Internal Frame

“Internal Frame” is the Swahili-speakers’ version of the song “Eternal Flame”. R and L are interchangeable here, which means that many people think I am called Ruthi or Rusi. As well as Loooss. And Lose: possibly prophetic, possibly just not very good spelling.

I particularly like the Tanzanian habit of casually burning rubbish outside one’s house (just as there is no house to house postal delivery, there’s also no bin men). Here is an example.

In the UK there’d be about five hundred calls to 999 demanding a three pump turn-out (tr: several fire engines). I love the way people are braver about danger here. I walked up through Namanga this week to go to a pub quiz. This is an area of Dar with one main road full of chipsy ‘n’chicken stands and little cafes. I don’t mean darling little cafes serving cappuccinos and organic bread and lavender infused chocolate brownies. I mean shacks with huge cauldrons of boiling oil over open flame or charcoal outside, for frying food. It was dark, properly tropical dark with no streetlights. It looked medieval: full of bustling people and lit mainly by fire and sparks.






I will really miss my walk to school through the village. The children all seem to have such a nice time and I’ve almost got over feeling chokey about seeing them so excited about mixing earth and water together to make clay, or playing with a ball that’s made of old rubbish and tied up with string. My favourite family scream Looossss! when I walk past and run up to shake my hand every day, although they won’t answer any of my excellently phrased Swahili questions. There is a little toddler who used to be scared of me but now he trots up too with a big grin. I think he looks a bit like my sister’s boyfriend (although I have to admit he is 34? 35? and white, and this little boy is maybe two and black). You can see for yourself.

And here are some children making clay. The road through the village is only a track, so they just scoop a bit of it up to play with. The child who looks like he’s flying was not, for once, running away from me but desperately trying to make sure that he made it into the photo.







I hope this will be my final poo story. I continue to be amazed by the presence of fissees in my life, just when I think I’ve moved away from all things unsavoury. Matilda and I were doing school patrol on Monday morning and I was just feeling a warm glow as some of my favourite children rushed up to hug me. I think they do this because it’s the school fashion, rather than because they really understand what they’re doing, but it’s still very nice. Anyway, suddenly I was assaulted by about twenty of the youngest ones all miming doing a big poo and pointing at poor Calvin and also round the corner. You may remember Calvin being described as “ha ha ha ha he is mnene!” and whose sign is blowing your cheeks out, as he’s a little bit chubby. I went to see what had happened and I am sorry to say that there was a massive chod on the path by the side of the chekechea class. It was enormous! I can’t believe it fitted inside him! He must have been like a python with an entire sheep inside filling up its digestive system. But there it was. I have become so used to filth this year that I just cleared it up with my bare hands and chucked it on the compost.

Ha! As if.

Of course I didn’t. I delegated it to someone else and went to have a nice coffee.

My favourite overly-frank teacher, Mr Koweneka, crushed me again this week. He is the one who said “Sometimes you look nice, Lucy!”. Last Friday, 60 spoilt children from the International School came to visit as part of the partnership thingy I am trying to set up. They brought ice-lollies with them and cakes. Mr Koweneka offered me one and I said no thanks, I don’t want to eat too much sugar. Foolish, very foolish. He laughed disbelievingly and said “But it is too late! You are already fat! A few months ago you were thin (mimes face sucked in and general leanness). But now you are fat! (mimes big puffy cheeks and arms that cannot touch my sides because of my bulk). It is very good!” I can only laugh a brittle, hollow laugh when this happens and try to see it as an interesting illustration of cultural differences.

But more importantly, and I know what you really want – me at a diplomatic reception being a big freeloader and making sure I get way more than my fair share of free drinks and delissious canapes. Last Friday it was Europe Day or International Day or something, and the choir was booked to sing the national anthems of Tanzania and Europe at a fabulously well catered reception. Hurrah! This is me with the Belgian ambassador to Tanzania. I really liked him at first: he was very jolly and conversible, and extremely patient with me when I didn't believe he was an ambassador. But then things went a little wrong. Our conversation ended up with me saying “I am not enjoying this. It is impossible to talk to you if you talk over me all the time. I am surprised you are a diplomat” . Surprisingly for an ambassador, his response was stroppily shouting “Bye then! Bye!” and waving in a big sarcastic way. Pah. This is us before the falling-out.

I bet no-one told him he looked radiant when he was singing. I looked very radiant indeed and got loads of compliments. Here I am with my choir pals: Silas, Nody and Jennifer. Unfortunately, I thought Nody was called Michael and I introduced him to people by the wrong name all evening until he finally told me. But he was very nice about it.







So. In just over two weeks I’ll be at my dear mother’s knocking back her sherry and stuffing down some olives and listening to lovely, lovely Radio 4. I can’t believe I ever dissed it. After a year of the World Service I might even voluntarily listen to Quote Unquote without stomping round complaining about misuse of the license fee and smug unfunny panellists There are two programmes on the World Service a bit like “Any Answers”, called “Africa Have Your Say” and “World Have Your Say”. They are heartstoppingly bad. They are just full of fools ringing up to say “hi, I’m really stupid and things in the world are awful” and “Mugabe should stay in power: better the devil you know than the devil you don’t” (NB the second one is REAL) and “we should have a good, sensible immigration policy”. As the full extent of the contribution. And also real. And not followed up by some actual ideas about making a good, sensible immigration policy. This morning’s proverb was “if your neighbour is starving, your chickens are not safe”. Yeeeessss.



I was trying to relax in my last few weeks, to come back refreshed and ready for a challenging and fulfilling next decade at PA. But I am racing around too much trying to hand over at the school and take advantage of everything I possibly can before it’s too late. This means I am totally wound up and hyper and have begun to see even having fun as just an extension of my things list to do. Clearly I have utterly failed to achieve an important sabbatical objective “Be more relaxed and calm down”. But I think maybe I have turned the corner today, because I had a handover session with Matilda (who loves Jizzus but is not a nun) in which she showed me her accounts book homework, set by me, and she’d got it all right! And I’d been dreading showing her how to use the laptop someone had donated to the school when they’d upgraded theirs, because it has a touchpad mouse. I finally forced myself to do it and she was unexpectedly brilliant. In fact, she is probably hacking into NASA right now, from the unlikely cyber-terror nerve centre that is Buguruni School for the Deaf. I confessed to her that I was surprised and she chortled and looked really pleased and said she liked learning new things. You’ve got to admire a woman who’s over 60, earns about £43 a month, shares a tiny room with her daughter in law and two grandchildren, digs her garden and sells vegetables before work to get more money and yet still manages to find the energy to learn how to use a laptop.



Here’s a picture of me off out to dinner last night; a strange fusion of ex-pat and real Dar. Moderately elegant down to my knees and then I had to give way to practicality. The road from our house to the main road is OK in a nice four by four (ie for ex-pats and rich Tanzanians), but if you’re on foot (ie domestic staff and L Carter) you can’t make it without sloshing through dark brown, unknowably deep puddles and gloopy mud. So I am sporting a traditional Dar accessory of gumboots, and carrying my pink sparkly shoes in my bag.






I end with some sad news. A death in my adopted Tanzanian family. Do you remember my first trip to a village, where I saw bananas growing? And the grandfather who was 115 but looked older. He died last week. Obviously quite a good innings but nonetheless a pity to lose a potential suitor. I found out this week that he had wanted to marry me but “didn’t have enough cows for the dowry for a mzungu”. However, I’ve had two proposals this week from dalla dalla conductors, one of whom actually let me ride for free. I had hoped for someone from a more professional background, but as Sandra always says, it’s a steady job at least.