They say "Try anything once, except incest or Morris dancing," and on Friday, that's exactly what I did when I was a guest teacher at a local women's refuse.
The Ebyown Women's Centre, run by Moriel Missions and here in Moshono, provides education and life skills to young ladies who are either orphans or from vulnerable backgrounds (ie. drink-swilling widower fathers).
During a visit last week to gather some information for a fundraising report I'm writing for them, the headteacher (a lovely lady called Irene) invited me to share my journalistic skills by teaching a lesson on effective communication skills.
"Yes, of course, I'd be delighted to," I said. But then what?
After staring at a blank sheet of paper for an hour or so when planning my lesson, inspiration struck; base the whole thing around the five questions any good story or message must answer - Who, What, Where, Why and When.
The five young ladies I lectured to seemed to enjoy it. All are planning to become self-employed tailors when they are self-sufficient, so hopefully my lesson got the wheels turning on how they can drum up business for themselves when their name is above the door.
I'm back at Ebyown doing another Communications lesson on Wednesday (about what exactly I have no idea), then I'm lecturing at Arusha Journalism Training College about Media In The UK on Friday.
Teaching is always the last job I ever saw myself doing, but you know what? I've enjoyed what I've done so far. Don't expect it to carry on when I get back, but it's been fun so far.
~~~
After eight weeks or so in Tanzania, I'm now feeling quite at home, not least because we're now into rainy season. Outside the window of the Moshono internet cafe where I am writing this, it is hammering down like there's no tomorrow. It's like being back at Ochilview.
I'm pleased about that though. Not because I'm fed up of having 25 degree-plus weather everyday, but because east Africa needs rain, and lots of it. I've visited lots of bone-dry communities with fields full of dead crops and skeletal-skinny animals over the last couple of months, and I know the farmers here will be loving it. Let it rain.
~~~
Does anyone at home drink Martini Bianco? I only ask because I had a glass of it last night, to celebrate the father of my lovely homestay coming home after being away working for many weeks.
I liked it! Not something I would buy again in a hurry but it nicely hit the spot and at 15,000 Tanzanian shillings (about 7 quid) for a litre bottle, doesn't exactly break the bank.
Ross
Monday, 26 October 2009
Sunday, 11 October 2009
Ta ta TAN-EDAPS
So, I didn’t find a TV to watch the Japan-Scotland game (no big deal, apparently we were hopeless and lost 2-0). I was too busy moving out of my homestay in Ngyeku Village, ahead of moving to a new one in Moshono tomorrow. For the next month, I’m the new recruit for RISE Africa, another NGO doing all kinds of great work here in Tanzania.
My first month has been brilliant. At TAN-EDAPS, I’ve been doing some report writing, some fundraising and lots of picture-taking at the behest of my boss, Mr Mafie (like most people here, he doesn’t have a digital camera, so I’ve come in pretty useful for taking snaps).
Two things stick out from my time with him. On Monday I spent the day with one of TAN-EDAPS’ associated groups called Ngyeku Home Based Care (NHOBC), which arranges visits to house-bound people such as HIV sufferers or old folks.
We visited nine households that day. The first was a grandmother who lived in a shack in the middle of rural farmland, caring for her HIV-infected grand-daughter abandoned by her itinerant alcohol-loving daughter. The grandmother had no job, no husband and with East Africa experiencing a lengthy and cruel drought, no food or crops. NHOBC does a great job, on the limited budget it has, of ensuring these folks are not forgotten about.
The other stories were equally harrowing. The saddest for me concerned the fella below wearing the hat, 95-year-old Elisa:
He’s a grand old chap who can’t walk unaided, has major chest pains and is getting increasingly forgetful, suggesting he’s in the early stages of dementia. Also, in the photograph, that mudhut in the background, which you would not keep your evil slyly-parks-in-disabled-spaces neighbour’s dog in, is his house.
He likes visitors though, so our arrival was warmly welcomed and he squeezed my hand firmly and mustered a smile when I approached. He can’t speak properly anymore, so I’d like to think the series of grunts he gave me were intended kindly. The hat he is wearing was a pink women’s M&S number with a little bow on the side, a bit like one my Grandma Helen used to wear.
Obviously, he belongs in an old folks’ home. But they don’t have them in Tanzania, so he’s reliant on the kindness of his neighbours to bring him food, and groups like NHOBC, who are trying to raise money to help him find somewhere nicer to live.
My whole day with NHOBC was a bit like these clips they show on Comic Relief, where they send someone like Nigel from Eastenders to a penniless African community and zoom in on their heartache as the rich Westerner/peasant Africa pathos eats them up.
I now know how that feels, and it’s hard not to feel that same sense of pity, shame and even guilt, laced with a feeling that the world has never looked this unbalanced. Unlike the Comic Relief projects featured on telly, there’s no wheelbarrow-full of cash coming NHOBC’s way any time soon. But I wish them well and hope I can help them change that in the future.
Another brilliant group I had the pleasure of spending time with was Nice Orphanage & Daycare Centre. Here’s some of the kids doing a maths lesson:
The management have big plans of extending the centre from its current use as a daycare centre into a fully residential campus for over 40 kids, where they can get three meals a day and proper TLC, depending on finding funding of around £90,000. I did some report writing for them, and am in the midst of helping them to set up an ‘Adopt A Child’ scheme, to give these kids cash for things like schooling, food and clothes.
As an introduction to working for an NGO in Tanzania, TAN-EDAPS was class. The journey continues now with RISE Africa.
The word is I might be asked to do some English teaching. As per Robin Williams in Good Morning Vietnam, I’m toying with the idea of introducing the phrase “Yer maw” to the youth of Tanzania as a term of endearment.
~~~
As I mentioned in an earlier blog, I didn’t bring my MP3 player to Tanzania with me, which I now acknowledge as a tactical error. I expected Tanzania radio to be awash with sufficient guitar rock and pop to get by; instead the only Western stuff is all horrible hip-hop and R&B. The closest I have got so far was a Mantovani-esque reworking of “Baby Where Did Our Love Go?” by The Supremes and that will not do.
However, from a scientific point of view, I can salvage positives from my experiment. On a bus to Moshi last week, a stream of anonymous African tunes on the radio was interrupted by “Against All Odds” by Phil Collins; a song I vehemently do not have in my collection at home, but in isolation, and as sanctuary from the rubbish I’m otherwise forced to listen to, it sounded terrific. “In The Air Tonight” or “Sussudio” would have been much better, but in the circumstances, I’ll take what I can get.
As I publish this blog, I have one ear on YouTube, listening to "Alba" by Runrig at jet engine-volume. It’s 4:01 long, took 27 minutes to load and is big, bombastic and worth every second of the wait.
Bye for now,
Ross
My first month has been brilliant. At TAN-EDAPS, I’ve been doing some report writing, some fundraising and lots of picture-taking at the behest of my boss, Mr Mafie (like most people here, he doesn’t have a digital camera, so I’ve come in pretty useful for taking snaps).
Two things stick out from my time with him. On Monday I spent the day with one of TAN-EDAPS’ associated groups called Ngyeku Home Based Care (NHOBC), which arranges visits to house-bound people such as HIV sufferers or old folks.
We visited nine households that day. The first was a grandmother who lived in a shack in the middle of rural farmland, caring for her HIV-infected grand-daughter abandoned by her itinerant alcohol-loving daughter. The grandmother had no job, no husband and with East Africa experiencing a lengthy and cruel drought, no food or crops. NHOBC does a great job, on the limited budget it has, of ensuring these folks are not forgotten about.
The other stories were equally harrowing. The saddest for me concerned the fella below wearing the hat, 95-year-old Elisa:
He’s a grand old chap who can’t walk unaided, has major chest pains and is getting increasingly forgetful, suggesting he’s in the early stages of dementia. Also, in the photograph, that mudhut in the background, which you would not keep your evil slyly-parks-in-disabled-spaces neighbour’s dog in, is his house.
He likes visitors though, so our arrival was warmly welcomed and he squeezed my hand firmly and mustered a smile when I approached. He can’t speak properly anymore, so I’d like to think the series of grunts he gave me were intended kindly. The hat he is wearing was a pink women’s M&S number with a little bow on the side, a bit like one my Grandma Helen used to wear.
Obviously, he belongs in an old folks’ home. But they don’t have them in Tanzania, so he’s reliant on the kindness of his neighbours to bring him food, and groups like NHOBC, who are trying to raise money to help him find somewhere nicer to live.
My whole day with NHOBC was a bit like these clips they show on Comic Relief, where they send someone like Nigel from Eastenders to a penniless African community and zoom in on their heartache as the rich Westerner/peasant Africa pathos eats them up.
I now know how that feels, and it’s hard not to feel that same sense of pity, shame and even guilt, laced with a feeling that the world has never looked this unbalanced. Unlike the Comic Relief projects featured on telly, there’s no wheelbarrow-full of cash coming NHOBC’s way any time soon. But I wish them well and hope I can help them change that in the future.
Another brilliant group I had the pleasure of spending time with was Nice Orphanage & Daycare Centre. Here’s some of the kids doing a maths lesson:
The management have big plans of extending the centre from its current use as a daycare centre into a fully residential campus for over 40 kids, where they can get three meals a day and proper TLC, depending on finding funding of around £90,000. I did some report writing for them, and am in the midst of helping them to set up an ‘Adopt A Child’ scheme, to give these kids cash for things like schooling, food and clothes.
As an introduction to working for an NGO in Tanzania, TAN-EDAPS was class. The journey continues now with RISE Africa.
The word is I might be asked to do some English teaching. As per Robin Williams in Good Morning Vietnam, I’m toying with the idea of introducing the phrase “Yer maw” to the youth of Tanzania as a term of endearment.
~~~
As I mentioned in an earlier blog, I didn’t bring my MP3 player to Tanzania with me, which I now acknowledge as a tactical error. I expected Tanzania radio to be awash with sufficient guitar rock and pop to get by; instead the only Western stuff is all horrible hip-hop and R&B. The closest I have got so far was a Mantovani-esque reworking of “Baby Where Did Our Love Go?” by The Supremes and that will not do.
However, from a scientific point of view, I can salvage positives from my experiment. On a bus to Moshi last week, a stream of anonymous African tunes on the radio was interrupted by “Against All Odds” by Phil Collins; a song I vehemently do not have in my collection at home, but in isolation, and as sanctuary from the rubbish I’m otherwise forced to listen to, it sounded terrific. “In The Air Tonight” or “Sussudio” would have been much better, but in the circumstances, I’ll take what I can get.
As I publish this blog, I have one ear on YouTube, listening to "Alba" by Runrig at jet engine-volume. It’s 4:01 long, took 27 minutes to load and is big, bombastic and worth every second of the wait.
Bye for now,
Ross
Friday, 2 October 2009
Cancel the Pirelli calendar shoot…
A Davie Weir hands-on-hips-after-conceding-a-goal stance during a kickabout with some local lads on Monday night confirmed my recent suspicion; that I’m putting on weight.
Hardly surprising, as the diet here is pure carbohydrates, which because of work commitments and a cold last week, I haven’t been able to exercise off quick enough.
Lunch and dinner most days is boiled rice, with a side typically of brown beans, spinach, roasted banana or fish; cheap, cheerful and, I’m pleased to report, very, very tasty. Unpicky eater that I am, I am perfectly happy. Screw my hips, being 11 stone-ish (I estimate) has never tasted so good.
For when I eventually move into full half-marathon training mode (for the Kilimanjaro Half Marathon on 28 February 2010), I reckon it will be nigh-on perfect, as is Tanzanian brekkie, which is less carby, but by no means less tasty – very eggy and fruity (though I’m less sure about the local porridge, which tastes and looks like bread-flavoured Angel Delight).
~ ~ ~
An interesting exchange at the bus stop one morning this week.
Waiting for a bus to arrive in Sakila, I was approached by an elderly gent, dressed like a mixture between Charlie Chaplin’s Tramp and Miami Vice’s officer Tubbs, who hobbled towards me with the aid of a cane. He shook me firmly by the hand, took off his hat, said something incomprehensible in Swahili, and, after flashing me a gummy smile that revealed a single yellow tooth, treated me to a song.
While warbling away, my new friend strummed his cane like an imaginary guitar. After a minute or so, he stopped, said something else in Swahili, and looked at me questioningly. Keeping my hands firmly in my pockets and offering nothing more than a polite ‘Me no comprende’ shrug, Seasick Steve simply turned on his heels and wandered off.
My mate Moses, who was with me, confirmed my suspicions and told me he was asking for money. At least he didn’t try and whistle, although that would have been more interesting.
~ ~ ~
Finally, football tops.
The English Premiership has a fanatical fanbase here in Tanzania. On matchdays, cheering can be heard from all over Arusha when a match involving one of the Big Four is in progress, from groups of guys gathered round small TV sets. I hope I can find one next Saturday where I can watch the Japan-Scotland game, though I’m not holding out much hope.
Walking around, football tops – either fake or several seasons old – are everywhere. The most common are unsurprisingly Manchester United, though Arsenal are also very popular. However, barely a week after flying thousands of miles here from Edinburgh, this one caught my eye in Longido:
A Jim Jefferies (or perhaps even Davie Weir?)-era Heart of Midlothian top – one of only two Scottish tops I have seen so far, besides a fake Celtic one with Nakamura on the back. I did not ask the kid if he knew the words to “Hearts Hearts, Glorious Hearts”.
Anymore brilliant old non-Old Firm Scottish football tops I see, you'll see them on here.
Ross
Hardly surprising, as the diet here is pure carbohydrates, which because of work commitments and a cold last week, I haven’t been able to exercise off quick enough.
Lunch and dinner most days is boiled rice, with a side typically of brown beans, spinach, roasted banana or fish; cheap, cheerful and, I’m pleased to report, very, very tasty. Unpicky eater that I am, I am perfectly happy. Screw my hips, being 11 stone-ish (I estimate) has never tasted so good.
For when I eventually move into full half-marathon training mode (for the Kilimanjaro Half Marathon on 28 February 2010), I reckon it will be nigh-on perfect, as is Tanzanian brekkie, which is less carby, but by no means less tasty – very eggy and fruity (though I’m less sure about the local porridge, which tastes and looks like bread-flavoured Angel Delight).
~ ~ ~
An interesting exchange at the bus stop one morning this week.
Waiting for a bus to arrive in Sakila, I was approached by an elderly gent, dressed like a mixture between Charlie Chaplin’s Tramp and Miami Vice’s officer Tubbs, who hobbled towards me with the aid of a cane. He shook me firmly by the hand, took off his hat, said something incomprehensible in Swahili, and, after flashing me a gummy smile that revealed a single yellow tooth, treated me to a song.
While warbling away, my new friend strummed his cane like an imaginary guitar. After a minute or so, he stopped, said something else in Swahili, and looked at me questioningly. Keeping my hands firmly in my pockets and offering nothing more than a polite ‘Me no comprende’ shrug, Seasick Steve simply turned on his heels and wandered off.
My mate Moses, who was with me, confirmed my suspicions and told me he was asking for money. At least he didn’t try and whistle, although that would have been more interesting.
~ ~ ~
Finally, football tops.
The English Premiership has a fanatical fanbase here in Tanzania. On matchdays, cheering can be heard from all over Arusha when a match involving one of the Big Four is in progress, from groups of guys gathered round small TV sets. I hope I can find one next Saturday where I can watch the Japan-Scotland game, though I’m not holding out much hope.
Walking around, football tops – either fake or several seasons old – are everywhere. The most common are unsurprisingly Manchester United, though Arsenal are also very popular. However, barely a week after flying thousands of miles here from Edinburgh, this one caught my eye in Longido:
A Jim Jefferies (or perhaps even Davie Weir?)-era Heart of Midlothian top – one of only two Scottish tops I have seen so far, besides a fake Celtic one with Nakamura on the back. I did not ask the kid if he knew the words to “Hearts Hearts, Glorious Hearts”.
Anymore brilliant old non-Old Firm Scottish football tops I see, you'll see them on here.
Ross
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