him in English, “Go home.” He didn’t know what I meant. So I said, “Chilwa’s nyumba” (or Chilwa’s house.) No connection, after trying for 10 minutes to explain where to go next, I finally called a friend who translated over the phone.

Because Roger speaks so little English, we have very little to talk about in terms of ordinary conversation. This is really a problem because it can take 2-3 hours in traffic to get anywhere in Dar es Salaam. So Roger has taken it upon himself to be my Swahili tutor. This is true immersion training since he speaks hardly a word of English. Sometimes when I am fully confused I try to look up the word in my little English-Swahili book. One evening I was exhausted after a series of really long days. I put my seat back and went to sleep. Roger nudged me awake so that we could continue our lessons. Little by little (kidogo kidogo) we are learning to communicate.

In local customs I should address him as ‘Lajab.’ But he has asked me to call him ‘Roger’ in line with western customs.


Kato Kamala has accompanied me on trips away from Dar es Salaam. He is a brilliant mechanic, completely trustworthy and speaks eight languages including English. When he is with me he is also the official photographer. When we are traveling away from Dar es Salaam, he receives several calls a day from customers seeking to have their car fixed. I was quite worried about all the business he was losing because he had left town with me for two weeks. Not to worry, he is such a trusted mechanic that his customers all waited for his return.

Kamala comes from a family of really smart people. One is a local medical doctor, who after I was covered by mosquito bites prescribed a medication to make sure I didn’t get malaria. Another one is a famous comedian who looks a bit like a black John Belushi and is on the local equivalent of “Saturday Night Live”. He’s really famous locally. Every time Kamala gets a text message it screams out a comedy bit from this show. Kamala himself is really funny. We were often driving in the Iringa area with student interns, an accompanying teacher and perhaps another person or two. Kamala could keep a series of one liners going non-stop for 45 minutes. Although he speaks English, he told them in Swahili. The car would burst in laughter, which after 20 minutes or so was pained, gasping laughter. Hardly able to speak, someone would translate for me. I would laugh. Then Kamala would immediately toss out another. I wish you could have heard the sound of this laughter, it was one of the most joyful I’ve ever heard.

I have lots of great stories with Kamala. I’ll tell more in a future blog. He is one of my best friends here in Tanzania and someone I really would trust with my life.

‘Kato’ means ‘twin’ because that’s what Kamala is but I know him as Kamala, rafiki (friend), kaka (brother).

Cultural Observations from Tanzania: Going to Church

I can’t wait for my Swahili to get better so that I can talk more directly to people – and know what they are talking about in church. A two to three hour service is long enough without knowing what’s going on. But

(In this first picture they have stopped the service to arrange for a picture with me. Many were taken.)

I have observed common parts to a worship service:

Leaders go by procession in and out. In the village I’m expected to be in the procession.




(Picture: Special music from the younger youth choir. There is often special music from 3-5 choirs.)

Sermons start slow. They build in energy. Just when you think they have reached a final climax, they start again. Every preacher I have heard has managed to get his audience to laugh frequently. 20 minutes is short and means that he didn’t have much worth talking about. So get comfortable.

There is always a lengthy treasurer’s report and announcements.




(Pictured: Processing into church.)

They often take multiple offerings. Three is not uncommon so be prepared. It doesn’t end there, after the service as you exit a circle is formed outside and after a final prayer there will be an auction of some donated item to raise further money. These auctions take two forms. In the village, every bid counts and is paid afterword and the last bidder gets the item no matter what they bid. Bids do not proceed from high to low. In the city, bids increase in size and only the last bidder pays.



It can end with a friendly contest for the item.

(A view of the local village church and the happy decorations.)


There is usually special music from a variety of participants. Traditional Lutheran hymns sung in Swahili I can do without. My favorite is when they sing African style songs with choreographed dance. For me it’s best part of the worship overall. In the villages it is common for a person to rise from the congregation, begin a spontaneous song expressing something for the moment, and then be joined by all. I love it.





(This band runs their big speakers on car batteries because there is no local power except solar. There are four guitarists.)


(Below: the auction was canceled so that we could take a picture of the entire congregation instead.)

Cultural Observations from Tanzania: Relationships

People are called by their last names except in their home and home village, although in their home village only their nickname may be known. One other exception: they know westerners are confused by this and so they tell us their first name. Actually, this creates some confusion for me since everyone else knows them by a different name. It’s kind of like reading Tolstoy’s “War and Peace”.

There is no word for cousin, nephew, niece, aunt, uncle. Your cousin is called ‘sister - dada’ or ‘brother – kaka’. Your nephew or niece is your son or daughter. Your aunt or uncle is addressed as your mother or father (mama or baba). The words ‘uncle’ and ‘anty’ are used widely, including to summon a service person in a restaurant but do not indicate closeness and would be rude to address your actual uncle or aunt.

It is rude to call your actual brother or sister by their names, you call them ‘dada’ or ‘kaka’. A young lady proposed an insoluble problem to me: there is a famous soccer player from Brazil whose surname is ‘Kaka’; what if he were your brother? How then would you address him without offense?

Your good friend (rafiki) is also your kaka or dada.

Your respected elder is your mama or your baba.

Mzee, the word for ‘elderly’ is laden with much respect.

This closeness of extended families carries a burden of responsibility. All of these people have a claim on all your resources. This is part of why a person with a good job in East Africa often cares for 10-15 families. If you have access to resources – even if they are not yours, like the money in a cashier-till where you work, then you are expected to deliver it up to family when necessary. This is one of the sources of corruption and the ones that practice it will usually admit their action and why when they are caught.
There are other complications of family life that aren’t always positive. For example, in some traditions, women and children have very few rights. For example, if the man dies, the man’s family might seize all the property and put the women and children out on the street.

Tribal origins are kept track of and are thought to provide generalized information about personality and outlook. As I recall there are about 120 people groups in Tanzania, with their own languages, traditions and dress. People love to speak in their tribal language when they are with others from that tribe. Swahili is the language of trade that holds it all together.

Patronage is necessary in a society where your life and well being may depend on favors. Complex structures of patronage exist and deliver a form of stability. “Nepotism” is the Latin word for nephew and a clue that this was widespread in our own society. Patronage itself is from the word for XXX

Yes, there is a tangled web of relationships in Africa; far more complex than that in American societies.

Below is my ‘dada’ Chilwa and some of her ‘children’.

Cultural Observations from Tanzania: Greetings

(See also (Cultural Observations from Tanzania – Hands”)

When expressing closeness and hugging, you always start on the left and go to the right in a double hug. This is the opposite of western habits to hug on the right and so when I forget I almost bonk heads. A woman I know that is used to westerners has adapted.

When a younger person greets an older person, they say shikamu. It is an untranslatable greeting that means, “hello, respect, blessings”. In return, the older responds in kind with “marahaba”. One of the most poignant moments in my life was being spontaneously surrounded by dozens of kindergartners who laid hands on me and shikamu-ed me in a blessing.

A stranger on the street may randomly greet you and genuinely invite you into a conversation to share your news. I experience this with an elderly woman recently, with my driver saving me with a “no news” statement. Often I am in conversation with someone and a few others will choose to come and listen, shake my hand and enter the conversation. To a westerner, this is at first a little uncomfortable. But with a little experience you learn that many people have genuine interest and maybe a little curiosity about the mzungu (white person) among them.

Especially in villages, people are honored to have someone from a distant place among them. My driver explained, ‘They want to hear your voice, see you, and ask questions.’ When I attend Sunday services, I am always afforded a place of honor and asked to speak at some point during the service. I am learning to be prepared for these events and not to feel uncomfortable in a position of honor that to me seems much undeserved.

Children take a special interest in wazungu (white people). They often call out “Mzungu! Mzungu!” as I pass. They love to shake my hand – even when I am jogging. If I stop and crouch down by them some of the less shy children want to touch my hair and my skin. Again my driver explained to me, the pink appearance looks like an animal that has been skinned – the muscle is bare! Sometimes they are torn between terror and curiosity. One young boy followed me everywhere in a village slowly getting closer. If I would turn and look at him he would scream and run away crying – only to return soon.

“Karibu” (pr. caribou) meaning ‘you are welcome’, and its counterpart, ”asante” (pr. a-saun-tay) – ‘thank you’, are said constantly. Either can come first. “Karibu” can also mean you are welcome to begin something, enter, sit down, etc. For example, a person inviting you to enter their home or business will say, “karibu”.

Asante!

Dreams and Visions

When I meet with entrepreneurs, they are often surprised by the conversation. First of all, culturally, they expect successful business or other people to be aloof and brusque. In the local vernacular they are called ‘big potatoes’. After viewing my card, one young man highly doubted that I could be the Executive Director of Cheetah, because I was talking openly to him.

Secondly, they are surprised by the amount of time I am willing to spend. As both a big potato and a mzungu (white man) they expect me to be quick and take little interest. But my meetings usually last more than two hours and have sometimes gone for five. Although most people are very open, it takes this long to get past formalities and to allow for real conversation. At the end of the day, working with the right person is the most important ingredient to a successful business.

Thirdly, they are surprised by the line of questions. I don’t just visit their factories and review their financials. I ask detailed questions about their history, their families and their dreams. These questions are surprising and the candor that they have is very heartening. This is my approach to getting to know someone.

You can learn much about people’s values by asking about their family. The challenge of lifting up the next generation is much more acute here than in the west. Family values tend to be less appreciated by men, keeping children healthy – surviving to age 1 – is very challenging, and education is expensive.

I love to hear the history of their businesses! Not only do you learn about the way that they confront challenges, the story is often quite moving. (See the stories of Anna Temu or Edgar Nkunda, for examples.)

(Above picture by Lonnie Menard, © 2008, taken in Tanzania)

Finally, I want to hear what are their visions and their dreams. First of all, this is Business 101. If you don’t have a direction, you can be sure of arriving nowhere. Too many businesses operate on the principle of ready, fire, aim.

Secondly and more importantly, knowing a person’s dreams and visions is a matter of their heart. As an experienced business person I can often see quickly many of the things that are required to help their business succeed. For some people, what they want is to be a big potato that bosses people around; this is their definition of success. For others, it is to create future opportunities for their children, or a steady income to raise a family, or a desire to make an impact in their world. Their definition of ‘success’ may be completely different than mine.

Whether Christian or not, most people recognize that Jesus had remarkable wisdom. Just as I can quickly evaluate a business, the stories of Jesus show that he did this with the people around him. His insight was very deep and went far beyond the surface. For example, he chose a fisherman to lead the founding of his new movement – not a choice that would appear to wise but look how far it has come. When people came before him, often seeking advice, he did not tell them what to do. Instead, he dealt with their hearts.

Most people here automatically respect me because I am mzungu and a big potato. Their culture has deeply ingrained them to show much respect and seek my advice (especially when I am mzee – their elder). A prior history of socialism has taught them to expect central planning. A history of colonialism has shown them that this is what mzungu will do – insist on their own way. Therefore, they most often want or expect me to tell them what to do.

For me this is the challenge. It’s tempting to play the big potato and show one’s knowledge. It’s better to find their heart. This is where life (and so business) begins.



…I promised to tell the dreams of Edgar Nkunda – and many are writing and wanting to hear them – coming soon!

Cultural Observations from Tanzania - Hands

I danced with a man one evening. There are fewer social stereotypes. Men can walk and hold hands without it having some sexual implication.

The left hand is reserved for dealing with bodily functions. The right hand is your clean hand: the hand you eat with and shake hands with.

People shake hands frequently on meeting and departures, not just once. There are several ways to shake that show increasing closeness. You never hide your left hand when shaking with your right – that shows coldness. The farther out you grasp with your left hand up your arm and eventually to the other person’s wrist while shaking shows more appreciation. If your hand is dirty or to show respect, you may offer the back of your wrist to the other person or someone may take your wrist to show respect. Women shake hands with men differently: they offer their fingers while holding their elbow with their left hand and very slightly curtseying.

Most men do a triple shake, including one standard shake, one Afro-American-Bro shake, and then another standard shake. If one of the people is young, you may then follow this with another locking of fingers and snapping the thumbs. Hard to explain – but like a ‘secret handshake’.

When someone says something great you shake their hand in an exaggerated swing as kind of a ‘high-five.’

Before meals, washing hands is an important ritual. In formal settings, a woman brings the hot water and pours it over your hands while in a kind of curtsey. Every restaurant has a special hands-washing station.

Rarely are their paper towels or dryers to use after washing your hands. Air drying works fine.

The OK symbol is lewd, thumbs up is good. Don't beckon someone with your index finger, that is also lewd.

My wife and daughters will be delighted to learn that eating with one’s hands is highly appropriate.

Friday Find of the Week

Traffic here in Dar es Salaam is quite an experience. This city of four million has no freeways and few four lane roads though due to poverty has far fewer cars than an equally sized western city. However, traffic is constantly heavy, even on a Sunday afternoon. I spend three to four hours per day in a vehicle. There are few stoplights or stop signs. People use common sense to determine who has the right of way. There is a language of honking, signals, and arm waves to communicate, request and deny intentions. There is an incredible mix of cars, busses, bicycles, motorcycles and pedestrians all sharing the same roadway. In this picture below an accident ahead has nearly stopped traffic. I am not parked on the shoulder; instead, the shoulder has become a new lane (the correct lane is on the left, British-style).

One driver told me that to avoid an accident it is not enough to watch what others are doing; you must be in their mind and imagine what they may do next. This flexible pattern has led to a traffic innovation – the three lane road. The middle lane is for left turns or whichever direction has the heaviest traffic load at that moment or whoever has the least fear. Close calls by American standards are continuous. But it does allow for much more traffic in the same space.

African Music

I don't think that you could understand Africa without experiencing her music. I began my day invited to a prayer meeting next to the hostel. So after a cold shower at 5:30 am I wandered over into the service. As only one of two Mzungu (white person) filling the church, I was pretty obvious.

Picture a large church filled with singing people. No, see you don't understand if you haven't been to Africa. The few old hymns in the dozen that they did were anything but stodgy - even with an organ leading. And drums. And an electric guitar. And multipart harmony. And swaying. And a tenor song leader with a voice to call across the Grand Canyon. I would have taken a picture but it seemed to be so Spirit filled that it felt sacriligeous. Here's a picture taken later when the church was quiet.


There is music everywhere. On TV. On radios. Broadcast into restaurants. While I ate dinner, the music came over the speakers and there was a choir practicing in the courtyard. And as I headed to my room, I heard another choir at practicing at the church. It called to me so I went and listened. I tried to upload a clip of some music but the internet was just too slow. After more than an hour and a half of waiting, I gave up. So here's a picture of them practicing:

It's like rock music for choirs, but better.
African music is really special. Even when you don't know what their singing, it grabs your heart.

African Dance

“Lord, you are more precious than silver.” These are the words to a song we sang in Africa. We sang our songs. And we learned theirs.

The orphanage director we met said shyly, “The children ask me, ‘Why don’t you ask the rich people for money?’” She had gone through her city seeking help. She continued her explanation, “But that is not how it works. You cannot make them.”

Now hugging her heart she said, “They don’t understand.” I think she was referring to her children not understanding. She fears they will grow up full of anger. But maybe she was referring to the wealthy, maybe even to us, now standing before her.

But who can understand? Even a casual look revealed the scope of poverty to be beyond one’s resources or that of any accessible. The prophecy is at once confirmed, “The poor will always be with you.” And so one’s hand is pulled back as from a hot stove.

There is another way to look. Into the eyes.

And here is something different. Not the so-called ‘face of poverty’. Just a face.

We tell ourselves that the poor are somehow different. We are able to maintain that attitude by keeping them flat – in pictures on our TV and in junk-mail pleas. But when we see them face-to-face, our defenses are challenged.

Of course! They are people like us. They mourn their dead – but all too often. They are smart and industrious but under-educated and without resources. They feel pain and hunger; they rejoice and pray. They love but more freely. They are not two dimensional.

They are us. Why is this a revelation?

To look into the eyes is not ‘moving’. Rather, motion occurs naturally. Here in Africa there is often music and with it, joyful dancing. At first one stands at the edge like a nervous teenager at a school dance, only watching. Then your head starts nodding. Your hands start clapping. Without thought your feet are soon moving and you are joyfully dancing, too. That is what it is to look this other way – to look into the eyes.

And this is important: You stop giving and start sharing.

It is in the nature of dancing, naturally.

To say we were on a mission trip is a confusion of reality. It means we went to take care of them. Yet the most common statement made by people on such trips is that they got more out of it than they gave.

Yet that is still deceptive. This is not just a balance of trade between givers, with one delivering goods and the other spirit. No, it was literal and in every way. The words we used most by far were, “Asante sana”. Thank you very much. We said this constantly. The African’s were always giving. No, not that. They were sharing generously; even out of their deep need. We constantly felt a sharing that was joyful and energetic and caring and generous and what can be said? It defies description. It was so warm it would make us ache.

The other thing about dancing is that it is best done with partners and in a group. And that’s how it was. We were together in sharing. And so the energy of the dance was greater than the sum of the dancers. That’s how a good dance feels. The music unites the dancer’s energy and brings them to a place they cannot go alone.

It was truly a spiritual experience. We came to know something we could not learn any other way. We sang new songs in new tongues. We danced new dances.

And we saw in a new way. We learned the meaning of some other words from that prophet, “Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you or thirsty and give you something to drink?” It was both the unrighteous and the righteous who say these words. Neither recognizes the Lord in the needy, but one acts because they see their brother in need and so naturally they move. Not guilt. Not giving. Not apportioning. Sharing. We looked into their eyes and saw in a new way.

Our eyes were opened.

There once were two brothers. The older brother was wealthy and alone and the other poor, with many children. On the day of his death, their father divided the land evenly. That night, the older brother lay awake staring into the darkness. He said to himself, “This is not fair that our father divided the land evenly. My brother is poor and his family in need. So he is not shamed, I will rise early and move the property marker.”

The younger brother also lay awake with sadness. He said to himself, “Why should I receive this land when I already have much joy. I will rise early and move the marker to add joy to my brother.”

In the morning they met at the marker and fell into each other’s arms, weeping.
It is said that they built the city of Jerusalem at that spot. And it is in this place of sharing that we can build the New Jerusalem. It is a place of abundant generosity, collective joy, and endless song. We saw it with our own eyes.

And we couldn’t help but dance.