Annie Shoberg: Find one PCV and you won't be lonely for long- The journey to Iringa, Tanzania

On February 5^th, we returned to the southern Tanzanian town of Mbeya. Our newly acquired Peace Corp Volunteer friends began to multiply. In addition to Rebekah and Maren, we met TJ, Kat, Jess, and Paul who had come in to town from their myriad villages. Together at Maren’s house, we used a recipe from the Peace Corp Tanzania cookbook to create a group pumpkin leaf and rice supper. Village life is quiet, so when PCV’s come to the city, they like to party with other expats. Mark and I aren’t much of the partying type, but when in Rome… We ended up at a bar in town where the PCV’s kept multiplying. We were introduced to Adrian and Katie, then Anna re-emerged and the hand-shakes and hugs just kept on multiplying. About 30 minutes into our drinks and conversations, a Tanzanian in a cowboy hat who introduced himself as James Bond tapped Mark on the shoulder and asked, “Hey, do you remember me from the bus station?” We did remember him, but what was more startling was the sight of his side-kick, our white friend who we hadn’t seen since three weeks previous in Tofo. I jumped up to give him a hug, “Mike!” We went through introductions all over again, “Here’s so-and-so from Michigan, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, etc.” In mass, we walked to a dance club down the street where we had a blast dancing. At 2:30am, Mark and I were some of the first to leave the club.

The next morning, Jess, Becca, Mark and I took a taxi to the bus depot where we again ran into Mike. We had invited him to join us for the music festival in Zanzibar, but we weren’t sure if he would be up in time for the bus, or if he would know about the time change, but there he was, and after heavy negotiations he was able to transfer his bus ticket to be on the same bus as the four of us. We took an 8 hour bus ride to Iringa, and enjoyed the convenient window shopping along the way. At every stop, venders lifted baskets up to our windows so we could shop for avocados, apples, bananas, ears of grilled corn, and maji (water). I’ve become accustomed to this delightful shopping experience, and appreciate how some venders are willing to “go the extra mile.” For example, one stop had coke, but no diet coke. “Coke Light?” I inquired. The man sprinted off, and within a minute I had three venders thrusting ice cold diet cokes into my hands. At another stop, a young man was empty handed, but selling chipsie (French fries). I paid him 700 shillingi (about 50cents) and he took off sprinting. I couple minutes later, he raced back with a black bag filled with chipsie. One additional vender stands out- he held a tray of hard-boiled eggs and some of the egg crate holes were filled with marijuana joints. “Amazing,” I thought. These venders think of everything.

When we arrived in Iringa, the rooms were fully booked, so the 5 of us ended up sharing a 2 person room. The furniture was carried out and a second mattress was placed on the floor. We all squeezed in as best we could. It was close quarters, but at least it was cheap. Rebecca had acquired a stomach bug, so she went to bed while the rest of us ate American hamburgers, drank tastey milkshakes, and explored Iringa in the dark. The following morning, Rebecca and Jess continued on to Zanzibar, while Mark, Mike, and I decided to take a day to see the town. At breakfast, we were introduced to a group of Swedish youth leader volunteers who taught us about Sweden. As Americans, we have a stereotypical idea about blonde-haired blue-eyed Sweedes, but the group set us straight. In a group of 5, there was only one blonde with blue eyes. The others were an adopted Indian gal, a guy who looked like an American Indian, a daughter of a Phillipino mother, and a brown-haired gal with lightly tanned skin. The students informed us that Sweeden looks very much like the 5 them, multi-cultural. Mark inquired about his Sweedish ancestors, the Huberians, from the mountains by the sea. The group informed us that it’s a common name, like Smith or Jones or Johnson in the States, and it actually means Lake Mountain. He prodded them to give him the correct pronunciation of Sjoberg, and they indulged him repeatedly.

We spent the day walking around, shopping for a few souvineers . Mark found a rock elephant and an eagle for grandpa (we always love his joyous reaction, “It’s a dandy!”). I found a wooden sugar bowl and giraffe. We stumbled into a larger local market and took pictures of huge mounds of staple foods: beans, rice, tomatos, carrots, spices, bananas. They were so beautifully displayed, and I enjoyed talking to the local salesmen and women in my limited Swahili and its necessary counterpart, pantomime. We ate lunch upstairs at Shooters where the owner’s kids played pool. I’m embarrassed to admit that I attempted playing pool against Mike who is a seasoned pool player. Needless to say, he had all or mostly all of his balls sunk before I had even one in. After lunch, we continued shopping. I bought a $13 multicolored bohemian/hippie dress for the festival, and Mark bought a $8 pair of Obama shorts (we’ve been amazed at how many items sell with his name or image on them: bags, backpacks, t-shirts, pants- he’s one heck of a brand around here). We wanted to spend the remainder of the day on the internet, but everything was closed early, so we adjourned to the room where I regained my self-esteem by winning a few games of mancala (a wooden board game played with beans or pebbles).

The following morning, before boarding the bus, Mark and I attempted to mail two small boxes at the post office. Previously, I had mentioned to Mark that we should look into shipping prices before we bought souvineers, but the post office was closed, so we went ahead and bought things anyway. At this point, we were in a hurry to catch the bus, so we taped up the boxes in a frenzy before the desk clerk informed us that boxes needed to remain open to be inspected by customs. In a rush, we filled out the mailing forms in triplicate, then the clerk informed us that we needed 6 copies for customs. Furthering the mailing disaster, we discovered the cost to ship our packages would be $100. I sort of freaked out, told the clerk to give us back our boxes and stormed off to the bus depot. When it comes to making rushed decisions about spending money, my first reaction is always to run away and give myself more time to think about it. Looking back, I could have been a little more patient and gracious, but I was concerned we were late for the bus and spending $100 on shipping when we had planned to spend ½ of that, and then there was the fact that the package may or may not arrive back in Colorado. Anyway, we ended up carrying the boxes (along with our massive, heavy travel bags) on the bus to Dar Es Salaam.