Mea culpa

It's been a while eh? Well, I have a post for you today, but it's not going to be funny and whimsical. It's a rather unpleasant story, another one set on these damned roads, and one that deserves telling. It was my fault.

It's a sunny Friday, the 23rd of March, when I leave the house around 7.20. It's just warming up at this time, and I'm looking forward to the weekend as I head to the branch on the opposite end of Dar: a rather tortuous hour-long drive in the morning rush hour, longer if I'm unlucky. As it turned out, it's not my lucky day, but even less so for someone else. I speed along the Peninsula road that forms part of the shortcut to the main arterial route into town from the north of the city. The Peninsula is never jammed, part of its advantages as a place to live, even though there's no avoiding the tailback that stretches miles out from the city centre in every direction. Ahead the turn into Toure Drive, a lovely road that skirts the Indian Ocean, where the still-rising sun leaves a golden trail on the little waves. Slowing, I'm pleased to see that I'm not even going to have to wait briefly to turn out: the nearest cars are a good couple of hundred metres up Coco Beach way. So I don't stop, I pull out, then as I see the black shape I brake and-
BANG!
The motorbike hits me, jolting my car just slightly as it collides with the bullbars at the front. The rider is thrown forward, slamming his head (in a helmet thank god) on my bonnet. And... shock. Shock and the first creep of fear. Drive to the side of the road. Breathing hard. Shit...

They tell you to be careful at times like this. Mobs form and make snap judgements, and you don't want to be on the wrong side. Some say to escape as quickly as possible, call an ambulance from a safe distance, don't get involved. But he was lying there, stunned, wheezing, eyes opening and shutting. He needs help. So I turn off the engine and get out. The motorbike's lying on the road, dented. Two of the small doughy snacks that people eat for breakfast here are lying in the road, fallen from their bag. One has a bite out of it. People start running over, but I don't see any anger in their eyes, just curiousity. Blood runs from his leg, and I see that it's resting at an unnatural angle. A man with glasses who introduces himself as a teacher suggests that I should get him to the hospital, rather than waiting for an ambulance that may take any amount of time to arrive. So my 4x4 with its fold down seats and big boot becomes the ambulance. A few of the people carry him, 'Pole' (sorry) as they see his pain. Part of me recalls advice not to move victims before paramedics arrive in case of neck injury, but it's too late to stop and leaving him to bleed out on the road seems no solution. Then the police arrive.

The first is in khaki, the regular police. His first question concerns my licence, then he starts looking over the scene and taking notes as a white-clad traffic policeman arrives and does much the same. For more than ten minutes they measure and question while the man bleeds in my car. A frustrated bystander, the only one to show even the slightest anger to me, demands why I didn't put him in a taxi as it was obvious the police would take time to allow us to go - as if the seat of a taxi was a suitable place for the injured man. Finally a plainclothes police gets in the front of the car with me, after I promise to fetch my licence from my flat later to show them, so we can get to the hospital. The drive was agonising for me, a thousand times more so for the rider. I try to minimise the effect of the potholed roads, each jolt bringing another moan from him, buses behind hooting at my slowness. The hospital is basic, wheelchairs made of wood and bicycle tyres, the stretcher dirty. Admission fee less than a dollar. Our bank sends someone to help me, who's dispatched by doctors to buy bandages and antiseptic. Then the long wait for x-rays.

The leg was broken, as it was obvious. He needs transferring to another hospital, the national hospital with better capabilities, and a quick debate ensues about who pays for the ambulance for that transfer. I offer but insurance absorbs it. It turns out that he's one of the fortunate few, a driver for Toyota with medical insurance and sick pay to tide him over. His wife appears, and then a terrible irony becomes apparent. She's our customer. She's got a loan, and moreover was actually in a branch when she got the news. She turns up to see what happened to her husband, and sees me and my colleague there dressed in our logoed T-shirts as is customary on Friday. At least I get an easy way of helping them.

The day is taken up with police proceedings. Discussion revolves around how my money can magically make problems go away. There's a suggestion that the police could change the drawing they made of the accident scene so I'm no longer at fault. A few days later we work out a payment, negotiated by my colleagues: $400. I visit the man in hospital, who shakes my hand as soon as I enter. He's lying on the bed, weak but stable, his leg hidden from view. Again, no-one has been angry at me, the atmosphere instead of resignation. I clear the wife's loan, another thousand dollars, and with it some of my guilt.

But the case doesn't go away. The wife presses the man from Toyota, who presses the police. Monday then Tuesday is scheduled for the hearing, then postponed. Today it finally goes ahead, and I sit in the court outside waiting area for four hours. Assurances all round that no more complications happen. The man from Toyota is informed about my repayment, and takes my side. They all believe that she's just trying to get more money off me. I have a hard time blaming her.

So the hearing, in a small room in the magistrates court. Never been to court before, what a place to start. The police outside with handcuffs, waiting to escort off those who are sentenced. The magistrate dressed impeccably, suit and tie. A lady reads the charge. The fear rises again. A comic moment as her phone goes off mid-reading, and she roots round in her bag to silence it only to find it's in her pocket. Charges read, I plead guilty. 'You are convicted'. Statement of mitigation.

Fine: $15... or 4 months' imprisonment if in default. The reassurances had been well-founded, and maybe my donation to the police did its bit. It's over.

A quiet country drive

Greetings, it's been a while and I thought it was time for another entry. The trouble is, while life has been pretty enjoyable and times have been interesting enough, I can't recall any events that immediately triggered my blogging sense, and to be honest I've been feeling the pressure of writers' block. You may remember from last entry that I retreated into an airconditioned office for the mean time to get in some good old statistical analysis, which doesn't make for the most exciting stories except when we're at each others' throats for the last spoon of instant coffee. Should I stay silent, or just ramble along anyway? Would you be disappointed if I just rehashed some old themes of bad driving, beautiful scenery and drinking in strange places? Well I'll just rattle along, and if it doesn't seem to flow I just won't post this, and you won't be reading it either.

So it happens I was driving badly through some beautiful countryside on the way out of Dar on Friday, on my way to meet some friends and go (drinking) in Mikumi National Park. Safari weekenders are an ideal break from the city, with Mikumi's plains a mere four hours' drive away. Unfortunately that involves driving, which is not too bad until darkness falls (inevitably, as leaving work at rush hour means that the passage out of Dar takes at least an hour), upon which it becomes a hellacious deathrace best seen as a giant computer game but with no regeneration from Game Over. The players are as follows: first, the ubiquitous Scania trucks which steadily cruise across the landscape at 80 kph. They are natural obstacles, resembling the migration of elephants or the inexorable grinding of a glacier: predictable, slow and unstoppable, but largely unthreatening as long as you don't get in their way (especially if you're going in the other direction). Next are the cross-country buses, and these are terrifying. Five tonnes of passenger bus on the highway behaving like a tuk-tuk, weaving and seeking every possible opportunity to sneak ahead of anyone and anything. They often lurk behind the Scanias until they get their chance to pull out; with any luck they don't choose the moment they're careening towards you flashing their lights. Defensive driving doesn't help when one tries to push past, looking to cut back in before the advancing ten tonne truck on the other side makes mincemeat of you both. Friends report that often the conductor will be leaning out of the window at police checkpoints, cash in hand, ready to do some drive-by bribing so as not to slow their progress. Then the fastest on the road are the Land Cruisers, Tanzanians and foreigners off to the countryside for safari or NGO business, who also won't hesitate to race through whether or not the road is clear but generally have the acceleration to leave you unthreatened with their maneuvers. Other cars aren't the only threat: the road surface itself is unpredictable by design. With obedience of the rules pretty low, only the physical obstacle of speed bumps convinces drivers to slow, so at each village and town the main road passes through (and there's a lot) a speed bump enforces the now 50 kph limit. Sensible, unless you didn't notice the 50 sign on the way into the almost imperceptibly small hamlet around you, in which case you're going to hit that giant bump at 100 and fly through the air like an 80s cop car in an LA car chase. So by the time I got to Morogoro, my nerves were shot and only Safari (the lager) could return me to my natural calm.

Mikumi's a lovely park sadly bisected by a main road, which is great if you're a truck driver who wants to enjoy some impala-watching on the fly, less good if you're an impala who doesn't enjoy flying over the bonnet of a truck. They had to put 50 km of regular speed humps in when the wildlife started dying en masse, which I think is fair (despite my vehicle and apparent attitude I'm no Jeremy Clarkson). It sounds like another story of man's disregard for the environment that the Tanzanian government chose that route for the road, but considering that the whole area is either wildlife parks or mountains for hundreds of kilometres north and south, their choice was quite limited to build the infrastructure needed to connect underdeveloped inland areas with the commercial centre and main port of Dar. As is often the case, it seems to be a choice between development and the environment unless any donors faniced shelling out for a hundred kilometre tunnel, and were big mammals still roving Europe rather than being killed off centuries ago (Scandinavian moose excepted, which I gather cause all manner of problems up there) I'd imagine the cost/benefit analysis would've ended up with the same result. Still, a short distance from the road is unspoiled countryside, with only dirt trails and the occasional safari camp. The one we chose for lunch though added a touch of class: a little wooden bar-restaurant, hilltop location with spectacular views and (amazing!) a small swimming pool. Perfect to spend a couple of hours on a hot afternoon, beer in hand, looking over the plains from a sun lounger. Oh, and we drove around looking at animals and stuff.

It's a privilege that I have Tanzania to thank for, that my weekends can be spent in such places. I thought that a couple of weeks ago sitting on a beach looking over the Indian Ocean, and I thought it again hanging next to the hippo pool as I bumped into someone I'd hung out with in Zanzibar a month ago (small mzungu world eh?). It's a privilege that I paid for with days of file-sifting under fluorescence (I need an intern for this kind of crap), but hey, could be worse. I could be in England!



Addendum: Just got home and the power's out, no water in the tank and it can't be pumped without power, and the fan doesn't work in the 32 degree heat. All right England, you win this round.

Lies, damn lies and econometrics

It was a hungover Saturday, of which we're all familiar, and the blunt ache the rum had left behind made thinking like wading through quicksand. Quicksand filled with thorns. Last night at Maisha club was entertaining enough, with illuminated dancefloor that demanded a strutting John Travolta to complete the scene, enough lasers to power a fusion experiment or a techno rave, and obligatory pole dancers to make one feel like a pimp, especially on going outside where the ladies of the night flocked around. So, my bleary eyes tried to make sense of a computer screen, because I was at work, having swapped a couple of weekdays off for Saturdays (see, you lot think I have it easy eh?)...

...but I wasn't fed up because of my interesting new assignments. Here I feel like my readership is going to split into two diametrically opposed camps. See, after two months, no longer am I going to be shadowing loan officers from place to place and playing walk-on parts as the rent-a-foreign-boss to impress clients (and put the fear in bad ones). Now I have projects and analyses to carry out, a fact that I couldn't be more excited about: for a start, do you realise how hot it is out there? And as a corollary, how pleasant it is to look out over the baking city, swaying palm trees and colourful roofs, from my 3rd floor office, aircon dialed down to 18 degrees? I've enjoyed the time outside, using such skills as looking out for a certain large tree near which a client's house lies (addresses being basically non-existent here), but a respite complete with some nice mental exercise is a definite plus. So, when I say that today I'm going to be doing econometrics, perhaps my geekier friends are going to perk their ears up as I throw out teasers like 'binary logit', while the rest of you may start nodding off. I'll keep it simple though.

See, the practice of microfinance is somewhat like an AK-47 assault rifle of which my mercenary acquaintance is familiar. Bear with me. An AK is the most famous assault rifle of them all, and a potent symbol of anti-imperialism or terrorism (whatever floats your boat), of partisans and revolutionaries. This is because it's rugged as hell, can be dragged through mud, mountains and Mozambique (look at its flag) and it still works. It's not particularly accurate, but the chief purpose in its design isn't sharp perfect accuracy, it's resilience. And killing people, but hopefully that's where the analogy ends. Similarly, our methods are pretty rugged, needing lots of guesswork and judgement with little proper documentation (from the client side) and other niceties. Someone is doing financial ratios and even using the normal distribution, but that's not the crux of the method and is filled with approximation. Consequently, using advanced econometric techniques on this morass of data is like field-stripping an AK through an electron microscope. Take what you will from this slightly dodgy metaphor. Of course, being trained in economics, I'm well used to performing bizarre number rituals on made-up data, and making the end result looking like whatever I (or my boss) require. At this point I am exaggerating my cynicism for comic effect (and if you're reading this, boss, all the characters and events portrayed in this blog are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental). In fact I'm sure I can come up with some useful findings, but it's going to take a lot of patience and interpretation. The great thing about this role is, I'm free to tackle the problems in whichever way I choose and bring in resources from the bank as needed, so I'm also going to make like a sociologist and ask people to fill out some surveys or whatever, and maybe get some trainees to walk around collecting data. It may involve going outside again, but I'll be well rested by then and nourished on the Africafe. It's going to be great.

In other news, I'm headed out to the countryside on Thursday for four days: the Tanzanians love their public holidays, and we're celebrating the Zanzibar revolution, of course. Hiking, wildlife and so forth, should be fun. Catch you all next week.

Safari and Zanzibar - James' tourist travelogue. Fans of gritty realism look away now

Heri za Mwaka Mpya! My mother informs me that each time one of these posts is delayed or I skip a few days, readers from Asia to America ask her why I haven't updated recently. Well, I've been taking a few days to revel in the holiday season, and since I generally write this at work in quiet times I haven't had the chance to update. What can I say, you people are just gonna have to wait.

But anyway, fresh sunny Monday, the first of 2012 and a hot coffee in hand. Forgive me if this post is more Lonely Planet than the John Grisham or Mario Puzo you might be used to, as I finally took the opportunity to do the tourist thing and have a look around this beautiful country. Christmas involved a trip to the Selous Game Reserve, a vast wildlife-filled wilderness a few hours south-west of Dar. A 90 kilometre dirt road took us to the entrance through picture-postcard mud villages, complete with laughing children running after my car in the sunset light. A particularly unfortunate village had a memorial sign commemorating the 40-odd people that had been taken by man-eating lions: welcome to the Selous! Along with my friend who runs safaris, we were the guests of his old schoolmates the manager couple of Selous River Camp, a small but perfectly formed establishment on the banks of the Rufiji River. Katie, perhaps missing her distant Kent as I missed Surrey (a phrase I'm not used to uttering and am unlikely to do again, at least until next December), made sure we had a Christmas tree: a randomly chosen tree festooned with baubles and with presents underneath. The staff were decked out in Santa hats, and turkey, minced pies and Christmas pudding were on the menu. So we had Christmas dinner there, on the swelling mud river with hippos looking on, preceded by a game drive rich in giraffes, wildebeest and local brandy - we took my car, of which I'm very proud for its seemless adaptation from bank commute to bouncing around with buffalos. Selous offered up its best treats, perhaps in respect of the season: wild dogs, impalas and kudus came to play. There are only 5,000 of the former left in the wild, so as the news of them spread between drivers there were soon six cars surrounding the five dogs, who took it in their stride and sat panting in the shade. A similar scene played out running into one of the rare lion prides, who were mostly not bothered to open their eyes as the cars flocked around them. In my photos they look tame and well-behaved, resting in midday heat and uninterested in the inedible-looking metal boxes growling and smoking around them. Had anyone tried to leave their boxes however, a different kind of Christmas lunch might have taken place, as I'm sure we're every bit as tasty as an overstuffed flightless bird. The brandy-fuelled drive left us rolling into camp for dinner very merry indeed, and by the time we retired to the tents to sleep, any wandering lions or elephants that might blunder into the unfenced camp would've been scared off by the snoring (and perhaps my paraffin breath from some impromtu fire breathing).

Two unproductive orphan days of work (reassigned to a recovery team in the central Dar branch), and I was away again to Zanzibar. How the name rolls off the tongue, floating into one's mind a dream of dhow sailboats, waving palms on white sands, turquoise and azure waters. I find it mildly embarrassing to write like this, but only such glutinous and gilded adjectives can possibly sketch the scene of the place, at least at first glance. It is of course no fantasy land (its dark history as East Africa's biggest slave market surely precluding that) but another province of the United Republic of Tanganyika and Zanzibar with six hundred thousand people mostly going about their ordinary lives, albeit around a steady stream of rapt foreigners who pay more than three years of the locals' average income to fly in for a week. Still, the place sees the benefits of tourism in a few ways, being one of the wealthier provinces and providing a number of jobs for young men and women. Some of the men in particular get other fringe benefits from the flocks of white girls looking for their dream vacation. Less attractive and wealthier women often contribute financially for their companionship, forming an interesting counterpart to the scenes at certain bars in Dar, while the more sentimental ladies end up with a boyfriend or even husband, who unsurprisingly does not stop his variety-filled lifestyle when said lady heads back to Europe. So yeah, the advantages of tourism, although I'd imagine the local women of this 95% Muslim province aren't such a fan.

So, four days in Zanzibar, filled with diving (these tropical waters every bit as good as the Andaman Sea), swimming and lazing with some other revelling expat friends, and a new year's party on the beach which formed my bed for the first morning of the year. A great little holiday all told, and the days of safari and beach a perfect refreshment from all that working in the chaos of Dar. I'm definitely making it my mission to get out of town more in the coming months and take advantage of living in this extraordinary country. Hope this year goes most excellently for everyone!

Money, Mercenaries and Poker (keepin' it real)

Another day, another dollar, but this time I got to see just how many dollars our bank actually has. Spending a bit of time with banking services allowed me to go into the vault where they keep all those US dollars and Tanzanian shillings we take as deposits and lend out. Holding $160,000 in hundred dollar bills is quite fun, I'd have posed for a picture if it wouldn't look so unprofessional, or maybe used one to light a cigarette. As for the shillings, years of inflation mean that a modest sum of around £200,000-worth forms a massive cube a metre long. My skills came in handy, as most of the cashiers are female and I could help by carrying their bundles of money for them, as a gentleman does.

Entertainment for the week was varied: a Saturday company sports day saw me playing football under the equatorial sun, and my side getting thrashed, though in our defence we had fewer players than the opposition and I could barely run ten metres without oozing sweat and wheezing like an old man. Then there was the night out at the flagship club night in Dar, a monthly event at a hotel by the sea shore and the most expensive night I've seen here at £8 entry. A fun crowd, and the music ranged from some fairly good but too brief tech-house to commercial shit-hop... ah I do miss a really good music scene. Yesterday, drinks on the beach, our party including a very interesting fellow who I'd met last time in a rum-soaked poker game on the roof of a friend's apartment building. In a genius move my friend installed a poker table on his roof, allowing games overlooking the bay, and this high-stakes game had a 10,000 shilling buy in (about £4).

This particular guy was a very large white Seuth Efrican in his mid-forties, rugby player build, seemed genial enough and he'd told me he worked in security. Yesterday I was mentioning a particular bar that I'd hung out in a couple of times, that I heard was full of hookers and mercenaries. The hookers are self-evident (knee high boots and short skirts, and the bar has the seedy feel of a Pattaya go-go joint), but when I told him which bar I meant he dismissed the so-called mercenaries as 'wannabes'. Pressed a bit more about the nature of his security business, I got a run down on what it actually involved: 'Basically I kill people for a living'. Head of a private security company, hired by firms (shipping and the like) and governments to neutralise threats including pirates, rebels and so forth, for which they possessed planes and helicopters. I mentioned the film Blood Diamond that I'd seen a few days before, but he wasn't a fan: 'It made us look very bad', being of the opinion that the private security contractors brought in at the behest of the Sierra Leonian government had helped end the civil war and defeat the rebels who were responsible for the atrocities. A pragmatic fellow, one might say. A friend of a friend, and genuinely seemed like a good bloke, though obviously not one I'd ever tangle with. Someone interesting to have a drink with, though I'm a little dubious about the ethics of his line of work, but after all... TIA.
This is Africa!

Carols and Confiscation (You come and go, you come and go...)

Rolled into work this morning, and everyone was in motion. Too many clients in arrears, too much money owed: the start of the month is always bad for this. Only one thing to do - a confiscation team was formed. They offered to leave me at the office, I didn't need to get involved. But what kind of hypocrite would that make me, hanging back from the harder side of the business? I'd never gone on one before, and it's my responsibility to see every side if down the line I'm going to be the one sending these teams out. Besides, the lorry is taken on confiscations, to take away the goods, and it has only three seats. Fortunately I have my big 4x4 so the other loan officers don't have to crouch in the back of the lorry for a couple of hours. So I tell them that I'm coming, and we pile in my car.

Six of us in my car, three in the lorry. The loan officer I'm attached to in the second branch sits in the front with me, a quiet and competent guy. He was once in the seminary, until he decided that a priest's life wasn't for him; now he plans to do a masters in finance. Cue Christ-Antichrist jokes. He brought some music along as per my request. The full car jolts along the rough dirt road at the rural edge of Dar, past banana trees and chickens, and the speakers blare out Karma Chameleon. I'm becoming used to surreality here. Everyone's talking and laughing, telling me that for appearances I'm the boss today - the foreigner come in to manage the move against delinquent clients. I'm a little apprehensive about what we face.

Confiscation is the final stage when a client refuses to pay, and is used as a last resort. All loans are secured by collateral at 150% of the loan, and if payment isn't forthcoming the collateral must be seized. Unlike a financial institution in the West, there's no division of labour into lenders and bailiffs - a loan officer is responsible for all parts of the cycle, including recovery. It's part of incentivising good lending practices, as a client that won't pay makes the loan officer miss targets and lose bonuses, so he or she doesn't want to lend to anyone who won't be able to afford repayments. That is how we can lend to poor people that most banks won't touch, and at interest rates much lower than they could receive from local lenders or the equivalent services (cash converters, pay day loans etc) that the poor in the west resort to, while remaining solvent as an institution. But to keep on doing it, the system has to function by pursuing those who won't pay. That's what sends us rattling down the road, to the door of client number one.

We stand around, knocking for a few minutes. The neighbour says that the client's in, but evidently they don't want to open up. With no way of gaining entry we eventually move on, the message hopefully sent out. Client number two's business (a tailor) is locked up, and we go to his home next. Chickens dart around, children sit and shyly smile. The scent of animal faeces. This house seems quite poor I note, not the best thing for rationalising... But he isn't there either. Perhaps he got word we were coming and departed. Two no-shows threaten to turn this mission into a farce, with just one more client to visit. I haven't had any breakfast, so it's with some relief that I'm directed to a cafe by the road, a good-sized place serving my favourite banana-based meat soup mtori.

As we sit down, I learn this is client number three. A textbook negligent client, he owes less than ten pounds on his last repayment, and has more than a hundred in hand - seemingly he didn't pay through lack of willingness rather than lack of finances. At any rate the nine of us spend more than half that on breakfast, and he does indeed cough up the money. Three attempted confiscations: two no-shows and one repayment. An easy ride of it, and I'm glad I didn't have to see anything worse. We drive back to Dar, Christmas songs about snow and mistletoe forming an unlikely accompliment to dusty roads and brightly-coloured buses, though the ever-pervasive heat is dampened by some seasonal rain. Ho ho ho.

I like driving in my car, it's not quite a Jaguar

Finally, mobility! No longer am I restricted to taxis and bajajis, trying to indicate a place with no address in broken Swahili while a bemused driver with a Man U sticker on his windscreen tries to figure out what I mean. Thick bloody Mancunians eh. My new car is here, well new is a bit of a stretch. It's 19 years old and as loud as a teenager to boot: the exhaust silencer has a hole in it. It's in need of some attention, but I got it cheap and with a bit of money and care I think it could be a pretty good car. It's a Mitsubishi Pajero, a full-sized 4x4 (none of that girly Rav4 nonsense) with space for at least 7, or 12 if I pack 'em in like the local buses. Used cars are pretty expensive here what with a 50+% tax on importing them, and 4 wheel drives are at a premium. One of the other foreigners has a little Toyota Vitz, how I laugh as I glide through the seas of mud which would drown his lesser car. Yep, I've become an asshole with a giant car, but at least I have need for it here; I can only imagine what our street is going to be like in the long rains in April, which are 3 times larger than the end of the year 'short' rains.

There's another good reason to have a giant car with cattle bars on the front: Dar driving. Nothing in the west could possibly prepare you. Someone with ten years experience on the mean streets of London being cut up and undertaken by Nigerian minicab drivers, Estonian haulage executives and Hampstead cycle-fascists (apologies to any London cyclists reading): they haven't even done an apprenticeship for this. Even Bangkok seems calm by comparison, though similarly congested and more motorbikes, however I'm assured that Delhi's just as bad. Between the 3 wheelers weaving on both sides, pushy dala-dala (bus) drivers charging down the wrong side of the road, aggressive humanitarian agency staff in even bigger Land Cruisers designed for war zones, and pedestrians with a powerful faith in the almighty (or a death wish), it's actually a relief that the roads aren't much better or we'd all be in high-speed pileups constantly. A popular bumper sticker reads 'Jesus protects this car!' - so that's why you're driving like you have superpowers? I read about when they upgraded a road through a national park, and a bunch of large animals (including lions, giraffes and elephants) ended up as road kill from impatient locals, a strange reversal of the usual chilled Tanzanian attitude to life. Short experience has taught me that you need to drive with absolute attention at all times to everything on every side, while behaving as if you're ignoring everybody if you want to actually get anywhere. And I thought I was an overly aggressive driver.

The last case I worked on in the head branch was an interesting one - a medical clinic, with a small testing lab and pharmacy. Quite a satisfying one to have approved, even though the £2 consultation fee already puts it out of reach of the poorest, but better health outcomes are positive no matter who the beneficiaries. I'm in another branch for a few days, in a poorer area surrounded by markets on a main arterial route out of the city, no longer the guilded headquarters. The contrast is interesting and perhaps gets closer to the micro roots of the bank's core - the head branch is in an unusually affluent area for microclients, many of whom own vehicles and even property. Yesterday was spent on promotional activities: walking round markets with a loan officer who talks to potential clients, finds out their needs and outlines our services. I find myself constantly greeted and waved to by curious locals in areas with very few foreign visitors, with children practicing a little English to say 'good morning'. More reminders of the friendliness of the Tanzanian people, who vie with the Syrians for frequency of using the word 'welcome' (ah poor Syria, hope Bashar doesn't last too much longer).

So, another week nearly done. If I survive the roads I'll check in next week, when the national day next Friday means a three day weekend and hopefully an out-of-town trip, maybe in my new lion-crusher. Note to parents: don't worry, I'll almost certainly survive!