Adam Hooper (the blog)

Challenge: refrain from writing anything before becoming comfortable with the change in situation. (Read further to understand.)

Once upon a time, there lived a house girl. She stayed with and worked for a family in the big city, far away from her village. (The occupation is mutually beneficial, though it is not always clear whether the reason for hiring a house girl is pride, genuine need, or philanthropy.)

The house girl was happy with her job. The family she worked for was respected and there were many visitors. The house girl would always smile, and the guests would always smile back. When beckoned by her employers, the house girl would enthusiastically set to work.

In the evenings, the house girl would sit with the family's Mama, cooking the night's meal over the charcoal-fuelled jikos and absorbing the cooling breeze. In the mornings, the house girl would be the first to wake, ensuring that the men in the house were comfortable on their way out the door to work.

One day, the house girl's mother fell sick. The house girl requested time off from her work to visit her mother. The family she worked for, highly pleased with the house girl's work and spirit, happily granted it. The house girl returned to her village and her mother.

Unfortunately, her mother's health did not improve. Shortly after the house girl's return, her mother passed away. The house girl sent a message to her employers, informing them of the tragedy and asking for more time off work to grieve and set her mother's affairs in order back in the village. The family in the city replied with heartfelt condolences, of the sort that telephones must be proud to convey. The house girl was given as much freedom and time as she saw fit, with a guarantee of work at the end of her leave of absence.

The house girl's brother, who lived in the village, had other plans. In a rare moment of sobriety, he considered his good fortune: his sister was a qualified house girl, available to tend for his house! He sewed some thin excuses together and presented his case to the house girl. The house girl had no choice: family is family, and responsibility is responsibility. She stayed with her brother.

As the weeks pressed on, it became clear to the house girl that she was trapped: trapped in the life of poverty she thought she had overcome; trapped in a house with a drunkard for a roommate; trapped in a world of scrounging for food and money, powerless to stop all spare change from transforming into alcohol.

Back in the big city, a month after the house girl's departure, the house girl's employers received word that she would not be returning. They pleaded with the brother over the telephone to allow her to return, but the brother would not hear of it.

One week later, the employers hired a replacement. They would never see their old house girl again.

My Challenge in writing this entry was to become accustomed to this new house girl. In the past couple of days, I think I finally have. I get the impression that the family as a whole here was reticent to hire a new house girl; and out of loyalty, it was even harder to begin to actually like her.

I would happily write a book of rants on the topic. To save time, I could write a summary—or even more concise, a two-page-long list of chapter titles. I would publish anything on my website; I would do any work for my gender-empowerment NGO employer; I would talk to anybody. Words are my only weapon, and I would break out any artillery that could save our old house girl.

But she is beyond rescue. No well-meaning person can do anything about her situation. In the darkest parts of our hearts, for all our pride of our notions of feminism and gender equality and statistics, we know this. And in the darkest part of your heart, you already know all the stories and statistics and words I can muster.

Pendo, this is your eulogy: more respect than most women ever receive in Africa.

Challenge: as I was taught to do in such situations, write down my story and throw it away.

Challenge: explain the feeling of tapestry by writing a different story in each paragraph.

Monday and Tuesday, Femina (my company) hosted a regional workshop. We invited people from all over Africa. The upshot: I now have somebody to meet when I travel to Ethiopia.

A month ago I spotted another white person in my neighbourhood. That is, I saw another white person within 15 kilometres of where I live. It was a strange sight.

My neighbours have gotten accustomed to me. Particularly entertaining are the high-school girls across the street from where I walk every morning (who will always practice their English on me as I practice my Swahili on them). My favourite, though, is the young child who runs up to me and hugs me whenever she sees me, calling out, Mzungu! (White Person). She sometimes says my actual name, Adamu, as an afterthought.

Everybody knows my name. Almost two months ago, I was invited to sit with somebody who called me by name and seemed to know everything about me. He bought me a soda. I assumed I had met him but just forgotten; and so, as I am wont to do, I pretended I knew him while trying to place his face. Ten minutes later, he introduced himself to me: indeed, I had never met him in my life.

Very recently, I have started to vaguely understand the side of Swahili which is rarely translated into English. I was told by a co-worker, nimekumisi. Succinctly put, the nimeku part means I have done X to you, where X in this case is whatever misi means. I had a suspicion, but I had to ask to double-check. Indeed, misi is just a Swahili-esque slang pronunciation of miss. And so, nimekumisi translates to I've missed you! I am evidently failing Flirting 101.

Last weekend I went to a fancy hotel with Rebecca and Caitlin for pastries and cappuccino-related beverages. They were delicious. We went back the next day and had more.

We also rode on a dala-dala ride where a full five people were hanging out of the doorway. When boarding at one stop, with many people crowded outside attempting to enter, the conductor actually just got behind somebody's back and shoved him towards the doorway, causing a domino effect which got everybody's feet off the pavement (the only real necessity for the dala-dala to start rolling). From my vantage point above, I asked Caitlin, who was lucky enough to be sitting in the front seat directly beside the door, if she saw that. She did not: her view of the scene two feet in front of her was blocked by bodies.

Yesterday, in my drive home from work, a tire blew. A helpful stranger appeared out of nowhere, jacked up the car, and replaced the wheel with our spare. We drove him along the road a kilometre and gave him 1000 shillings (less than $1) as thanks. Everybody was happy.

And as I was walking the final stretch home, that child called me mzungu wangu (my mzungu) and danced with me a bit.

The mama in my surrogate family here has discovered my undying love for chapati. Every once in a while, she prepares it as a special treat. I need to brace my stomach: chapati is rough on the intestines, and I am always offered more.

And yesterday, I received maple fudge from my mama back home. Maple syrup has never tasted so sweet, though that might be because I am so unused to sugar nowadays. I spent the day explaining snow and maple syrup and Montreal to anybody who would listen. I zoomed in on my old home with Google Earth (the maps took hours to download). I showed off my pictures of maple trees on my computer.

Is home my daily hodi / karibu / asante, chikamoo / marahaba, habari za kazi / ... dialogue? Or is home maple fudge? This morning, I ate maple fudge for breakfast in an endearing cross-cultural confusion with my family; I hugged my little admirer on my way to work; and I decided: for the time being, I can settle for a little of both.

Challenge: do not rant.

The following is developed for use in Biology classes in Zanzibar's high schools.

Health is one of the greatest blessings to have been given to human beings. Indeed, after faith itself, it is considered the greatest blessing of all. Health should be properly looked after because it is something for which we are accountable to God.

Challenge: plan each word carefully on a board of 8 paragraphs of 64 words each. 

Somewhere in a hypothetical world, two partners in crime find themselves in prison. The warden speaks to each in turn, offering amnesty in return for a confession of the other's guilt. If neither confesses, both get six months in prison. If one confesses, he goes free but the other stays in prison for ten years. If both confess, both are incarcerated for five years.

This is the Prisoners' Dilemma, a canonical example illustrating game theory, a melding of mathematics and human nature. From one prisoner's perspective, the choice is: on the one hand, either go free or get five years in prison; on the other hand, go to jail for up to ten years. From each individual's perspective, singing is rational. Big-picture, cooperation would be more beneficial.

In East African cities, another example of game theory is visible every day: the traffic light. If everybody obeyed the lights, traffic would flow smoothly. But if one individual has the opportunity to run a light which turned red a few seconds ago, that person will certainly do so. It saves the perpetrator five minutes of waiting. Bigger-picture, man-years are squandered daily.

Back when I was taking minibus taxis in Kampala, I would often ask myself why we do not have the same issue back home. I am guessing some main reasons are that our red lights are shorter, our traffic monitoring is better, our lights are synchronized, and we have some degree of confidence in the system as a whole. There may be other reasons.

Traffic is only a metaphor. Game theory appears everywhere. Consider the inputs and outputs surrounding violence. Joseph Kony, leader of Uganda's Lord's Resistance Army, is paid a massive salary by Western governments. His job is to not slaughter innocent people. Previously, his employer and lucrative employment were the complete opposite (with extra loot from massacres). Armed rebellion is a plausible get-rich-quick scheme.

As for getting rich the slow way: this is far less straightforward. When I buy water through a bus window, my vendor earns a few shillings. If his friends are unlucky, he is morally obliged to share his profits. Therefore, game theory suggests (and reality confirms) that he has little incentive to work hard. Ironically, the capitalist principles of game theory predict dysfunctional communism.

After returning from Uganda, I noticed similar peculiarities in Canada. The differences are the rules and the stakes. Running a red light results in a hefty fee. A murderous rampage results in prison, with a decrease in standard of living. It seems we have solved everything. But the rich still get richer and the poor still get poorer: the negative outcomes game theory prophesies.

From the perspective of game theory, the world's current problems are inevitable. Everyone wants to maximize family, peace, money, security, fun, sense of worth, and sex. Everyone wants to minimize crime, bribery, extortion, loneliness, discomfort, and traffic. Will people work together to achieve their potential? Remember, the real-life Prisoners' Dilemma has a twist: in the game of life, losing is not an option.

Challenge: A picture says a thousand words: write an entry using exactly a thousand words.

Challenge: I can only provide a fleeting glimpse at last weekend's magic; do so with only one sentence per picture.

Saturday morning, Caitlin, Rebecca and I departed from Stone Town in a dala-dala to Jambiani, on the eastern side of Zanzibar's Unguja island.

We ate on the beach and played one-touch football (soccer without dribbling) with some local youths, who later took pictures of themselves and us.

They must have liked us because we understood Swahili, so some of them showed off for us.

We pushed a dhow into the water for a fisherman.

The beach and the people were beautiful.

One young boy was remarkably placid as his brother let us torment him.

On the beach outside our guest house, we chatted with three children about school, English, and Ze Comedy Show.

We ate a delicious local meal at a restaurant, served by a very sweet waitor.

My camera could not capture even a fraction of the beauty of the stars above and around us: a fitting metaphor, I felt.

After dinner we met Mohammed, the fascinating head of a local NGO.

The next day, he lured us to his restaurant for lunch.

We again ate local food: plenty of octopus, chicken, and coconut.

Soon after, walking along the beach, we could not resist to investigate a well-advertised restaurant: the ads told us to Ask for Captain Cook.

We did so, and Captain Cook (so-named because he is both a cook and a captain) rewarded us with beers and conversation.

We left Jambiani soon afterwards, as suddenly as we had come.

Thank you. You taught me
That God does not kill people
People kill people

Challenge: this topic could go on forever. Abbreviate it into a single sentence.

I have yet to decide which frustrate me more: the soda, beer, and cell phone ads, targeted at everybody, designed to relieve the poor of every scrap of disposable income, preventing their saving money to escape their plight; or the large-screen television, private school, and bank loan ads, targeted at the tiniest minorities with huge excesses of wealth, essentially taunting most of the people reading them.

Challenge: alternate between black and white paragraphs.

There is a mall in Dar es Salaam called Mlimani City. Mlimani City is not just a mall (which would already seem rather out-of-place in Tanzania): it is the very definition of the Western shopping experience. Every little detail is in there: bank machines, a movie theatre, two enormous supermarkets (at least one of which probably sells kitchen sinks), fashion stores, advertisements... the works. The bathrooms are door-less, but not in the usual Tanzanian sense: no, these bathrooms are door-less because their entrances curve around in a modern way so that non-hand-washers' pee will not be left on any door handles. This is Western shopping at its finest.

Walking outside the door of that mall, one is immediately struck by how hot it is in Dar es Salaam. Without air conditioning, there is a lot of sweat. A dusty half-kilometre towards the nearest taxi park is a crafts market. The intricate wooden carvings are supposed to be ebony, but buyer beware: dyed wood is more common. White people without Tanzanian accomplices will often be charged up to seven times above the standard prices. The Tanzanian craft vendors know they are taking advantage of their customers, but who can blame them? They are just making a living. Amidst the heat and dust and shouts, the crafts market seems to be on the opposite end of the world from Mlimani City.

Mlimani City is well-placed, though. It is a short drive from the peninsula: the northern end of Dar es Salaam, snuggled against the Indian Ocean. This neighbourhood is largely populated by cars and gated houses and expensive hotels and restaurants: everything the long-term expatriate needs to feel right at home. White people can drive the wide road from their guarded homes to the guarded mall parking lot with a minimum of human interaction.

I live on the opposite end of the city, in an area called Tabata. A meal is about seven times cheaper here because the ingredients and customers are local. There are always plenty of people around the dala-dala stand, selling their wares by candlelight after it gets dark. Walking home, I can easily start a conversation with whoever is walking nearby. Theoretically my home is accessible by car, but I doubt I will ever figure out the route.

Last weekend, I left my home to travel to Zanzibar, a prime tourist destination. Stone Town in particular has been spiced up (so to speak): some sort of tourist police organization ensures that the streets are clean and safe. Much of the town is paved—that is, the government has paved the three or four feet of street which separate any two given buildings. Stone Town looks like the town of Agrabah (in the Disney movie Aladdin) but with tourists. I went to an Italian restaurant (complete with wine in coke bottles), a night club, and a tourist bar. I stayed with friends in town.

On Saturday (Sikukuu, the end of Ramadan), we visited a friend just south of Stone Town. After a wonderful feast of local cuisine, we walked down to the beach. We saw shacks all along the beach: from whatever materials nature had left lying in the vicinity, people have built themselves habitats. The shacks have open doorways and open windows. Walking past the buildings, I could see the people inside through the myriad slits in their makeshift walls. In an effort to preserve the nonexistent privacy of their homes, I pretended I did not notice them.

A few hundred metres out to sea, large, expensive ships were carrying their large, expensive cargoes to and from shiny Stone Town. Less than fifty metres behind us, a European was obliviously swimming at a luxurious beach resort. Less than twenty metres to our right, up a hill, towered an enormous wall, safeguarding the spacious, pristine estate of somebody important.

Through their doorways and windows and walls, the residents of that beach can clearly see that they are surrounded on all sides by an ocean and by oceans of money. Walking beside them, looking up at the obnoxious parade of wealth at the top of the steep hill, I could not help but think of the so-called trickle-down effect. Some optimists theorize that from the top of that hill will overflow a gentle stream of wealth, gradually empowering the underprivileged at the bottom. Staring up from below, though, it is obvious that the wall is too tall, too spiky, and too impermeable. The only things that trickle to the bottom of that hill are rain, garbage, and poor people.