She emerges, triumphant...

with a research clearance permit in hand! Today has been a good day.

To do research in Tanzania, officially, you have to submit a research clearance application to COSTECH (the commission on science and technology), as well as give $350 total, get a letter of review/support from someone at the University here, and generally wait, wait, wait, and wait. I submitted my application via email in February, regular mail in March, revised it in April, and got my preliminary clearance in June. The review board only meets every 2 months, and so I was ready to wait, but it was good to get preliminary approval. All this was done via email, quite quickly, and I even had someone to correspond with via email.

But then I got here, and because I pushed my trip later in July, the sponsor I had contacted was already out of the country. He suggested I try another professor, who was on leave. Then the original professor volunteered to write me a rec and send it, have the departmental secretary sign and stamp it, and me deliver it to COSTECH. Then his Tanzanian email ceased to work, so we were sending text messages via the departmental secretary to him in Norway. Then it looked like it would be faster to have another prof write the rec. But then we got a new email address and things started working again. Then the letter he wrote was for "Mr. Webel" (I blame you, parents!) which I then explained [awkward], fixed, printed, took to get signed, etc. This has involved multiple cab rides to UDSM, lots of awkward half-Swahili, half-English with the secretary who I really want to like me, and generally not being sure when it was all going to come together.

But the secretary "blessed", as she said jokingly, my letter, by signing and stamping it, first thing this morning. Then I went to COSTECH, expecting minimal transparency and some kind of run around - I had every form of documentation you could imagine with me, printed correspondence, etc. You hear horror stories about losing proof of fees, not accepting letters, that sort of thing. It took a half-hour, and I was done. This is UNHEARDOF. And I hope it means that, despite the steep fee, the government is making it easier for people to work in and collaborate with people in Tanzania.

And then I got home. Took care of email, until I realized that my computer was no longer charging. Turned the power strip on and off, until I realized that the ceiling fan was no longer spinning. Checked around, and yes, power off. This put the kibbosh on me cooking lunch, or starting to, so I checked my guidebooks and went out in search of a local restaurant. I'm sort of a wimp with my own neighborhood, Kariakoo (kah-ree-ah-KOH), and so I was sort of determined to find this place that's supposed to have good curries. And then I got to a stretch of street where I don't walk everyday, which earned me a "hey, white girl" (this is a first, usually it's just 'what's up' in Swahili). This sort of put me off exploring and eating by myself in at the restaurant just after, being the proverbial sore thumb, so I went like a homing pigeon to the street I walk every day, and my now-even-more-beloved A Tea Room.

A Tea Room, home of happy-making samosas, is painted bright sky blue outside and is always bustling. A younger Indian-Tanzanian guy runs the counter and the waiters are all really nice. But today, bustling meant all the tables were taken. And one does not share a table with men one doesn't know, even if one is foreign and not expected to abide by the same rules of propriety. Even if all the men are grandfatherly and some wearing long white tunics and care not a bit about you. Luckily, there was an older woman eating in the corner, and so I asked the cashier guy if it was okay to sit with her, in his opinion. Got a yes, and so I sat down. I ended up talking with her in English and a little Swahili, and explaining how it was possible that my husband and I lived apart and I was here by myself, that I would have kids later, etc. This is usual.

But the food was EVEN BETTER than usual. When you eat in, they have this yummy salty coconut relish (which is just sort of milky and spicy) to go with all the deep-fried treats. I also got the Indian version of hush puppies. And when I asked for a Coke, and they had none, I went for the chai. One small cup of strong, sweet, milky tea later, there is no chance I'm falling asleep this afternoon. All this plus a chapati to go for 3000 shillings (at 1,100 TSh to the dollar). And a "come back again" when leaving.

With hot chapati in paper bag, I walked home very content. I go out without a purse now when I can, just with cash in pocket, phone, and keys, and I'm a lot less nervous about getting bag snatched or anything. I looked around a little bit at the market on my way past, and then got home eventually to my building.

My building is a big pink hulk of a place, the middle of three 8-storey-plus buildings on Lumumba Road. The window bars are decoratively-made and painted turquoise. It's new and bright. There are a number of younger Tanzanian guys who help with the building, guarding it 24 hours and bringing up bottled water, minding different things. The head guy is named Ramadan, and he's always sort of bored and quiet when I say hello. The night guy is quiet but friendly, and there's a kid named Shabani, maybe 14, who yells out "Hey! Maria! Mambo!" (Mambo = what's up, lit. "Any problems?") every time I come home. He reminds me of one of my cousins. There's always a lot of activity on the street because it's lined with car detailing and part shops - so something's always being polished or fixed or attached, and all the little shops are squeaky clean and packed with stuff. A lot owned by Indian/Arab-Tanzanians, but more on how you can tell that later.

Today, there was something going on with replacing speakers, and Ramadan was sitting on the bench outside the building eating an orange. They do oranges a lot here, halved and left in the pith, but with the peel shaved off (so you sort of eat it from the outside in and then throw away a little shell). Guys will have two huge (like 2-foot deep) baskets on either side of a bicycle, and shave and slice the oranges for passers-by. I said my usual hellos and Ramadan without any warning offered me the other half of his orange. I had literally two bites of chapati left, but offered him that, and sat down outside to eat orange and feel like I lived there. Not much talking, just sitting, watching the progress with the speakers. The orange was really good, I was embarassed that I only had a little chapati left to share. Sharing is really important here. But you can tell how happy this made me.

So, I think the neighborhood is getting used to me. And I'm talking more, and feeling more able to handle things people say to me or ask me, and I'm also developing a going-out-in-Dar routine (sunglasses, minimal stuff, long pants) that feels both culturally appropriate and right for me. I'm learning what is rude and what is fine, what to ignore and what to respond to. [BTW, "hey white girl" got a very direct "what." look, which I don't usually do but seemed totally appropriate.] It's always kind of a relief to be home, and the level of uncertainty that you feel awaits you sometimes brings on a deep-seated panic that you can only breathe through and hope passes, but it generally does. Last night I went out for Thai with Darla and we sat 9 stories up in a hotel, looking over the harbor, and could have been anywhere. For some reason it scared me to look out over the city - I went to the same restaurant in 06 and it still sort of smacks of being scared and alone in a crappy hostel. So today's accomplishments and interactions are even sweeter, given the 180 from how I felt before going to sleep.

I still have to find my curry place, though. Donna and I are going exploring tomorrow.