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!