Adam Hooper (the blog)

Challenge: delve into poverty: explain what I mean without (any mention of) money.

There is nothing magical about Africa.

Geldof may say there is. When I tell people at home that I am going to Africa, their eyes light up and they ask for details. I have met countless people in Africa—expatriates and Africans alike—who have said the same thing: life in the West is just... different somehow. Worse.

But here I go, the eternal cynic, with another attempt at myth-busting. (My first such blog entry was, happily, quite controversial.)

I will begin with something magical: the dala-dala. In Tanzania, a swarm of people waits at a bus stand for the appropriate dala-dala to appear. Once it arrives, a mad scramble ensues, after which the dala-dala, loaded to the brim, careens on its way. The door sometimes falls off; seats sometimes break apart; the dala-dala sometimes goes to the wrong place; people are sometimes squished too tightly to breathe, random arguments sometimes arise, and sometimes the whole dala-dala simply breaks down and must be pushed. (Yes, I have personally experienced all of these adventures.) In the end, inexplicably, one exits at the appropriate destination. I often imagine an American mechanic inspecting a typical dala-dala in detail, turning to me, and declaring, it is a provable physical impossibility that this thing even moves.

If nobody can explain how it gets me from point A to point B, does that make the dala-dala magical? More to the point, if nobody can explain how it works, does that make the dala-dala enjoyable?

Actually, yes. The dala-dala, to me, is both magical and enjoyable. Somehow, in spite of themselves, the dala-dalas work. Every ride is a tiny miracle.

Now, how about another parallel, magical topic: life. I can (and do) live without a shower, running water, a sit-down toilet, food or drinking water while the sun is up (during Ramadan), efficient public transit, a night life, and privacy. My relative poverty is truly enjoyable. It is amazing how many aspects of life are, when you get right down to it, optional.

I have yet to live without an aspect of life which is essential for my survival. And so, using my good friend, induction (which I have mentioned in a previous blog entry), shall I conclude that all aspects of life are optional?

No: I can feel like all aspects of life are optional, but that does not make it so. Intuition alone can be misleading, and so facts are necessary.

In fact, some aspects of life are essential. Food is essential. Clean water is essential. Sanitation is essential. Shelter is essential. Health is essential. Basic education is essential. Most Tanzanians do not have all of these things which are not optional for survival. Consequently, many die. As for most of the living: like the American mechanic inspecting a dala-dala and declaring that by all accounts it should be in a scrapyard, I can imagine an American doctor would probably look at a random Tanzanian's life history and conclude that this living, breathing person has somehow died at least three times already.

If statistics can barely explain how people are surviving, does that make their lives magical?

Learn a bit of Swahili, and suddenly many Tanzanians will open up to you. Last Thursday night, I talked with a man my age, Michael, on the streets in the city centre. He used to sell onions in Dar es Salaam, and yet six months ago he was forced to stop. He became (I discovered after an hour-long conversation) a beggar. Unlike most Tanzanians, Michael probably possesses all the above-mentioned necessities of life. Thus, in the Tanzanian luck-o-meter, a beggar hovers well above the halfway point.

I mention this one story, not because it exemplifies Tanzanians in general: I mention it because I wonder who claims that life is magical in Africa. None of the people I have heard claim life in Africa is magical (not even Geldof) have lived through the kind of suffering which is normal in Africa. Unsurprisingly, those I have talked to who are less fortunate (and more common) have complained to me. Many have implied that they would prefer a life in Canada to the lives they lead now. Guess what? So would I.

So why do people suggest life is magical in Africa?

Maybe I should point out that most expatriates would never walk down the reasonably safe street of Dar es Salaam at night as I did, purely because of fear. I would not have been able to talk with Michael if I locked myself into a room or a restaurant every night. Should I have stayed home and pretended Michael does not exist? I wonder how people honestly think they speak for people without speaking to them first.

Yes, the people I have met in Africa are beautiful and fascinating. Yes, they are welcoming. Yes, I appreciate their excessively friendly culture. But no, I do not consider any of this magical. Magic, in my estimation, is a word one throws into a conversation to sound knowledgeable about something one does not understand. Human beings have used the concept for millennia, and in every case the term has died out once somebody provided a reasonable explanation.

Sooner or later, I will probably get into a dala-dala accident. When that happens, I will not consider the dala-dala magical any more.

Challenge: starting at A, make the first letter of each paragraph the alphabetical successor to the previous paragraph's first letter.

All people use induction.

Before continuing, I should define my terms. Induction is the process of arriving at conclusions with incomplete information, based on trends. This is the opposite of deduction. For instance, if I claimed, I have read every book I own and, I own David Copperfield, you would deduce that I have read David Copperfield, based on complete information. Deduction provides a valid conclusion, given correct information. On the other hand, if I claimed, the sun has come up every day for the past million years and, tomorrow is a day, you could not logically deduce that the sun will rise tomorrow: you can only induce it, based on our incomplete information (and our perceived trend) about moments in which the sun rises over all eternity. (Really, we only have reliable information for a tiny fraction of eternity.) In fact, there is no way to deduce that the sun will rise tomorrow. Heck, there is not even a way to deduce that the sun rose yesterday, since schizophrenia cannot be entirely discounted as the only reason you saw yesterday's sunrise.

Clearly, deduction alone leads to a very restricted world (the world of mathematics alone). Something else is necessary, and we use induction. Using induction, I can claim something fun: all people use induction. Is my claim true? I know I use induction. And you, reading this, agree that you use induction. So there seems little reason to suppose that other people do not use induction. QED. Using this type of logic in school would lead to instant failure; ignoring this type of logic in real life would be insane.

Data in this world is hard to come by. Each of us represents one seven-billionth of humanity: that is, one seven-billionth of its mental ability, one seven-billionth of its experiences, and one seven-billionth of its ideas. We survive by making assumptions about each other and the world around us. Induction is the cement which fills the cracks (chasms?) in our knowledge.

Expatriates in particular are fascinating because of what we induce away from home. On the one hand, we have far less raw data than locals. On the other hand, we have far more perspective. A local person has a routine which makes the world slide into place. To an expatriate, many aspects of a local person's routine are foreign, and so the expatriate will think about why things are the way they are. And then, through the miracle of induction, the expatriate will make wild claims.

For instance, I heave heard it said that Tanzania is better-off than its neighbours; I have heard Uganda is better-off; I have heard all volunteers should leave Africa alone; I have heard Africa would fall apart if we did; I have heard every Tanzanian owns a cell phone; I have heard Dar es Salaam is safe; I have heard Kampala is safer; I have heard Dar es Salaam is dangerous; I have heard Kampala is even more so; I have heard life is cheap in Africa; I have heard there is something magical about life in Africa that we do not have in the West (some day I will devote an entry to this worthy topic); and so on.

Generalizing all the above claims, I can induce that nobody knows anything. Even Tanzanians know little about their own country, I induce. After all, I cannot even give a straight answer about Canada. Tanzanians often ask me the name of my tribe in Canada. My gut reaction is to respond that we have no tribes. I have no tribe; none of my friends or family have a tribe; therefore, I induce, there are no tribes in Canada. I spent days spreading this misinformation before I remembered that I was completely wrong.

I claim induction can be inaccurate. Do not trust me, though. Watch my logic for errors: I have a habit of jumping to conclusions.

Challenge: In the spirit of backpacking, visit one place in each paragraph.

My weekend started Friday morning in Dar es Salaam. I packed a small backpack with essentials and hopped on the nearest dala-dala to get to the main bus station.

The bus, like any self-respecting African bus, was a land of adventure in its own right. Upon departure, the bus immediately pulled into a gas station for repairs: it was clearly broken before it started accepting passengers. The bus practically limped its entire journey; in the end, the ride was ten hours long when it should have been six. Squished between two inconsiderately large men, I whiled away the hours by alternating between sleeping and leaning away from whichever neighbour was least awake.

My first visit to Dodoma (Tanzania's capital, in name if not in deed) was peaceful and pleasant. I enjoyed beer, mzungu food (fajitas, with chapati instead of tortillas), and my first hot shower in ages (which was welcome, considering how cold it gets in the mornings in Dodoma—yes, lower twenties feels cold to me now).

Saturday morning's car ride was another wonderful journey. The four-wheel-drive car managed to break down partially along the way; but it, too, was able to limp to its destination. One hour of paved road and two hours of bumpy dirt road passed quickly. At one point we crossed a couple of broken-down lorries. We carried one of the many stranded travellers to the next village. He said they had been broken down since the day previous. We gave him some bread. I was proud that, between the four of us wazungu, we could understand and speak all the Swahili we needed.

Kibaya is a village in the middle of nowhere, and it is inexplicably large. My first impression is that a paved road would make it a wonderful trading hub in Northeastern Tanzania. When Ernest Hemmingway visited Kibaya, he reportedly ate lunch at what was the only place to eat, and left before needing to sleep at what was the only place to stay. Maybe he agreed with my conclusion. We ate lunch at the Taj Mahal restaurant (which serves only Tanzanian food and has no relation to India whatsoever).

In the afternoon, we visited a Maasai market. The Maasai are world-renowned: nomadic cattle herders, they wear jewellery around their limbs, around their necks, and through big holes in their ears. They closely guard their culture: their shoes may be made from recycled lorry tires (a tradition which cannot be more than fifty years old), but they will defend to the death their age-old rights to practice FGM. Alas, I digress. The market supplies cows, clothes, and crafts.

In the night, we walked up to a hill which overlooks Kibaya. There we put up our tents in what is undoubtedly the most beautiful place I have ever camped. Miraculously, I had a weak stomach: I got to use the bathroom stall many times, staring out its open door to the magnificent view below. I woke ridiculously early for the return journey.

The bus home was, naturally, another adventure. It was full of Maasai. The two older Maasai women sitting with me had stolen the window seat I had booked; I let them have it, knowing they have enough problems. In my aisle seat, I was struck by hands, feet, legs, buttocks, elbows, shoulders, heads, chickens, and a bag which jumped out of the luggage rack. The bus was grossly overfull: at every checkpoint, the conductors would herd away many of the passengers, who would walk across the checkpoint in case the legally-stipulated head count was performed. Twenty metres later, they would jump back onto the bus and we would continue our trek.

At long last, I found myself back in Dar es Salaam.

The road leading to Kibaya is long, straight, and dusty

Kibaya. Hemmingway ate somewhere around here when he passed through.

I love you .this is alune. Chris got this text message; he thinks he might even remember who Alune is.

Maasai market

Children in Tanzania often have many tasks, such as carrying buckets of dirty water home

Outhouse at our camping spot

This is what I saw while crouched in the outhouse

Sunset over Kibaya from our camping spot

Challenge: put a capital I in every sentence.

It is about time to explain my job in Tanzania.

I work for an organization called Femina HIP. Femina HIP is a rather famous media company which spreads information about sexuality and HIV/AIDS. It runs a television talk show, a radio show, periodicals, and several one-off publications. Distributing all these media requires a fairly well-organized system; and that is where I fit in.

The system I am to replace is an ad-hoc collection of Excel spreadsheets and binders full of handwritten paperwork. I will be organizing various aspects of Femina's internal workings: essentially, I will integrate various Excel spreadsheets into a comprehensive database.

Integration, if implemented properly, will provide many benefits: fewer errors, better projections, better M&E (monitoring and evaluation), better communication, and so on. Femina HIP already has most of the infrastructure ready for me to work. I am hoping to finish implementing my first component in time for the distribution of the newest issue of Si Mchezo! magazine next week.

I also have plenty of secondary responsibilities to fill in the cracks: training, consulting, and troubleshooting, to name a few. In the end, there will be plenty of work for my remaining five months in Dar es Salaam. Hopefully, by the time I leave, Femina HIP should be ready to grow its image even more.

Challenge: As a follow-up to Part 1 (which I recommend skimming, to set the mood), ask at least two rhetorical questions per paragraph. Note: again, do not be discouraged by the excessive cynicism, which is a direct result of this Challenge.

Imagine you are an accountant at a company. You notice that one of the contractors seems to be charging your company a lot of questionable expenses. You go to your boss to mention that this contractor seems dishonest. Before you can speak, your boss tells you to double the budget for contractors. Next, he threatens to fire you if your department stays under budget this quarter. You go back to your desk and sit down, staring at this inflated and slightly corrupt expense report which has just been put into perspective. What do you do? Firing the contractor would lead to a lot more work for you. In fact, any streamlining whatsoever could become career suicide, because your boss has told you that you must spend every penny or you will lose your job! Is this a budget or is it a quota?

When it comes to international aid, we are the company: the UN, the G8, the Pope, you, me, philanthropists, churches, our governments, and Angelina Jolie. Who is accountable to whom? NGOs are accountable to their donors, who are accountable to their donors, who are by and large accountable to Western governments and churches, who are accountable to their people. Us. Individuals. This is democracy, remember?

We, all the individuals in Western nations, are the highest authorities on aid to Africa. We are the bosses. We tell our governments to double our spending. Our governments search for more and more organizations to burn through the money. The organizations, in turn, compete fiercely for the right to burn the money: everybody wants an air-conditioned SUV. The aid industry is by and large a push-based system: it is fed money, rather than asking for money as nourishment. Have you ever been shown a proposal or a quarterly report? If the authority is top-down, why is there no bottom-up accountability?

The easy answer is that most people do not care enough. Also, many of the vocal few who do sincerely care are severely biased. Biased because of ignorance? Biased to simplify complex issues? Or biased to gain something? Probably all of the above. Jeffrey Sachs would be out of a job if he proved his job was useless. Bono would be less inspiring if he displayed a modicum of a plan. As for me: I leave it to you to determine how and why this essay is biased.

I am, at the moment, directly funded by three organizations: one Canadian, one English, and one Tanzanian. For every dollar I spend, maybe 60 cents come from Canada, 15 cents come from England, 15 cents come from Sweden, and the final 10 cents come from a medley which includes most of the G8 and a few other countries. (These are mere guesses; but does anybody in any organization know the real numbers?) I may not be writing in my office with USAID-branded pens quite yet; but if I carelessly lost the pens I brought with me from Canada, I would have no problem finding foreign aid for new ones. What is my motivation to keep track of my pens?

For that matter, what is my motivation to do any work at all? I am not Tanzanian: I will never see the outcome of my work. One of my employers seems to take for granted that I am simply resume-building. To whom am I ultimately accountable?

Welcome to the aid industry. Are you feeling overwhelmed? Relax. You will do fine here, as long as you keep quiet about one taboo topic: where are all the poor people?

Challenge: Ask at least one rhetorical question per paragraph. Note: brace yourself for cynicism, as this Challenge is quite overpowering.

What would you do if somebody gave you a million dollars right now?

I can tell you what I would do: I would find an accountant and dump all but $10 000 into his machinations. Next, I would waste $1000 on movies, books, clothes, and many expensive dinners and drinks. Soon after, I would use the other $9000 to travel. In the end, it is clear that the $10 000 I spent was not necessary after all. And would I keep restraint with the rest of my excessive wealth?

From what I have seen, corporate wealth translates to perks in a similar manner. Google, for instance, provides free food to all its employees. Which begs the question: can Google not optimize its expenditures right now? Maybe some Google employees have done a critical analysis and determined using facts and figures that Google's spending on food is in fact an optimal allocation of funds. These hypothetical employees could have scribbled their equations onto their free napkins with their free pens, discussing in their free time over their free meals of chicken breasts marinated in conflict of interest.

Working for an aid organization in Africa is no reason not to get perks. Indeed, nearly every blog about international development I have read has mentioned branded SUVs and sat-phones and asked, is all that spending really necessary?

As a thought exercise, I will reverse the question: what would an NGO buy with the money it saved from not buying an SUV?

Western contractors in particular may spot the answer a mile away: nothing! Why nothing? Because if you do not buy the SUV, you do not get the money. The same logic exists in the West. If a company will reimburse your meal costs up to $25, would you spend only $5 on meals? And if a company will reimburse all your cell phone costs, will you really make zero personal calls on that phone? The money has already been allocated: to reject it would send it into a financial void until somebody else came along and snagged it. Rule-bending is expected, within reason.

How do we define within reason? In the end, expenses will be denied if somebody in the company takes a stand because the budget is too lucrative. And here is where the aid industry is a black sheep. Millions of people have taken a stand. The Live 8 concert, for instance, was an enormous success for their cause. The weird thing is, for the most part they have not seen the budget, they have not seen the expense reports, and they want to increase the budget—in fact, they want to double it!

In an effort to stay interesting (and to pace the cynicism inherent in this entry's Challenge), I have split this topic in two. I will sign off at this cliffhanger for now. Feel free to comment!

Challenge: like a trip up and down a mountain, make a crescendo and then a decrescendo in the number of words per paragraph.

Ten days ago, I hiked a mountain in Morogoro.

Three of us Swahili students took part in the hike, and we had one guide. We packed lunches and set out under cloudy conditions.

Upon reaching the village at the foot of the mountain, we were charged a fee (less than CAN$2). This is normal, and we knew about it beforehand.

The hike was surprisingly difficult: certainly harder than any hikes I have yet braved (including Sipi in Uganda). We did not undertake the highest hike (which would have brought us above the cloud layer), and after an hour we were certainly glad of that.

There were many villagers living on the mountainside. It was stunning to climb three hours from the nearest genuine village and still find houses. I could only wonder at how the residents can make a living. Having no expenses is a plus; but spraining an ankle or catching malaria must be simply awful.

We arrived at the pinnacle of our hike after four hours of steep, muddy climbing. We ate while absorbing a view of all of Morogoro and its surrounding mountains: absolutely spectacular, and certainly worth the effort. Some children who had followed us along the path (barefoot, on the steep, slippery mud) sat with us. (White people are certainly not a surprise in the budding tourism industry around Morogoro, but we are still uncommon. And when we fumble around with our improving Swahili, we become even more interesting.)

Our trip down was meant to pass an area called Morningside, where European missionary work dates back to German (pre-WW1) days. Unfortunately, our path was blocked at a bottleneck by a billy-goats-gruff-style villager who tried to extort the equivalent of CAN$5 from us. Our fee at the bottom had been paid, and we showed proof; but this man said he was being ripped off by the people at the bottom so he was taking matters into his own hands.

We backtracked. Our hard climb up the mud became an even harder climb down, but after a few tumbles we got through the worst of it. Our guide took us along a shortcut, and before we knew it we were walking through a part of Morogoro we had never seen. We turned a corner and—surprise—there was our convent.

Morogoro and its inhabitants are stunningly beautiful. I miss the place already.

Some children near our convent play football; others spectate from the top of a container.

The road leading to our convent. Yes, people drive over this. Sometimes things get messy.

There was a person standing outside the middle building in this picture for at least ten minutes.

The hike was steep and muddy. We were accompanied by some barefoot local children.

A man thatches his roof on a peak. (The long pole on his hut is an aerial.)

Morogoro from above: a stunning view.

There were perils along the path, such as this broken but workable bridge.

Challenge: apply one horrible pun in each paragraph.

I am an omnivore. When asked to justify my stance, I consider studying the nutritional value of meat, cultural norms, and so on. I consider looking into these things. But soon enough, I give it up as a lost cause: I eat meat because I like it, period. And now, I can no longer be intimidated by claims that I would chicken out when confronted with the task of killing an animal: I have done it. Saturday, I killed a chicken.

Meat Paula. Paula grew up in a backyard somewhere in eastern Tanzania. She laid eggs, which were eaten by her Tanzanian owners. One day, she was deemed less necessary than the 5000 shillings (USD$5) she could fetch her owner at the market. Her feet were bound, and she was carried to the market in downtown Morogoro. She was bought by a Swahili teacher. She spent one night in a convent, surrounded by Swahili lessons taped along the walls of her room. The next morning, she was lifted by her wings, in one hand, by a Swahili teacher. She was then passed to a man named Adam, who held her in the same fashion. She was carried by Adam to an outdoor area for cooking, where she was set aside while other foods were being prepared. She was afraid of Adam, who had a habit of staring at her when he was not busy. Paula watched Adam, the Swahili teacher, and two other students prepare side dishes. Eventually, Paula was brought to a spot on the ground. Her wings were pinned by Adam's left foot while her legs were pinned by his right foot. Her heart was beating hard enough for Adam to feel her pulse. Her head was held up by Adam's left hand, while her neck was sawed apart by the knife in Adam's right hand.

The experience was somewhat cathartic for Adam. It was even more cathartic for Paula, though: about as cathartic as you can get.

My long-time readers know by now that I rarely share my feelings in my blog. I will not break that tradition here. Instead, I will posit here a question—or rather, I will question my reader's positions. Have you killed any person or animal with which you sympathized? (Pets count, though you have to have been watching at the very least.) Why? I have heard it said that we are lords of all animals and we should rule them wisely (I am in a convent). Do we have that right? Why or why not? And, most interesting to me today (though somewhat rhetorical): are you religious?

I ask about your spirituality in the spirit of abstract reasoning which hits me when I am out of my element. While sawing away Paula's life, it occurred to me that it may be easier for a religious person to kill than for an atheist. In the former case, my God wants this chicken dead and I am performing His will. In the latter case, this is simply a conflict of desires between me and Paula. I hold all the power and all the responsibility for the outcome, so my killing Paula is tantamount to my declaring myself ultimately right in the question of whether or not she should live.

God or not, I can reformulate the religion question completely: am I ultimately responsible for Paula's death, given that she would not have lived any longer had I not killed her? This is a different question, but not very different from the are you an atheist? question in my mind. Mind you, I am still ignorant of all the different religions out there and their official answers.

How many soldiers, militia, rebels, or extremists are atheists or agnostic? I suspect the proportion may be rather low, because of the question of who is responsible for a killing. And so I encourage my atheist and agnostic readers not to pass up any reasonable opportunity to kill something in cold blood: it may just test your faith.

Challenge: In the spirit of Swahili: never use the letters X or Q; all S's must be prounounced hard (excluding in an sh pair); C's may only be used as part of a ch pair. Exception: proper names.

Ninajifunza Kiswahili. I say this to every Tanzanian I meet here in Morogoro. In English: I am learning Swahili.

My previous entry ended halfway through my first day in Dar es Salaam. In the intervening time I have had many a small adventure. Nothing to write home about: I have written of the same flavour of event in my Uganda blog. Read this blog entry by Caitlin for the general idea. I rode in a dala-dala (minibus) so full that only one of my feet touched the ground; I rode in a tax (taxi) through a pseudo-ditch in the road near where I now live; and so on. Little stuff.

A dozen or so of us wazungu (white people) are staying together here in Morogoro for language training. The teaching is intense; happily, it lasts only until mid-afternoon. I am left with enough time to walk around the gorgeous town. I attempt to speak Swahili with the people I meet, with varying amounts of understanding. I am very far from being fluent, but I improve vastly each day.

I get great food, an evil shower, and amazing company: I am enjoying myself.

A week from now I will return to Dar es Salaam, where I will attempt to find a home and a life for the following months.

Challenge: do not use past or future tenses.

The day begins with far too little sleep, a last-minute computer favour having stolen most of my night. I wake in time for frantic, last-minute preparations. I complete my final bag-packing and walk down Guy Street, downtown Montreal, one last time. I take my last metro ride and my last Montreal bus ride.

The airport is unusually efficient and my flight is delayed. I doze a little, slightly compensating for my short sleep. I finally board the plane and sit at my window seat. I watch Montreal shrinking away: there goes my old home; there goes my brother's home; there goes the mountain; there goes my city.

The flight to London is too short, so I only catch an hour or two of sleep. I arrive in London in what is now morning. I cannot call it a new day, as I still need rest.

I take the tube downtown. I stroll through Hyde Park with a Mozambican tourist, who is astonished by all the white people. I buy chocolate for my prospective Tanzanian friends. I watch a couple of Rastafarian African street performers: one of them manages to limbo under a stick at the height of a wine bottle.

Taking the tube back to Heathrow, I find myself passing out frequently. I wake and sleep, sleep and wake, desperate to stay conscious lest I miss my flight.

The Heathrow security check is uncharacteristically fast, and I find myself waiting for the gate number to appear on the boards. I cannot sit, as I do not want to fall asleep. Instead, I walk the length of the terminal a dozen times, stopping in every shop, buying nothing, whiling away the hours. I spend my last pound on an overpriced can of soda.

Naturally, the flight is delayed. I strain to stay awake. As I wait, I wonder at the demographics on the flight: most travellers to Tanzania seem to be white or Indian.

I take my seat, and I am pleased to find myself surrounded by a troup of Ismaelis. They are flying to East Africa to take part in the Aga Khan's golden jubilee. Beside me sits a Canadian Ismaeli. Along with several of her companions, she has a new home in Canada after Idi Amin's expulsions of the seventies. She is delighted to return to East Africa. I am delighted to learn more of Ismaelis and of yet another Ugandan perspective.

The conversation runs its course in the hour of taxiing outside of Heathrow. Finally, we begin to take off. I pass out before lift-off.

I wake a few hours later, still in my seat, to an African dawn. I continue my conversation with my neighbour. We land in Dar es Salaam.

I am still missing a proper sleep, so I still cannot call this a new day. Jetlag has now accumulated to seven hours' worth.

I step off the plane, and I am happily astonished by all the black people. I zip through customs and, still near collapse, I wait for my bag. I am greeted by my first new Tanzanian acquaintance, who drives me to a long-awaited bed.

Along the way, I behold, in a dream-like state: the queue (what Ugandans call a jam); a crowd cleaning the spilled produce from an overturned trailer; civil servants sweeping the streets; masses of limbs in nearby dala dalas (minibuses), evidence of their being crammed to capacity; precarious towers of eggs in cartons on the backs of bicycles weaving through traffic; the smell, a mix of salt and smoke; and, most magical of all, people: everywhere, going about their morning business.

While in the queue, a phone call changes my plans: instead of going to bed, I am going to the VSO head office.

Stumbling at this point, I meet several volunteers and staff. My plans are laid out for me. As I about to leave for bed, I am invited to the final leg of these volunteers' training: bits of training I need. I forego sleep and take the training exercises.

I receive my allowance and I leave everything of value in the safe. I finally am driven to my temporary residence with two fellow volunteers. I flit in and out of consciousness while taking in my first view of the Indian ocean.

Upon arrival at the guest house, I buy airtime for my phone. I key it in it while climbing the stairs to my apartment. I store several phone numbers and fire off some messages: finally, I do not feel naked any more.

I shower for the first time in ages.

I fall in bed roughly sixty hours after my day began. I fall asleep to the busy sounds of construction and the thousand natural outbursts that African life is heir to.

At long last, I am back where things make no sense. I am back where uncertainty courses through my veins. I am back home.