Words of Wisdom

Here's the first entry in what could possibly become a series entitled "what I've learned while living overseas":

"A fast internet connection in an air conditioned office with pleather chairs, faux bois desks and an organogram of a large organisation taped to the wall will make any office space anywhere in the world feel like an Ottawa cubicle."

I'll try and post a longer entry when my eyes stop hurting from staring at computer screens all day long.

Land of Milk and Honey

So I’m having lunch one day at my favourite dive, the Passing Show (think greasy-spoon Montreal deli without the deli and waiters sporting black bow-ties) and this man comes over and sits at my table. It’s common to share tables during the busy lunch time hours, when seating is scarce. He is reasonably dressed and, with his many bags, looks like he’s travelling. So I ask if he’s going somewhere and discover he is planning to catch the afternoon ferry to Dar in a few hours time. Silence then falls over our conversation despite the noise of the bustling diner around us.

It is a mixed crowd, filled with foreigners who have disrespectfully dressed as if they by the pool at a Club Med, and local laymen and business people whose appearance is more conservative: collar shirts and loose fitting pants for men, and long skirts and shawls for women, with some also wearing the traditional bui bui, or black cloth that covers everything from the head to the ankle but has an opening for the face. They have all come to enjoy what Passing Show is known best for: excellent local food at cheap prices that are pre-determined by a menu instead of being calculated according to your skin colour – a common practice of one local restaurant that has a chicken and rice dish to literally die for but overcharges foreigners for the priveledge. To avoid this scam, myself and the other interns will either give money to our Tanzanian colleague who we'll accompany to the restaurant and then wait behind the wall of the restaurant compound so the owner can't see us, or ask the office assistant to go on our behalf.

Not wanting to eat in silence, I attempt to start a conversation by telling him I’ve come from Toronto to do an internship with the Aga Khan Foundation.

He scrunches his face as if I pinched a nerve.

I brace for a potentially critical response to the Foundation similar to ones I've heard in the past.

One time I was talking to a night wathman while waiting for a friend and upon hearing of my association with His Highness, made sure I knew that the Foundation only serves the interests of the Ismaili community and no one else, despite the global evidence of AKF programming in Africa and Asia benefiting people of all faiths. He occasionally worked at the Ismaili mosque in town and not being an Ismaili himself, let alone a Muslim, probably felt excluded from the communal love. Therefore anything related to the Aga Khan was not right.

Another time was in conversation with a religious zealot over tea, chipati and fish one morning at a sea-side eatery. I stopped there on my way to work to get a quick bite, but ended up staying longer than anticipated after he launched into conversation about the immorality of the Bush regime, to which I gladly contributed. The topic eventually shifted focus to the Foundation, which he believed was too “modern” and therefore was losing touch with the fundamental morals and tenants of Islam. He asked for my number and I gave him my e-mail instead, not wanting to get too chummy after having second thoughts.

* * *

It turns out my lunch time companion at the Passing Show has no beef with the Aga Khan. Instead it is with Toronto.

“I use to live there once” he says, “in Scarborough, where all the aliens live.”

Ah, a Toronto basher who lived in Scarborough. Can he really be blamed? I disagree with the alien comment though. Although Scarborians are rather rough around the edges, they look more like humans than Martians.

The man talks of his wife and children, who currently live in Toronto. I ask him if he plans to return “home” and see them. He tells me bluntly that “home” is here in Zanzibar, where he was born and raised. Besides, he has no money to do that anyway, and it is this thought that triggers a statement I have never heard anyway say during all of my travels throughout the Global South:

"I left Canada to find work in Tanzania."

Tanzania, a country where the life expectancy at birth is 50 some-odd years, where those 64 per cent of the population who are not living below the poverty line of USD 1 per day make a average income equivalent to USD 800 per year (or like the teacher I just met in Pemba, USD 400), where 80 percent of the labour force works in the rural sector to eek out a living selling commodities for pennies (go rich world trade tariffs and climate change!), where national unemployment is not publicly recorded because of a largely informal and untaxed economy that makes defining such term rather difficult, or because the government is too embarrassed in admitting it is high. Although Tanzania’s a very beautiful country with a rich culture and (colonialist) history (of exploitation), it’s not generally known as a go-to country for jobs and opportunity. Those places are either elsewhere on the continent, like in South Africa or Nigeria, or overseas, like in Europe or North America.

But North America always ranked the number one for the place to be for a 'better life' in my numerous conversations with residents and students during my year at UDSM and month and a half as an intern here in Stone Town.

It is seen as a land of milk and honey.

After all, how could the streets not be lined with gold when the North Americans my conversants saw had laptops, iPods, fancy shoes, digital cameras, silver watches and spent the equivalent to an average monthly income on fancy meals not once, but many times a week? Surely anyone who can afford all that plus a plane ticket to travel halfway around the world must come from a magical place where money grows on trees and silk is used as bathroom tissue (apparently the women here are easy too and make excellent housewives)?

But for my lunch time companion headed to Dar, the reality of Canada was far from sugar coated. Instead his experience in this perfect land crushed his high expectations and led him down a path of depression, not happiness. It was something he regretted doing:

“Moving to Canada was the biggest mistake of my life.”

Fourteen years of mopping floors and scrubbing toilets is apparently a dream smasher. It also throws your sense of self worth out the window, especially if you have qualifications to do something more stimulating that interests you. For him, it is supplying shops and government departments with IT equipment. But to Canadian employers in this field, he was nothing more than an unskilled labourer from the Third World who lacked Canadian credentials. So toilet and taxi duty it was.

As he tells me over a colourful plate of chicken biriyani, his dreams of a happy life filled with riches therefore never materialized. Constantly rejected by employers outside of the custodial industry had its toll on his physical and emotional health, and soon reached the point where he decided to return home and start over once again, only this time feeling defeated. And adding to his misery, he would have to go back single because he couldn't afford to bring along his Canadian wife. But hey, looking on the brighter side of things, she never appreciated his “Swahili style of communication” anyways (if it resembles anything like the words he used to order his meal, it is solely based on imperatives).

So now he’s back home in Tanzania, where, as he tells me while washing down his meal with a soda, he belongs; working the daily grind in a culture and environment most compatible with his personality and skill set; making a living that allows him to support his family, who still live with the “aliens” in a dream country that refused him, and probably many other newcomers like him, the luxury of emotional stability and peace.

Salama Island

So here I am sitting at my desk with the evening calls to prayer ringing all around me - a sign that I’ve stayed at the office far too long. But that’s the price you pay when managing a blog, to go that extra mile and document your experiences and have something to look back to when my time here is long over.

I haven’t been active this month with my entries because I’ve had lots work to do. His Highness (the Aga Khan) is visiting Tanzania this week and major communications materials for all of AKF’s projects have to be finalized. That means I’ve been completing project profiles and making power point presentations highlighting the projects around the island, finicky work that at times is fun but for the most part is mind numbingly dull and painful. At least it’s something that is needed by AKF Tanzania and won’t, I hope, all be for nothing like past experience has shown. My plan is to finish much of these mini projects asap so I can make myself available for project monitoring and evaluation work or other tasks outside of the communications theme.

Generally speaking, life is pretty good after living here for one and a half months. I’ve fallen into synch with the Zanzibar lifestyle, or to be more precise my expat version of it, pretty well. I work the 9-5 in a beautiful heritage building that would look out onto the sea if the University of Dar es Salaam’s Marine Science Institute wasn’t blocking the view; I eat and drink at fine restaurants named after posh colonialists who “discovered” and tamed the wilds of this “dark continent” (these watering holes also provide stellar views of the Indian Ocean, especially of Zanzibar’s famous sun sets, my god!); I get chauffeured around town in a white SUV during the day to visit AKF project sites to collect information and interview beneficiaries; I sleep in a palace; I get someone to hand wash my clothes every other week, and her colleague serves me tea and biscuits every morning and afternoon at my desk, and her colleague brings me five daily newspaper around tea time so I know what’s going on around town. Life’s tough as an IDM-er, I know.

But it hasn’t all been selfishly pimping it up mzungu style. I’m also spending time helping my local friend Hemed launch his tour company, Salama Island Tours. "Salama" means "peace" in Swahili (and many other languages for that matter), and is also the name of his wife, who giggled ferociously when I suggested the idea at his home one evening. Personally I think it’s a great name, and so does Salama! Right now we’re creating a brochure and will begin work on a website shortly. Once those two items are complete, the communications side of things will be in place and Hemed will be ready to roll as an executive director and master co-ordinator. With an excursion list and packages already organized, the expressed interest of a few friends wanting to partner with the company, and Hemed's reputation for delivery quality tours, things look promising. Exciting times indeed. So if you have any advice for running a small tour company, please pass it along because Hemed and co. would be most appreciative. Also, if you ever want to come to Zanzibar, let us know and Hemed will make your stay unforgettable, but in the good way.

Anyways I must be off. It’s pitch black outside, my eyes are going cross-eyed from staring at this bloody screen for all day, and malaria-ridden mosquitoes are biting my feet. Ciao.

The Kiti Moto Experience

One of the local meals I've developed a craving for here in Zanzibar is ironically something that is not readily available on this predominantly Muslim island: kiti moto. It means "hot seat" in Swahili, and refers to a magnificent meal of grilled or roasted pork bits.

I am told by local sources that the name was derived as a code word by Muslims who longed to indulge in the forbidden food, and wanted to tell other sinners about their experience. However, the meaning eventually caught on and it is now widely recognized across Tanzania, much to the disappointment of those few I'm sure.

While visiting friends in Dar a few weeks ago, I had the privilege to indulge in a kiti moto feast of my own. It was heavenly! Because this meal is too good to pass up when visiting mainland Tanzania, I've taken the liberty to list how one goes about experiencing this culinary delight, just in case you're ever in the neighbourhood:

First, find a kiti moto restaurant. They are usually located in discreet locations behind ragged looking buildings surrounded by palm trees (the reason for this is because mass riots broke out in Dar many years ago, started by the city's Muslim population who were scandalized at seeing so many pork dishes being openly served in public). You are in the right place if you see half-carved pig carcasses hanging from rusty meat hooks in what could be a butcher’s kitchen. Plastic tables, chairs and Coca Cola advertisements will also be scattered about the restaurant grounds.

Second, clang the metal bars that separate the kitchen interior from the outside world to get the cook's attention, and then place your order in broken Swahili. About three kilos should do if you are dining with a hungry friend, but ask the cook to cut off a meaty part of the rump, or else you will be served the bony part of the carcas. Pay attention to the pieces of raw meat that will fly off the cook's blood-stained machete when he's hacking out your dinner. It would be a pity to stain your clean white shirt.

Third, sit at a nearby table and order a beer. You may need two to help pass the time since kiti moto is best eaten after it has been slowly grilled to a crisp. When it finally arrives, chopped into bite sized pieces and served on an aluminum platter, breath in the sweet smell of grilled pork bits, and then dig in with your hands. Feel free to throw any bones and indigestible parts onto the ground around you. The stray cats hovering about will eat anything you do not.

Fourth, wash down the salty taste with more beer, and then chew on a chunk of grilled plantain banana to neutralize your palate. When finished, wash your hands with the clothing detergent provided by the waitress, who will pour water over your hands as you scrub. Undo your belt, sit back, and relax for another hour to let the two or more kilos of meat you just devoured digest.

That's the kiti moto experience.




A kiti moto delight as seen at Survey, Dar es Salaam.

In Praise of the (In)formal Economy

Living in the centre of Stone Town definitely has its perks. One of them is convenience shopping. For someone who absolutely hates the activity, this is an earth shattering statement.

My dislike for shopping stems from the time and energy needed to invest in it, especially in Toronto; all the effort and time invested in tracking items down and then traveling across the city and getting stuck in traffic just to see if it was something truly desirable, would always make my blood curdle. Why should I have to spend my precious time and money on transportation visiting multiple stores to meet my basic needs? Why can't the stores come to me?

Given this is the age of the internet, I guess that can quite easily happen from the comfort of a connected home. But I was never one for internet shopping, believing it makes people prone to the whimsical whims of hackers and cyber thieves. Perhaps this is an ungrounded thought born out of my superficial knowledge of how online shopping works, but I'd rather not take any chances thank you very much.

Internet aside, I've found that Stone Town (and Dar es Salaam's city centre) fulfil my shopping fantasy! There is no need to drive/ wait twenty minutes for the public bus to travel to the nearest store many kilometres away to get the most basic of amenities, as is the case living in suburbia Toronto. Instead Stone Town’s informal economy offers everything everyone could possibly need to live comfortably. The best part is THE STORES COME TO YOU!

A hypothetical example that closely mirrors reality: If you're in need of bathroom tissue, just visit one of the many makeshift vendors that line the narrow streets near your centrally located palace home. It only takes a minute. If you have other items on your list peanuts, bottled water, toothpaste and a cell phone voucher (it’s all "pay as you go" here), you can purchase those too, if not from the toilet paper vendor then his neighbour two meters away. Neat, eh?

Now, lets say you would like to expand your wardrobe beyond the fossil coloured quick-dry campy "I'm a Canadian traveller" look you've been rewashing every other night. Why not take time to upgrade your style and browse through the selection of khakis, dress shirts and fashion belts slung over the shoulders of another vendor? He appeared from behind a tree beside the toilet paper vendor and thinks you're in need of some fashion.

Why not complete your new look with styling sunglasses? After all, someone just appeared behind you balancing his store - a large Styrofoam platter displaying dozens of sunglasses – on top of his head. And while you’re picking out your new shades, why not chew on an orange? They can be bought from the fruit seller who's passing by with a wagon full of them, pre-peeled and ready to enjoy. And once you've done all of that, catch up on local and world news by purchasing one of six newspaper from another seller, who saw you from a distance stopping every mobile vendor within your reach (you want to finish all of your monthly shopping requirements in one go) and decided to mosey on over to try his luck.

Shopping where the stores come to you? Damn, now that's convenient.

Zanzibar Photos

Please take notice of the photos I've recently posted in the column to the right. They are complements of Caitlin, as my camera is still packed!

Palace Life

July 14th, 2007


So we moved out of our four start hotel today and into our apartment for the next three months. Originally we were suppose to move into a house donated to AKF-Tanzania in Old Stone Town (Shangani district), immediately after the orientation week ended, but it wasn’t ready. So our fearless coordinator, Mr. Said, hit the streets to hunt for temporary apartments instead and found four that were vacant. One was a rough and rugged space located in a stone building next to the Tanzanian Red Cross office at the entrance of one of Stone Town’s ubiquitous alleyways. Hidden from the main streets, its discreet location would allow us to come and go without being noticed by half the city – a definite advantage for any foreigner deciding to bunk down in a place like Tanzania, where wazungu - those filthy rich white people who come from a land of milk and honey – end up servicing the needs of local thieves. The interior was rather medieval, being dark, damp and cold, but it was a stone building, so what should be expected? But there were only two rooms, and the girls were not interested in having roommates, let alone living in a cave, so we decided to keep looking.

The second place was a youth hostel that at ten Canadian dollars a night would be a rip-off for the long haul, given what we could get for the same money elsewhere. The third place was located twenty minutes outside of town in an area called “Mombassa”, named after the port city in Kenya. Like its name sake, the area was rough, rugged and relatively poor. Mr. Said told us we’d be the only wazungu in the neighbourhood – a novelty again worth avoiding. Also, there was no electricity because the fuse had just blown, there was no running water, and a colony of hungry ants had just taken up residence in the kitchen cupboards. We decided to keep looking.

Finally we were shown a palace like home in an upscale area of Stone Town, where local community business leaders and other notable officials lived. Identified by one of Zanzibar’s infamous stylized doors characterized by iron pike heads lining the frames, the fourth option was in an enclave hidden from the main street and within 20 meters from a police station. Double points! Inside were three rooms, one with an ensuite bathroom, with a kitchen and living room each twice the size of my residence room at the University of Dar es Salaam (I was a visiting student there in 2004), which fit two people. High ceilings, marble floors and dark oak-coloured doors and bedroom cabinets topped off the look. Who wouldn’t like that? The price was a bit high but still within our budgeted stipends for rent. Besides, we’d save heaps later after moving into the AKF-Tanzania house that is not as posh and hidden (there’s a motorbike taxi stand right out front). Triple points! So we took it.

Now we’re living in what I have officially called a palace, especially in comparison to the run-down stone homes on the other side of the enclave, and the tin shacks in the neighbourhood behind our pearly-white compound wall. I somehow think us IDMers in Zanzibar are cheating. We were given tips during the training month in Ottawa to prepare to live for eight months in conditions below our norms – in mud huts and tin shacks located in isolated rural areas. Instead, perched upon a queen-sized bed under my mosquito net canopy in a bedroom chamber with all the amenities, including an in-suite bathroom, I am living something beyond my expectations. The fact that it’s all situated within a few minutes walk from a beautiful white sand beach where you can lounge in the sun while eating fresh mangos and coconuts sliced for you by a fruit boy for a few pennies makes it more bizarre.

I’ve becoming what I’ve always criticized – a development worker living a life of luxury while surrounded by poverty. How does that make me feel? Confused and conflicted (development work has a tendency to do that to morally conscious people) I suppose. The way I see it is this. I was damned lucky to have won the birth lottery by being born into a financially, mentally and socially sound family in Canada. Others weren’t so lucky to have been born into a country brimming with opportunities and strong social welfare systems, yes where shameful cases of poverty exists, especially amongst Canada’s Aboriginal communities, but not in the same severity and magnitude one finds in the most desolate of places in the Global South. Thus I feel like I have an obligation to do something about such great inequalities, and so I have decided to build a career in international development. How does eating fruit on the beach help anyone? Well it’s a revenue earner for the fruit vendors for starters. But I came to the beaches of Zanzibar for other reasons as well. This is where AKFC best thought my skills could be used to support the AKF-Tanzania office. This is where I could learn about the challenges local NGOs face in their daily operations in a developing country. This is where I could deepen my understanding of NGO management and development issues so to become more effective labourer in this field. Living in a palace home will not prevent that from happening. Blowing off my internship by not going to the office every day to ask questions and visit project sites will!

Some people argue: "How can you truly understand development issues if you are not living them - if you’re not spending your nights in a tick-infested hovel, and your days on the street begging for change so you won’t have to go to bed hungry that night?" Granted, there’s a degree of truth behind such statements. The great and late polish journalist Ryszard Kapuscinski lived with his stories for many months so he could carry his writing beyond the mere reportage of facts and deliver insightful observations that considered the cultural context in which they occurred. And quite arguably the same technique could be extremely useful in drafting documents analysing the grass roots level in the development policy world. The importance of gaining a full, three dimensional understanding of the issues is paramount, especially in a field full of them! In this sense living in a palace home will definitely not bring as much personal understanding understanding towards the necessity of clean water and shelter as living in a tin shack in one of Africa’s slum villages. But on the flip side, just because you have not been personally affected by it does not mean you lack the capacity to realize its hardship. Do you need to experience war to realize it creates hell a hell on earth for everyone involved (except the drug smugglers and arms dealers)?

Ok, perhaps you don’t have to go to the same extremes as Kapuscinski to understand what’s going on at the grass roots level, but segregating yourself from the community you’re meant to serve risks making your even more foreign than is the case already. This means acceptance and respect may be hard to win over, and result in your work having very little impact or benefit to the community being served. However, this ‘disconnect theory’ is probably less true the higher up the bureaucratic chain one climbs, especially in the world of executive management, where expectations of you in some cultures to act and live in a pompous manner (read in a palace home) may be required so to win the confidence and respect of your local colleagues. It's just a muse but a possibility.

Bringing this monologue back to my reality as an intern in Zanzibar, I feel every effort should be made to maximize the time I have here by popping the palace bubble and living with the issues. But to what extent have I already done that? After all, I did live pretty locally in Northern India, Ethiopia and even Australia (which has its own problems), where I felt very much connected to the local beats and experienced many of the local issues first hand relating to sanitation, education, conflict and disease. I think now it is time to focus more on the professional development side of things and not follow the Kapuscinski path. There is a time and a place for that, and now is not that time. So the palace it is.

Post script – just returned from visiting our Tanzanian intern counterparts and they are living in a house of similar dimensions, only slightly bigger, in the outskirts of town. I feel slightly better.

Polygamy on the Island

July 13th, 2007


After finishing our tours of the schools, Mr. Mjaka invited us interns into the ZMRC office for some tea and snacks. We talked about our backgrounds and general skills we could bring to our host organizations. I highlighted my background and interest in communications, Caitlin talked about studying physics and supporting math and physics initiatives especially amongst girls, and Rebecca mentioned her interest in strengthening initiatives in women’s empowerment and rights - buzz words the organizations we visited including ZMRC had announced proudly by the exclusively male executive staff (the females were busy serving tea and biscuits). A deafening silence fell over the table, as if Rebecca offended the host by introducing taboo subject. To break the ice I asked about Mr. Mjaka’s family and whether he had any children. “Six” he proclaimed, “from my two wives”. Caitlin and Rebecca exchanged glances, clearly unimpressed. I smiled politely and congratulated him on being a proud father, knowing the importance children possess in Tanzanian culture.

After finishing our visit we left ZMRC and walked towards the food market along Stone Town’s main thoroughfare that parallels the sea. Our conversation returned to Mr. Mjaka and his wives. “Congratulating him [on having many children] condones polygamy”. I was being scolded for making my comment. Now do not get me wrong. I am opposed to the idea of polygamy and view it to be somewhat archaic. However, I don’t believe that congratulating a man on siring many children from a polygamous relationship necessarily condones it. I’m merely recognizing the cultural significance of having children, which in Tanzania is very important, regardless of whom they come from. Condoning polygamy would be congratulating him on having many wives, which did not happen.

Am I wrong for not challenging our host for practicing something that conflicts with my values and norms? No, because I did not come to Tanzania to pick fights with the locals and transform their culture into a mould that suits my style. Doing so would establish antagonistic relations with people I’d have to work with closely, and would make accomplishing my assignments that much more difficult. Perhaps in a different capacity I would have introduced my opinions, but in the capacity of an intern, I choose my battles carefully, since careless arguments risk souring personal relationships with my colleagues, associates, and work.

But maybe I’m wrong? Is it selfish to not be confrontational for the sake of getting work done? Should it be the role of relatively inexperienced youth interns to challenge the norms of their host organization and country by speaking publicly against them? Can Westerners truly speak with moral authority on the issue of gender equality? What do you think?

Fear Not the Madrassa

July 11th, 2007


Today our white van (aka the development mobile) sped off to show us the Madrassa pre-schools, with the visit hosted by Mr. Mjaka of the AKF-T supported group called the Zanzibar Madrassa Resource Centre (ZMRC). The centre helps create quality pre schools through working with local communities to help build physical structures, train teachers and school management committees and engage with local community members to teach the importance of early childhood development. Since it’s inception in 1990, ZMRC has trained more than 600 school teachers in such things as low cost classroom material acquisition, and theories of early childhood development. Through its work the ZMRC has strengthened educational services to more than 13,000 Muslim and non-Muslim children attending these schools throughout Zanzibar.

We were scheduled to visit four Madrassas. Two were in urban areas and the others were in rural areas. With all the talk in Western media since 9/11 of extremists recruiting young minds and bodies from Madrassa’s in Europe and the Middle East to literally blow up Western interests at home and abroad, I was curious to learn about how they worked in the pre-school context, and how they should be understood. In Zanzibar, a Madrassa is a Koranic school that children attend so to understand the teachings of the Koran. Students normally commence studies as young as four or five, when they learn the Arabic words and phrases found within this holy book. After having memorized and learned the words, they move on to memorize “Juzus”, or short passages, which are reviewed multiple times until the meaning behind the selected Juzu is understood. There are thirty in total. A student does not graduate from a Madrassa until they can successfully recite and comprehend the words and meanings within each Juzu, which together constitute the entire Koran (the interpretation of the Juzus varying of course between the Islamic sects). If given full attention, graduation occurs when a child is a late teenager. In Zanzibar, the Madrassa pre-schools offer both Koranic learning and early childhood development programming that are separate from each other. Thus half a day is devoted to learning the ‘three Rs’, and the other half to studying the Koran.

The development mobile pulled up to a Madrassa in a remote rural setting. An elderly man dressed in a green safari suit and black sandals walks over to meet us. This is the headmaster. The standard greetings are conducted: I say “Shikamoo”, he says “Marahaba. Karibu”; I say “Asante” while shaking his hand and touching my right elbow (a sign of respect for a stranger) with my left hand. We follow him into the Madrassa – a single storey building made from mud bricks and topped with a tin roof – where a classroom full of small children aged three to seven greet us in shy, silent whispers of “jambo” and muffled giggles. Big staring eyes from the girls, whose heads are covered in red hijabs, examined us in great curiosity, while the boys giggle sheepishly at my white socks, which look like bright beacons against the grey stone floor. I want to stick my tongue out so to tease them, but refrain from doing so after remembering the professionalism AKFC expects us interns to uphold overseas. I am no longer an independent student traveler, but an honoured guest being hosted by a well respected organization. I imagine how strange it would be if a guest walked into my grade 2 class in Toronto and stuck out his tongue, especially for the teachers! Instead I smile politely and keep myself composed. One of the teachers offers us a place of the classroom mat so to watch the afternoon’s activity.

The children sit in a circle and listen to one of the school’s four teachers for instructions. Along the perimeter of the room lay shelves that house numerous items which vary from empty tooth paste boxes to cups and buckets. They have been organized into different activity centres labeled “cooking”, “building”, “cleaning”, “health”, and so forth. The teacher begins assigning the children various tasks at these centres. Two jump up excitedly and rush over to their assigned areas, their head scarves flapping behind them. They are soon joined by others, who promptly begin to imitate everyday activities they observe at home in their respective sections. The girls collect sand and begin to shape it into little cakes and flat bread, placing them on buckets they pretend are stoves. Others cradle rag dolls and sing Swahili nursery rhythms. The boys are at the building area, laying blocks on top of each other so to mimic building a house. Like in Canada, gender roles are taught at a very young age. A few minutes pass and the teacher calls everyone back into the circle, their naked feet slapping against the cold stone surface while running to sit back on the mat. Once settled, the teacher hands out a small wooden block to one of the children, who presses it up against his ear as if it were a cell phone (the modus operandi for Tanzanians), who then waits for the teacher’s questions that will be ask ed into another block across the room. The inquisition starts, and the child shyly describes what he did and learned. This goes on for a few seconds, until he is unable to answer a question. Embarrassed, he covers his tiny face in frustration. The teacher immediately corrects him and encourages the class to clap in support of his effort, which they do while chanting encouraging words. I am reminded of Nyerere’s famous theory of "ujamaa", which encouraged Tanzanians to work together in achieving their own development. It failed as a policy, but survived as a philosophy, now woven tightly into Tanzania’s social fabric.

It’s time for us to leave. We collect our items, smile politely to the children and speed off in our white van to visit three more Madrassas, which all vary in class sizes, number of teachers and available resources. Mr. Mjaka attributes the differences to two reasons. The first is revenue collection. Urban Madrassas service poorer communities. This means lower tuition fees for children wishing to attend than their urban counterparts, who statistically are better off financially. The prices are decided by the community and can vary from 60 cents to 2.50 Canadian dollars per month, which is still unaffordable to many in the rural areas. Thus with lower cash inflows, there’s less money for infrastructure support and materials. There’s also less money to pay teachers’ salaries. But this has not waved the determination of the community teachers to provide the best education they can to the local children, clocking seven hour work days to make 7 Canadian dollars a month, or the cost of my pizza the other night in Stone Town.

Differences between the Madrassas are also due to different levels of support from ZMRC. Those Madrassas which are still being weaned by this organization are much more resource abundant than those that have ‘graduated’ many years ago. Central here is the idea of sustainability, or the lack there of once ZMRC phases out its guidance in the spirit of community ownership and self-reliance. You see, upon working with the community to open a school, the ZMRC collects empty household items to fill the activity shelves, as described above. For these shelves to remain full, teachers must collect items within the community or parents must drop them off at the centres on an ongoing bases, so to replace materials that become damaged. Unfortunately, Mr. Mjaka tells us that once ZMRC is no longer there, the communities struggle to keep the schools well stocked with materials the children can use for the activities, which means the teachers and students have less to work with over time, devaluing their education. Until the community understands the importance of keeping these materials present and up to date, which Mr. Mjaka assures us are readily available, and until local teachers are paid a greater salary so they can afford the time it takes to collect these materials, nothing will really change. But Mr. Mjaka believes that as more information is disseminated throughout the villages about the importance of education and early childhood development, an activity ZMRC also supports, community behaviours will change.

The Madrassa schools reflect how the AKDN is focusing its priorities on what I argue are two essential pillars of development: education and health care. Recalling that if development is the act of restoring or enhancing basic human capabilities (with poverty therefore being the lack of choice or capability), then the importance of health and education is pretty clear, as each is a fundamental determinant of our capabilities. Without health, overall well being is diminished and one is incapable of leading a productive and fruitful life. Without education, one’s life is likely to be dissatisfying and unrewarding as potentials become unfulfilled and capabilities remain limited. Both contribute to the overall well being of society and quality of life experienced by all, and without them development is not possible.

Recognizing the importance of supporting the health and education sectors, groups like AKF have invested considerable time and money into supporting local organizations like ZMRC, which in turn support CBOs like the local committees of the Madrassa schools in Zanzibar. With the means of development in the hands of the community, the choice and direction of their future is left to them and ideally no one else. This is what I believe development should be.

Development Works

July 11th, 2007

The white van speeds down the roadway at a break neck speed, honking at pedestrians along the road side to warn them of impending danger. This is orientation week for myself and two other IDMers, Cailin and Rebecca; a time for us to meet and greet AKF-Tanzania’s partner organizations and beneficiaries in Zanzibar.

Yesterday we visited three projects in the North that focused on income generating activities supported by the NGO Resource Centre (NGORC), a non-profit group mandated to strengthen the capacity of civil society based organizations (CBOs) on the island. Since it’s inception in 1996, the NGORC is one of many larger groups that receive financial support by AKF-Tanzania, which in turn receives its support from the Aha Khan Development Network, who receive financial support from international donors at the bilateral, multilateral and individual levels.

Six full time staff members work at the NGORC and help organize workshops that teach community leaders the essentials in organizational management. Courses include monitoring and evaluation, leadership, organizational management, and communications. Also, the staff maintain a resource library from which registered CBOs can borrow materials on issues ranging from HIV/AIDS to democracy in Tanzania.

Apart from offering courses, the NGORC offer counselling services to smaller CBOs, like Tusife Moyo (a women’s co-operative group that makes soap products out of local spices), Labayka (a Pro-Poor Tourism and Youth Group that trains local youth for jobs in Zanzibar’s populated hospitality sector and to attract charity from large hotels) and the Mnari Natural Aquarium (another income generating project that sells tourists the chance to see numerous sea turtles dine on sea week in a large pond). All have consulted with the NGORC and as a result, improved the impact of their programmes. For example, the women at Tusife Moyo tell us how taking NGORC courses helped them improve their marketing and production techniques for the herb soaps they sell to hotels and tourists to make a living. They tell us the extra money allows them to pay school tuition fees for their children (only primary schooling in Tanzania is free), and acquire greater autonomy in their households, specifically from their husbands.

A similar story for Labayka, where after consulting with NGORC expertise, a garbage collection programme was established that now keeps the community clean and overall healthier. They also established a conflict management service to offer quarrelsome couples third party mediation over relationship issues, and a hospitality training program, where the un/underemployed can learn the skills in demand to service Zanzibar’s numerous hotels and resorts that dot the northern coastline. And finally there is the Aquarium project at Mnamari, which after working with NGORC upgraded its facilities so it could show off Zanzibar marine life by protecting it, specifically endangered sea turtles. Also being offered are sunset cruises and snorkelling excursions – all activities that help the youth who run this group make a living and subsequently gain opportunities in a sustainable (read independent) manner. Here the beneficiaries tell us that development, as defined by the enhancement of local capabilities, is working.

Hardship Posting

July 7th, 2007

Myself and the two other interns are met at the airport by my boss-to-be, Mr. Khamis Said. I ask him to wait because our bags have not arrived. They were placed on another plane after the baggage handler told us in Dar that they were too heavy for our plane. Of course for his troubles, a small fee would be required that totalled the amount one could live off of in Dar for over a month: 60 USD. It was extortion at it’s finest, and not wanting our stuff to be “simply forgotten about” whilst in transit, we were stuck between a rock and a hard place. So I put up a fuss and gave the handler the “we’re recent student interns ” speech and knocked his trouble money down by 50 per cent to 30,000 Tanzanian shillings (about 30 USD). Victory was ours, or so I thought until I heard the laughter coming from his friends after we reclaimed our seats in the waiting room. We got “bongo-ed” (Swahili slang used to describe those living in Dar who use their smarts to survive) after only being in the country for two days. They could smell us miles away I’m sure.

Upon collecting our bags we drive off into the surrounding darkness towards the famous heritage city of Stone Town. Built in the 16th century, Stone Town was the hub of the slave and spice trade ruled over by a succession of Sultans, who later in turn were ruled by the British until 1963, and then permanently abolished after a short but bloody revolution in 1964, in which the majority resident East Indians and Arabs were chased away or killed. Since then the city began deteriorating – the stone buildings crumbling due to neglect and abuse. By the early 1990s a movement to restore the historic town gained momentum after realizing Zanzibar’s greatest asset in a global economy, in which Tanzania had just opened it’s economy to, was it’s heritage. The Aga Khan Trust for Culture spearheaded the way and a few years later the infamous stone buildings and the labyrinth of alleyways in between them had been restored to their original appearance under the rule of Omani Sultan Said bin Sultan in the mid-1800s. The hard work of the restoration committee paid off, as the city began attracting many tourists since then, which helped encouraged UNESCO to designate it a World Heritage site in 2000. It is common for a Stone Town rookie to spend many hours trying to escape its claustrophobic alleyways that turn in all directions to create a labyrinth the Minotaur could call home.

* * *

We are shown our accommodation for the next week – a four star hotel with large beds, air conditioned rooms, fridges, television and large bathrooms with hot water. Khamis offers to find us better accommodation if this does not meet our standards, at least until we find a place of our own. I think of the other IDM interns who were posted in remote village locations deep in the abyss of the Global South and grin widely. I feel like sending them a postcard.

Suddenly the air is filled with musical cries calling devoted Muslims to prayer, which echo off the stone buildings in every direction. The sun is setting over the Indian Ocean, while a lone bat flutters wildly in the sky above, feasting on the evening’s selection of insects.

A Mzungu in Zanzibar

July 7th, 2007

“Left fuel low” flashed a warning on the dashboard in an alarming red light. I tightened my seatbelt and continued to stare at the cockpit wondering if our pilot, with whom our lives depended, had taken any notice. He gazes blankly at the signal and increases the engine torque to get us through a thick cloud. Apparently it is not an issue, so I sit back into my seat and look out the window, where three thousand feet below our tiny Cessna plane sprawl rows of small shacks and giant villas that follow a shore line defined by white sand beaches and deep blue turquoise waters. This is Dar es Salaam, or “place of peace” in Arabic. It is a ridiculously hot, muggy, polluted, malaria-infested city that is home to over two million people. Some of them are expats. Most are resident Tanzanians, and others – scraggily-looking travelers, backpackers and foreign students – come from afar to haunt the city’s corners in search of themselves. I was part of that crowd a few years ago, after spending ten months at the local university to learn about development issues and be challenged by living in their company.

What makes Dar unique is its mosaic of cultures that have been mashed together to define the Swahili identity - colourful Hindu temples, large mosques, decorative kangas, a schizophrenic architectural style reflecting Arabic, Portuguese and German influences, beans, rice, chicken, beef, a corn four paste called ‘ugali’, kiti moto, octopus and a bounty of other foods to satisfy many pallets (oh, and did I mention beer?). It was this mosaic, coupled with welcoming residents and an internship opportunity with the Aga Khan Foundation, that drew me back to the nightmarish heat and humidity that blankets Dar eight months of the year.

Our single prop plane rocks back and forth as we pass through a cloud, it's white fluff blanketing the view in all directions. I tighten my seatbelt and think about not repeating the spell of motion sickness I experienced on the much bigger and longer flight from Canada, where turbulence plus high altitude mucus build-up tested the resilience of the thin paper bag by my seat. Suddenly there’s a flash. One of the passengers is taking pictures. I take deep breaths and look out of my window, waiting for a view. The clouds begin to clear and I see a small island below, and then another one. Finally there is a large piece of land that stretches far off into he distance. This is Zanzibar.

Raison d'Etre

This blog is a story of my placement with the Aga Khan Foundation Tanzania in Zanzibar. It is about the trials and tribulations that come from living in an environment completely foreign to my own, the triumphs and struggles of many fascinating individuals met along the way, and my role as a 'young professional' working in international development - an ambiguous and contentious term that after decades of mismanagement and malpractice writer Gilles Courtemanche described as "the best but most irrelevant of intentions".

I hope to challenge such cynics who cry "development doesn't work" by illustrating cases where it does. Thus this blog will also highlight stories about communities meeting their immediate needs at the grass roots level by owning the process, supported by agencies who listen to their needs. These examples will come from the many projects AKF-Tanzania is supporting on Zanzibar, which have improved the lives of many on the island. It is because of this that the Foundation is respected and known in the field and abroad for delivering effective, positive assistance.

Thus please enjoy, and feel free to comment on anything I say. Dialogue is crucial for the creation and advancement of ideas, so lets talk!


-Kent-


Please note the views and opinions expressed here are solely my own, and do not represent those of Aga Khan Foundation Canada, Aga Khan Foundation Tanzania or the Canadian International Development Agency, the latter to which I am grateful for financing this experience.






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