The Wazungu of Tabora

We’re a strange sight in this part of the world – light-skinned women in cropped pants, Chaco sandals and ponytails, simultaneously looking seriously busy and hopelessly lost. We strike most people as pretty ridiculous. Nearly everyone shouts, “Hey, mzungu!” as they ride past on their bikes. Children squeal, “How ah YOU?” and run away giggling when we answer. Men whistle and make kissing noises. Vendors charge us double without blinking. My redheaded friend Megan, whose unique looks turn heads in almost every country in the world, has written a fascinating post about trying to fit in where you will always stand out. "Remember that you are, in fact, a foreigner," she advises. "It's important not to take yourself too seriously." With the Tanzanians laughing at us all the time, I think we're safe on that front, anyhow.

At the same time, we’re not the first wazungu to pass through Tabora. This town has a long history of contact with white foreigners, going back to the first Europeans who set foot below the Sahara. You’ve heard of Dr. Livingstone, I presume? His old house is just on the outskirts of town. The German-built Tanzanian railroad passes straight through, and Tabora was a major trading center during the heyday of rail travel. Oh, and that bit about the slave trade and British colonialism – well, let’s just say we’re lucky Tanzanians are not vengeful people. We found out just a few weeks ago that the name of the street we live on – Ulaya – means “Europe” in Swahili (so much for going local). The houses on this street are pretty shabby now, but they once housed some of the most well-to-do colonists in the region.

As a bit of a migration studies junkie, I think one of the most telling things about a place is what brings foreign people there. Is it tourism? Investment? Education? Jobs? When I lived in Cabarete in the Dominican Republic, the other gringos were windsurfers and kite boarders on perpetual spring break, and that shaped the entire community’s dynamic. In Valparaiso, Chile, they were backpackers or students studying abroad. Saira tells me that Tamale, Ghana was full of aid workers. So, what brings foreigners to dusty Tabora these days, long after the colonists left and the railroad tracks began to crumble?

To find out, look no further than the Orion, the railway-station-turned-hotel where you can enjoy a Serengeti beer, play a game of pool, and order a multitude of dishes that are not ugali. Owned by a husband and wife pair (from Pakistan and Manchester, respectively), the Orion is the seat of Taboran wazungu culture - or at least what's left of it. Rarely do you ever find more than three or four tables occupied, and more often than not, these tables end up merging. Misfittery, it seems, loves company. Hop from table to table, and you'll quickly get a taste for the motley nature of this unlikely crowd.

The Wazungu of Tabora: A Who’s Who Guide

The Baptist Missionaries

A jolly couple from Arkansas, these self-identified “church planters” have lived in Africa for 17 years, seven of those in Tabora. They host a revolving door of other missionaries looking to relocate their families to Tanzania to start Bible colleges and the like. Their Swahili is impeccable. Their spaghetti is better. They have generously offered us dinner (cooked in top-quality ovens shipped from the US) and several copies of the Gospel.

The Tobacco Boys

These fun-loving chaps come from England, Canada, Brazil and Zimbabwe, and they are the first to break out the karaoke machine on a Saturday night at the Orion. Their houses have hot showers and swimming pools, which they generously share whenever we need a break from bucket showers. They are here to oversee an industry the West loves to hate, and for better or for worse, they are the biggest employers in an impoverished region. (See Saira’s post for a closer look at the tobacco industry in Tabora)

The Pre-Post-Colonialists

We’ve met two older Brits who spent childhoods in Tanzania when their parents were in the colonial service. Both glazed over with nostalgia when we asked them how much had changed since they were kids, and they waxed poetically about their all-white prep schools and the lush gardens around their houses. It’s a testy subject – everyone has the right to romanticize their own childhoods, but you can’t help but feel uncomfortable at the notion that things were better “when the Brits were in charge.”

The Merchants from the East

These don’t quite count as wazungu – most of them are second and third generation Tanzanian, but still speak the regional languages of their grandparents in South Asia and maintain a tight-knit and rather segregated community. They also own some of the most successful businesses in town – the bakery, the bike store, the honey and peanut butter shop, and the two mini-supermarkets are our favorite stops on Saturday afternoons. The fact that Saira is from Pakistan and can banter in Urdu and Punjabi has won us a lot of favor in these circles.

And then there’s us, a handful of young women – teachers, students, engineers, doctors, volunteers – struggling to be helpful in a place where we can barely buy tomatoes without something getting lost in translation. We clink our glasses and toast the others who, for whatever their reason, are already here and are willing to help us out.

We’ve attended evangelical services in the villages and enjoyed backyard pool parties courtesy of the Marlboro Man. We’ve tagged along to dance ceremonies on the Muslim holy day and suffered diatribes on how much worse things are since the Muslims took over. We’ve accepted advice, beers, bike discounts, and pamphlets about hell (complete with fiery clip art). And slowly, we’re learning to understand the ins and outs of being outsiders in this particular corner of the world.

Hannah, the 18-year-old daughter of the family that owns the Orion, is a perfect microcosm of this mix. The Tanzanian daughter of a Pakistani and a Brit, she went to an international boarding school in Arusha and speaks about four languages. She’s a pretty cool cat, too - she wears bangles with skulls and stars and she jams with the Tanzanian band that plays the Orion on Friday nights. In two weeks, she leaves Tabora for a gap year in Manchester – a place she’s only visited once, for two weeks. I asked her what she was most excited about. “Buying a soda from a vending machine,” she said, with eyes widening. “I’ve never seen one! Or ordering a pizza and having it delivered to my house. Or…” she thinks for a moment, “using one of those paper toilet seat covers in a public bathroom.”

I’m incredulous. “Are you serious? But those don’t even do anything...they’re actually kind of gross…”

“I don’t care!” she interrupts. “I want to take one home and hang it on my bedroom wall!”

I suppose if folks have this many reasons to come to Tabora, there should be just as many reasons to leave it for someplace else. From this angle, at least, I guess a toilet seat cover is as good a reason as any.