JL | journal

Having departed from paradise only that morning, the 12 hours in the ‘1st class cabin’ of the cargo ship Spice Islander was twice as close to hell as it already was.

As we arrived at the ship that evening, the loading dock was already flooded by the flesh of men, women and children. Children below our waists were being crushed; old ladies unable to move in any direction were desperately screaming for help; the police with wooden sticks furiously attempting to create some sort of order; and the rest of the people tenaciously resisting those attempts. In short, it was just like in the movies: as if the island was sinking, or aliens coming from right behind, everyone was fighting with their lives to board the last ferry.

The first class had tables, air conditioning which was as good as absent, and a population density of about 8 people per square meter. The floor was covered first with a layer of luggage then another of bodies. It was nearly impossible to move in the cabin. Fighting our way to the bathroom required stepping on things we would usually avoid; returning to our seats after using the bathroom, with our sole still moist, made us feel extra guilty. The benches had small cockroaches crawling around occasionally, which I had to kill and vaporize swiftly before Sandy would notice them. It was a suffering even for the Tanzanian standard.

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The lady at the booth of Sea Express –the most recommended company for the Dar Es Salaam—Zanzibar route– was too uninterested in dealing with me that she somehow ignored my (certainly audible) signals for almost a good minute before looking up. That was enough for me to decide to travel with another company in that sea of competition. For half the price (but also at half the speed), we went with Flying Horse. Trip duration was 3 hours, as written on the board outside the tickets booth, although the sales person insisted that it would only take two, at most two and a half, because the company had just installed a new engine on the ferry. Sure.

The three hour spent inside the 1st class cabin was our most comfortable travel thus far. A/C, wide cushioned sofas, static-free television, and a comprehensible conversation in variously accented English. It was a fitting appetizer for our destination— the other-worldly Zanzibar.
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After the 10-hour torture on the front end of the bus where the steaming heat of the hauling engine penetrates right through our seats, we got off at Rombo, some kilometers before Dar Es Salaam.

Benja, our travel companion, has a sister who lives in Rombo. That day she graduated from the University of Dar Es Salaam, and so we visited her home to congratulate her. At one point she pulled out a very fancy DSLR, which I was quite surprised (as the cost of that camera is quite comparable to the cost of the building they’re living in). Turns out, it was our friend David’s camera. David was kind enough to lend his tool of trade out for this special occasion. David lives in Arusha, so the camera came all the way from there.

At the end of the night, she passed the camera to Stephen* asking him to bring it back to Arusha to David with him. Of course, things went wrong, and the camera, in the mist of transferring vehicles and searching for a place to stay for the night, was left behind in a taxi. By the time, it was too late to have anything done about it.
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In the small basement chambers, which is about 3 meters wide, 5 meters deep and 1.5 meter tall, 50 male or 75 female plus children would stay for two to three days or more, awaiting for the slave auction to open. According to our guide Christopher, many of these people would die of suffocation, starvation, disease or god knows whatever reasons. But that would be OK, for if they could not survive the three-day storage they probably were not strong enough to be sold for a good price anyways.

At the auction, the slave up for bidding would be tied to a pillar, whipped repeatedly as people call their prices. If the slave shall make a sound when the whip cracks their skin, the price would suffer, so would the good temper of the seller.

Children were of little uses as they are not strong enough and not worth the investment of food and care until they are. They would be thrown in as extras for the bulk buyers.
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From right here.

“before I continue, I must also include the most noble, impacting, profound and beautiful lesson that my travels have BEATEN into me – and that is of Humility. The thought of the arrogance and ignorance with which I set upon my world “stomp,” today, changes my cheeks to shades of shame. That I left my country on the spit and snarl of these two charges, just emphasizes the depth of my personal projection. Such self-righteousness we assume in the task and name of seeking change! The world IS change; it’s the predominant characteristic of nature and the Earth and nothing but comical to presume that we need seek it out. We human beings, both individually and cumulatively, will constantly be presented with the challenges and opportunities to evolve to our higher selves regardless of the continent upon which we happen to find ourselves born or standing. I need not cross the world on a jet engine to either solve the puzzles of the planet or recognize the mystery of life. But perhaps, like Santiago*, we just have to make the physical journey to come to that same, mocking-with-good-humor-at-our-humbling-expense, conclusion.”

—extracted from re-defining home, an article I encountered at Stephen’s blog.

*Santiago is the protagonist of Alchemist, by Paul Coelho. I got this book as a gift from my lovely friend Sherese Tong. Thanks.

Here in Tanzania (reasonably the whole Africa) everyone endorses Obama. Kenya made the day after the election - Happy Obama Day - a public holiday. T-shirts with the word Obama floods the streets of Arusha.

The world, at least the one around me, celebrates this historical event. And of course, now we all look forward to what kind of change this next president of the United States could do…

Today, when I was driving down the street in Suzi, a police officer pulled us over. He ordered my passenger to get off the car, and climbed into it himself - a clear sign of bribe-seeking. He told me that Suzi’s hand break was not working, before he even examined it (and, to his disappointment, the hand break does work). He asked for my driver’s license, and I gave him my Californian one (for lacking an international one).

“Obama!” Cheered the police officer. A little handshake. “I can find other mistakes in your car if I want, but for Obama, I’ll let you go.”

Before entering his office in January, Barack Obama is already easing the corrupt situation of law-enforcing officials in East Africa.

Yes, we totally can.

Everyone’s got a different take on things.

Oh, did I mention that I reached the summit in a pair of Teva’s?

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Maji ya Chai - in Swahili Water of Tea, which describes the milkish water that flows through the village - is a peaceful, tranquil, harmonious place.

It is home to the original CCF center. When German founder Peter Cool used to carry supplies on his head six-foot six above ground, walking up the hill on rocky paths, this new home was a promising new hope for many street children. When Peter departed from this country, and soon after, this world, so have much of his hopes for this organization which he so dedicatedly founded.
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Stuffed with street kids who have just finished our street teaching session, the daladala reeked of sweat, dirt, spit and glue – that they sniff to get high.
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