DAYS 65 – 74

Day 65

I watched a man die right before my eyes

Today I witnessed an ugly side of Tanzania. My first day back on my feet was a day of horror I’ll never forget as long as I’m living.

Bruno opened the office on a Saturday to let a few of us come in to catch up on work. I’m very behind in work after being off sick for almost 2 weeks so Baraka and I, along with some admin staff went to the office to get caught up. We had been quietly working when we heard a shouts and screaming and went to the window to see what the fuss was about.

Inside the compound of the building, a few guys were taking turns beating another man. Alarmed at the display of violence, I asked Baraka why they were doing that. “That’s what they do to thieves” was all he said. As they continued to beat him I asked Baraka when they planned to stop, he answered “They will try to beat him to death”. I stared at him in disbelief.

I dashed out of the office and headed downstairs to where it was happening. A large mob had formed and more people were rushing over to witness the commotion. The man was crying out, and sprawled on the ground.

More guys had joined-in beating the man, and had now graduated to rocks. When the rocks weren’t doing enough damage they got a hold of bricks and began bashing the man down over and over again. Others began stomping on his head with their feet.

I asked the people around me what exactly had happened and they each confirmed what Baraka had already told me “the man is a thief.” What he stole didn’t matter, just that he had stolen something, and he had to pay with his life.

I impulsively marched forward, I don’t even know what I had planned to do, but before I could get far Baraka, who had joined me downstairs, abruptly grabbed me and said “Don’t be foolish. Unless you want to die with him, stay back.” Apparently by helping a victim you’re supporting a thief by taking their side, and you too, will get beaten along with them

People continued to flock around, encouraging the perpetrators to carry on, probably thinking they were doing the world a whole lot of justice by killing this man, others were standing around, looking on and laughing, entertained by it all. The man had gone completely limp and couldn’t even shield himself anymore.

The sight of it was already appalling but what was even more sickening was that people were just standing there, passively watching a man die. I screamed at people to stop the beating but no one wanted to side with a thief and if I wasn’t a foreigner they would’ve taken me down with him.

Baraka called 112, their 911, and explained the situation to the operator in Swahili. When he got off the line he gave me an I-told-you-so look and said “Police here are useless, they are sending someone but knowing them they will show up hours from now when he’s already dead.”

Tears streamed down my face as I watched them bash his skull against the ground and drop bricks on his body. With every blow that made contact with his body you could hear more organs bleeding, bones crushing. He had already stopped crying-out.

Something snapped inside me and I couldn’t take it anymore. I remembered Bruno had gone for tea down the street and sprinted over there to ask for his help. I got there and couldn’t speak coherently. Baraka had caught up to me and explained what was happening to Bruno who quickly got on his feet to accompany us back to the scene.

When we got back things were getting out of hand. People were growing louder and rowdier, and began chanting “petro, petro”, wanting to douse the man in gas and light him on fire. I quietly prayed the police would show up soon.

Bruno, being the Chairman of the building compound and well known in the area as a man of authority, took charge and commanded them to stop. He bellowed that the police were on their way and he would have anyone who remained on building property arrested if they continued. It took some coercion but the mob finally disbanded one by one. By the time it was safe to approach the man, it was too late. Too much damage had been done to his body.

The site of the bloody body before me was too much and I broke down in tears. Baraka took me back upstairs to the office where I continued to sob, traumatized by the event. What happened afterwards I don’t know, but I imagine when the police & ambulance finally made an appearance they didn’t bother resuscitating him and took the body away. What I do know for certain is that no one was taken in on charges for the murder of that man.

It was the most gruesome horrifying scene I still can’t get out of my head. How could they do this to another person? It was so barbaric and inhumane. I was filled with anger towards the perpetrators who beat him, each and every person who had been part of the crowd including my co-workers who just stood there and didn’t budge, even towards Baraka who didn’t think of calling the police sooner.

To them it was vigilante justice. I learned later from the chatter and stories that lingered in the area after the incident, that he had stolen fruit.

He took fruit and they took his life.


Day 66

Trauma still lingers

I needed to be alone today and spent most of the day by myself. I decided to take a walk through the neighbourhood of my office. Looking around, my surroundings seemed so foreign to me all over again.

I wondered if any of the faces who greeted me pleasantly as I passed, were among those who helped beat the man down yesterday. I wondered which fruit stand and vender the dead man had stolen from, and who among the grim faces I passed might’ve been friends with him or related to him, and learned of his horrible death. I passed children sketching pictures in the dirt and wondered if he had children and family he wanted to feed with the fruits he had stolen.

I talked to Baraka about it later who sensed it was still troubling me. We talked through it but in the end I remained disheartened and grew more despondent. “There is no justice system here, Hannah” he explained, “This is Africa, it’s not like where you come from, where you can press charges or put someone on probation. Thieves are thrown in jail for a day or two but the next day they are back on the streets, weaker and hungrier, and won’t hesitate to steal again.”

“That doesn’t make it right” I countered, “How do you justify a life for a banana?”

Baraka told me just days ago he witnessed a teenage boy beat up the same way, because he stole a pair of slippers. The boy’s mother came rushing to the scene but it was too late. He died in his mother’s arms and she wept while holding him. Afterward she gave back the slippers he took, he would no longer need them.

He’s seen many more horrific scenes of violence where a tire was tied around the victim’s neck, gasoline was poured on them and they were burned to death. These are fairly regular occurrences in Tanzania, he told me. To my dismay, he added, the violence here is tame compared to other African countries like South Africa, Zimbabwe or Nairobi to name a few.

I’ve been so naïve and sheltered. I’m living in a neighbourhood that would probably be considered Dar’s Rosedale if comparing to Toronto, and far removed from where these incidences would notoriously occur. What I didn’t know was that the very neighbourhood our office is located is among one of them. There haven’t been any major incidents up until now, but Baraka warned me this may not be the only murder I witness this year.

“This is Africa,” he repeated, “That’s how hard life is here. People aren’t educated. It’s survival of the fittest, but without education and a fair justice system there is no chance of survival. You die if you go hungry, but you also die if you steal to eat.”

I’m so sick of hearing ‘this is Africa’. It is powerless moments like these that make me want to bail out and go home. Baraka, must have read my mind. While hugging me tight he earnestly whispered, “Thank you for being here, we need all the help we can get”. I gave a bittersweet laugh and tried unsuccessfully to hide the tears that were welling up.


Day 67

Monday back to work

Coming to the office now triggers images of the brutal death of the man. I walk by the very spot where the barbaric actions took place and can’t get the horrific images out of my mind. There is a lot to catch up on at work so I’m hoping I can keep myself preoccupied.

The rest of the staff who weren’t there to witness Saturday’s incident, got to read about it in the local papers today. I presume reporters were called to the scene at the end, for the great photo op of the dead man.

My African parents

With the increasing incidence of crime in our area, and TANOPHA being my host here in Tanzania, Mama Tobias and Bruno have been concerned about my safety and advised me not to walk home by myself anymore. Bruno went as far as to escort me to the bus stop and see me off, informing the conductor exactly where to let me off.

Though I appreciate their care and concern as my host, if anything should happen to me I would never personally hold them responsible in any way. I’ll be taking the dreaded Dala Dala this week until things cool-off. Next week however, I’ll go back to my routine of walking home and whatever happens, happens.


Day 68

Meeting the Canadian Ambassador at his residence.

I was invited to the farewell party of the Canadian Ambassador to Tanzania, who is returning home to Canada. The other Canadians I knew couldn’t make it so I went solo.

The Canadian Residence is a huge compound with a beautiful ocean view of the beach. We got a small peek in some of the common rooms near the entrance and it was brilliantly furnished with classic furniture and African artefacts.

The party started around 6pm and upon arrival I was introduced to the Ambassador, Dr. Andrew McAllister and his wife, Mrs. Bente McAllister. We chatted for a bit; they asked me what my background was, what I was doing in Tanzania and how I was enjoying my stay so far.

After my chat with the Ambassador, I was by myself for the first while. There was free booze and plenty of h’ordeurves. I didn’t know a single person there, so I stayed close by the bar sipping wine. People began approaching me to make small talk. I met a whole slew of different people including Canadian missionary nuns working with orphans in rural villages across the country, and other Civil Servants working for various NGO’s of different interests.

I met the D.R. Congo High Commission Secretary who was apparently there to scout easy game and didn’t beat around the bush. He asked if I was married, I answered no. He asked if I was attached, I told him I left a boyfriend in Canada; he answered, “Well then, since he’s so far away perhaps we should get together one night.” I walked away to find other people to chat with.

There were a few Asians in the crowd and we gave each other the obligatory nod of acknowledgement. I met one Filipina who was delighted to meet a fellow Filipino in Dar. There is a small population of Asians who are primarily Chinese, but Filipinos are scarce. We chatted in Tagalog for a bit and it was nice to refresh myself in my language. She’s a housewife who doesn’t seem to have much interest in absorbing any Tanzanian culture while she’s here and hasn’t made any effort learning the language either despite living here for over two years now. Her husband is Canadian and works for the High Commission.

There was a short programme where the Ambassador said a few words of farewell and alternated between English, French and Swahili. A toast was raised to the health and prosperity of both Canada & Tanzania. Words were distributed for both national anthems of Tanzania and Canada and both were sung. Tanzanians who were part of the crowd belted their anthem with pride and we belted ours. It was a nice warm feeling of unity between the two nations.

Looking around there were very few young people and most were twice my age and very experienced in the world of international relations so I felt a little out of place at first. Later that evening, I found myself chatting with guys from the High Commissions of Japan and Italy who were closer to my age. Their backgrounds were in business/commerce so I learned a little bit about Japanese & Italian relations in Africa. The two Italian guys were Stefano who’s been living here the past three years, and Julian who is also an intern and got here about the same time as me.

After we bonded and had a few too many drinks, I had reached my limit of wine and it was time to go home. It turns out the two Italians live close to me so I got a ride home with them.

It was a much-needed relaxing evening to chill and I felt very international.


Day 69

Harder times

This week there’s been a lot of buzz about the new budget that was just released in parliament. The price of oil has gone up affecting prices of everything else that trickles down from it.

Dar’s transport system has also been hit pretty hard by the budget and bus fare went up 100 Shillings. A round trip on the Dala Dala now costs 600 shillings, which is just 400 shillings short of how much people make in one day on average. Many bus conductors have been let go and some have tried to run off with earnings from the bus fares, causing more vigilante justice. Crime in general has been on the rise just in the past week. If I was oblivious to it before, I’ve now developed a heightened awareness to the chatter when I hear about another death on the street.

Additionally our neighbours to the north have been going through their share of political instability as Kenya is preparing for elections. The headlines read of murders everyday in Nairobi and there’s been growing economic strain in the East African Union.

Tanzania only recently transitioned from socialism to capitalism about 5 years ago. Though their infrastructure has somewhat improved and GDP gone up some, profits have only benefited very few and the little people are still being screwed over.

Many people are living on less than a dollar a day. I learned our guard, Christopher is getting paid the equivalent of just under $30 Cdn a month. He asked me if I knew of other places he can take a second job because living on 30,000/= Tsh wasn’t helping to support his family. The owner of the compound pays the salary of the help around here and I couldn’t believe it was so little. The equivalent of a dollar here is about 1,000/= Tsh which can buy a loaf of bread.

Teach a man to fish, he still goes hungry

The other day I was at the office and noticed no one was taking their lunch. I asked why no one wanted to eat today and Malik spoke up and said “we haven’t received this month’s pay yet.” I shook my head dejected that even the educated and working class struggle through life the way they do. I ordered rolls of ugali and mbuzi (goat meat) enough for all the staff to share at the office and it cost the equivalent of about $8 Canadian dollars.

People who have been taught to fish still go hungry. What good are fishing skills when you don’t even have a durable net to catch them with? This is Africa I bitterly thought..


Day 70

Fieldwork rolling in

The counselling has begun and I’ve been facilitating training sessions to PLHA’s on treatment literacy at VCT’s (Voluntary Counselling Treatment Centres) in the city. I’m teaching new users of ARV’s how to take their meds properly and maximize their therapy through good nutrition and physical activity. For the most part the patients are there by choice and very receptive to the discussions and I find myself inundated with so many questions.

A little bit of basic immunology background

WBC = white blood cells
-These guys normally fight off viruses and are the main target of HIV
-As more WBC’s are attacked the immune system is weakened

HIV = human immuno deficiency virus
-When the virus attacks it binds to the surface of WBC’s with the help of CD4 and expels its junk into the cytoplasm of the cell
-It’s DNA is copied and incorporated into the cell, allowing the production of more and more viruses to continue infecting other WBC’s and killing them off and reducing the number of CD4.

CD4 = cluster differentiated protein found in WBC’s
-CD4’s are proteins in WBC’s that are responsible for stimulating the production of antibodies and multiplication of other WBC’s.
-Healthy people have on average a CD4 count of about 1000+
-Tanzania’s policy on eligibility for ARV’s is a CD4 count of 200 and below
-Patients in most countries in Europe, the US and Canada usually start ARV’s when CD4 is from 500 - 300 and below.
-Full blown AIDS is 50 and below.

ART = anti retroviral therapy
-Unless ART is administered, the virus will continue to kill off WBC’s, weakening the immune system, progressing to AIDS
-ART prevents the transcription for DNA replication and prevents CD4 from allowing the virus to bind to the cell
-The virus is constantly mutating and after taking particular ARV drugs overtime, the body eventually stops responding to it and the patient then has to graduate to the next level drug.
-Most people are put on multi therapy cocktails right away. These are a mixture of different grades of ART to cover more ground

AIDS = acquired immune deficiency syndrome
-When more WBC’s are attacked the immune system is weakened and the condition progresses to AIDS
-Weakened immune system means susceptibility to infections and people don’t die of AIDS itself but rather, the opportunistic diseases that propagate when they’ve reached the state of AIDS
-Under ideal circumstances most people can live with HIV for long periods of time if they are very careful and can sustain their overall health to prevent the onset of AIDS
-Some can be HIV+ for many years and do not need ARV’s which should be used as a last resort
-It’s possible in the first world for PLHA’s to live healthy lives, but unfortunately a death sentence in Sub Saharan Africa
-The vulnerable include children, those who can’t afford to eat well, or those who work in tough conditions where they have to wear their body down causing their strength and immunity to deteriorate
-Children who are born with HIV do not live long because their immune system is immature and ARV’s can only sustain their immunity for so long before they succumb to AIDS


Day 71

I bang pianos

I think out of all my possessions I miss my piano the most. I started practicing again when I moved back home and discovered it was a completely different feeling playing for my own enjoyment than when I used to take it seriously. It was so soothing and therapeutic that when I kept practicing I found I enjoyed it on a completely different level and even progressed with new repertoire.

Even when I was away from home and went away to school, I’d sneak into the music building on campus whenever I needed to release pent up emotions and pound at the keys. Here, there is no place I can sneak into to get access to a piano. I could use a release about now. I could also use other mediums of release about now… but a cold shower will have to do.


Day 72

Girl bonding part II

I spent Saturday bonding with the girls Neema, Pascazia, and Halima, from the office who invited me to go shopping with them. Kariakoo is like Dar’s Eaton Centre, so I made another trip yet again to the infamous Kariakoo. I felt like an ornament for the most part, they were so eager to parade around with me and enjoyed the catcalls and hollering we got from people as we walked by.

I was their new subject they wanted to dress up and initiate as an African woman so they took me to a place where we picked up fabric to have matching African style dresses made. I didn’t mind them fawning over me and found it kind of cute that they were so enthusiastic to have me in their company. They got their kicks out of flaunting their ‘Mzungu’ friend to everyone there.

Neema speaks the most English out of the three, while Pascazia speaks very little, and Halima, none at all, so whenever I’m in their company it’s a great opportunity for me to step up my Swahili.

Boys, boys, boys

Afterwards I invited them to my place for lunch and what could possibly be the heated topic of conversation when you get a bunch of girls together in one room but boys! The outpour of gossip made me blush at the amount of detail they went into about certain guys they fancied at the office and questions they asked me about my experience with boys. If I thought African men were forward and bold, African women put them to shame!

“I would marry a mzungu man if he can make love as good as an African man, otherwise I’ll stick with a poor but well endowed African” (Mzungu means European and is used to refer to any white or non-black foreign person)
“Do you plan to never leave your room when your mchumba comes to visit?” (mchumba means boyfriend/girlfriend)
“You should take an African boyfriend, you have needs you know. I’m sure your Canadian boyfriend will understand. He’s probably already gotten a new girlfriend so you should check if his needs are being taken care of while you are here.”

Yikes…

No, I haven’t taken an African boyfriend and cope just fine. Between sweating in the sizzling heat and the cold showers it kind of puts you off anyway. Anthony will be coming to visit in December just in time when I hit the six-month mark. I’ll take my holidays then and we’ll be travelling around the country before we part for another six months.

He’s been busy with work as it is, if I had stuck around we wouldn’t have seen much of each other anyway. He has told me he copes by doing push-ups everyday…if we make it past this, I’m pretty sure we can make it through anything.

Loneliness

All the boy-talk made me lonely that night. When I was deciding whether to accept this placement it really boiled down to Anthony. My family will still be my family when I get back and friends will remain, but I wasn’t so sure if I’d still have a boyfriend when I get back.

We’re going on 7 years now and we’ve had our share of challenges. We met in residence our first year of university and stuck together since. It was tough being apart after we graduated and moved back to Toronto and shortly after, he left for law school. We’ve been doing long distance for two years and now even further in distance for the year that I’m here. It’s been a rough ride, but somehow we’ve made it work so far.

It’s especially difficult when I’m depressed and rundown from the things I see everyday. I’ve seen the sickest people who are knocking on death’s doorstep, babies just born but already dying, young children who aspire to be teachers and astronauts when they grow up, but won’t even live to see double digits, thieves who steal food in order to eat but get killed for it, street children picking through garbage to salvage anything edible they can find….

At the end of the day when I most need someone to just hold me, I go home alone and process all of what I’ve seen by myself.


Day 73

Hassan, my fruit dealer

I’ve got a fruit guy, Hassan who caters to me every time I stop by the market to pick up fruit. The guys at the stand now expect to see me everyday. When I was sick for nearly two weeks they had been wondering where I’ve been.

As I’m approaching the guys are already hollering my name and greet me. Hassan is my favourite guy of the bunch, really sweet and before I’ve even arrived he’s already set aside the best of the pickings for me. I give him the Islam greeting As-Salāmu `Alaykum , he replies wa `Alaykum As-Salām. After I’ve collected my fruit I hang out to chat with them for a bit. I’ve picked up the bulk of my Swahili slang from them.

Afterwards Hassan escorts me to the main road and I’ll bid him “tutaonana kesho” See you tomorrow, to which he reples “kama mungu anapenda” if God wish.

You know you’re in need of a cold shower when…

While hanging out with the fruit stand guys today, I mentioned I hate peeling pineapples so Hassan offered to prepare it for me.

He took out the pineapple I bought, flipped it up in the air, caught it on the edge of his machete he whipped out of his belt and skilfully began peeling it with broad swift strokes. He was so smooth with the tool and expertly made his way around the edge of the fruit while the juices dripped off his arm. I sat there starring, stupefied (and kind of turned on). If I was drooling I couldn’t tell if it was because of the sweet citrus scent of fresh pineapple hitting my nostrils or his slick motions and proficiency with the blade.

When he was through he handed me the bag of fresh pineapple and I reached for it, flustered. When I ate it later that night all I could think of was…. well it was time to take that cold shower.

Who knew peeling a pineapple could be so hot.


Day 74

Had a really long, hard day today. I’m feeling really sad and lonely right now.