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One of the big questions in Tanzania, and one I’m sure my curiosity will return me to, is why is a country blessed with relative national unity, political stability and (again, relatively) high-minded founders so incredibly poor? Not just poor by global standards but even compared to its neighbors. I’m already hearing a lot about “Kenya envy,” which is hard to imagine and perhaps not even legitimate considering Kenya has much more internal and tribal conflict and violence. But it is also undeniably more prosperous, a fact many here lament, especially in the medical field. Many of the best workers move to Kenya, and doctors describe the hospitals there with awe.
The explanations no doubt lie in complicated factors of politics, history and culture, and I certainly haven’t figured it out in nine days, but observations are trickling in. I wasn’t entirely sure how I’d be spending my time here, but it has filled up. Every day some event or outing seems to make itself available to get me out and about — the overnight camp at Lake Chala, a visit to an expat-owned coffee plantation outside town (owned by a European family straight out of an E.M. Forrrester novel), another hike with the Kilimanjaro Mountain Club on the outskirts of town. All three trips took us out of Moshi well off the main roads (such as they are) and it’s been interesting to get some initial glimpses of how rural Tanzanians live.
Water, of course, is central to all of these issues here. It is scarce and the economics of distributing it drive everything. As I understand, Tanzania has done relatively well on expanding water access, but it’s still a huge problem. In the countryside around Lake Chala as we tumbled over dirt roads and past tiny settlements, we passed streams of people lugging water buckets and up and down substantial hills in the blistering sun. Some, it was apparent, were walking all the way to a water spout by the lake — several miles. And at least they were getting it from spouts, which are relatively clean. In the decrepit settlements we passed on the second hike, children were retrieving water from a stream that none in our party was even willing to step a foot into. Seeing the effort that goes into daily water consumption, one becomes very aware of poverty as less a poverty of purchasing power (though it is that) than as poverty of opportunity cost and wasted time. One begins to see why only half of Tanzanian children complete primary school.
The absence of capital is also painfully visible, and it’s easy to see why people get so excited by the concept of micro-credits. Several such organizations are working in this area but the need is everywhere. Many days, outside the gate of our landlord’s home, a young man who lives nearby door pounds stones into gravel - using other stones. The “clink clink clink” begins in the morning and lasts much of the day, through the brutal noon sun (and incidentally, is about to drive me crazy). Yesterday, I saw a small truck come by and collect gravel, presumably for use in construction or on the atrocious roads, and I presume pay him a small amount. Whether this is his primary occupation or not is unclear. When I can communicate better I hope to talk to him. It seems beyond comprehension that even a rudimentary chisel is out of reach, but apparently so. How much more could he produce if he had one?
In the same vein, last week our landlord arranged for a fundi (a “fixer”) to come and repair some electrical problems in our house. She was supposed to show up at 9, and after 11 with no sign of her I went into town, figuring it was to-be-expected imprecision in African scheduling. But the landlord called me shortly and said she’d arrived and could I let her in, so I returned home.
The fundi was bright and friendly (and friends were later surprised and pleased to hear of a woman fundi — apparently they’re rare). She arrived with a small, eclectic tool set and played around with the Chinese-made switches and circuits and eureka, our lights were fixed.
After she was done, I took care of some things in the house and eventually called a taxi to return downtown. As I rushed out I noticed she was still sitting on the landlord’s porch. She asked if I was going toward KCMC (the hospital) and could she have a ride, and I said sorry, no, I was headed in the opposite direction. From our brief conversation, I concluded she had no way other than walking or bumming a ride to get to her next job, which presumably is why she was so late to mine (there are daladalas, or tiny, comically crowded semi-public buses — with people literally hanging on out the windows — and I’m not sure why that wasn’t an option, but I guess they didn’t go her route or she had no cash whatsoever).
Here was a competent, at least semi-trained entrepreneur in a field that, thanks to the endless electrical shortcomings, seems ripe with opportunity. How much business was she missing for lack of a used car or even bicycle? It‘s hard to know whether after 6 more months here I‘ll be more skeptical or enamored of western-style capitalism. But the need for capital itself seems clear enough.
