Driving license

Finally I have my driving license. No, it’s not like I have been driving for 23 years without driving license. But I have a Zanzibar driving license now, given by the “Revolutionary Government of Zanzibar”.

Upon my arrival, I had obtained (read: bought) a “Foreigners Driving Permit”. With this paper ànd with my Belgian Driving License (not the International one) I was allowed to drive.

But the police stops me very regularly, asking for my driving license, so I give them the paper of their “revolutionary government”. But this has expired now and it was not renewable.

So on Friday me and Geroleen went to a grey office somewhere in Stone Town where I had to fill a form with my personal data, dates on my driving license and the date I did the last test.

To make everything easy, I filled 28/10/2013, date on which I renewed my first Belgian driving license and applied for the International one. I didn’t do a test on that date, but who can check it?

“No expiry date?” the official asks me.

"No, no expiry date: as long as I live, I can drive. At least in Belgium…"

“Than it’s okay, go to the office at the other side to pay”.  We go around the building to pay and turn back to the grey office with piles of old documents.

The bundle with copy of my driving license, copy of my work permit and residence permit and compiled forms disappears in a black briefcase of a veiled lady near the man.

You can come back on Monday.

Monday morning, after the airport service. “You will need a lot of patience today”, Geroleen says. And today I don’t have: 40 guests arrived and I need to see them, and the times are already fixed.

We go back to the grey office: the veiled lady takes out my papers of her black briefcase.

What??? Nothing has been done? It just has been there for the whole weekend??

We need to go to the building of transport, an enormous hangar with cars, motorbikes, trucks and dala dala’s and somewhere in a corner 6 little offices near each other. And a lot of people queuing up in front of these offices.

Decided Geroleen goes to office nr. 5, knocks and enters. I follow her. E short conversation and we go out: “We need to go to office nr. 2, than office nr. 4 and than return to office nr. 5” she says.

We queue up at office nr. 2. Lots of people are waiting here and it is not intend to go in as there is a window. Suddenly the door opens, a lady steps out, talks to Geroleen who gives her my paperwork and goes in again. After a couple of minutes and after having paid 11.500 Tsh, she gets my papers back.

We continue to office nr. 4: also here they put some stamps and crosses on a new document and we can go.

Up to office nr. 5

Also this man wants to be sure there is no expiry date on my Belgian driving license but all the rest is ok.

Little time later we are outside. Geroleen is very surprised: “How did you do this?”

Me: "eh??"

She: “Yes, you didn’t have to do any test and did you notice how fast they compiled all your documents? The lady from office nr. 2 came even outside to assist you. This is not normal”.

I have no explanation. Unless it is again my uniform. I have noted several times that my “tulip sleeves” inspire to respect me.

It is not finished yet, we need to go to a new-looking building near the airport, other side of the city.

Also here Geroleen steps very decided into an office, without considering the people who are waiting outside.

We have to go back, pay first 25.000 Tsh and than return for a picture.

This will be taken in an office with a veiled lady.

I need to sit on a stool in front of this lady. But between her and me there is a desk, a camera, a flashlight and an umbrella.

Look into the lens!

Click!

There seems to be a problem. She asks the boy who sneaked in with me to turn of the flashlight. The camera cliks again.

Now she wants the light to be turned on again. Another photo, and one more.

She talks with the man in the office nearby.

Yes, I need to take a seat there for another picture.

The man takes a pictures but says my blouse is too pale, so the contrast with my face is not big enough and on the picture you can only see 2 eyes.

I suggest hem to loose my hare so it will form a dark frame around my face but no no, don’t touch your hair.. Ehi, Muslims…

He also turns of the light and takes a new picture. This time my blouse is clearly visible against the light blue background. But my face is too dark.

It is clear that these camera’s (and the computer software) are set up for black faces, that’s why they also use the strong flashlight. But once they turn of the flashlight, even my pale face is too dark. And these people are not able to change the settings.

He asks me to choose: the picture with 2 eyes or the picture with the black face and blouse. I choose the blouse.

We go on to the next office.

The man starts to discuss with Geroleen concerning the dark picture. “We can’t help it”, Geroleen explains, “it is because of your camera’s”. 

Okay, and the man turns on his machine.

After about 5 minutes waiting this machines spits out my driving license: a plastic card with my details and dark face printed on it.

Yeah! My Zanzibarian driving license.

Next time the police stops me, I will show them this little gadget and trouble if they dare to ask me some questions…

Askari

The Askari, guards at the entrance of each hotel, continue to bother me /to give me laughing, it depends on how you see it.
The Mapenzi hotel is leader for these situations. Very often they change their guards, so every time I have to explain who I am and what I am doing.
About a month ago, after a long ride during which I had been listening to a Flemish podcast, I arrive at the gate.
There is a new askari:
He: Jambo!
I: Jambo!
He: Jina lako ni gani?
I: In English? 
The man begins to write "inenglish ".
Hey no, my name is not "in English" but Ilse.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah ...

This week, Tuesday morning, I come to the gate, another new one.
He: Jambo!
I: Jambo!
He: Yes?
I: Yes!
He: I need to know eh how eh what...
I: I know what you need to know. My name. That is Ilse. And also the company I work for, that is Thomas Cook.
He: Thanks!; and he moves to open the gate. Suddenly he comes back: Why are you here?
I am getting nerved: "To swim!"
Apparently it is a satisfactory answer as he opens the gate. I could not suppress a smile.

When I leave the hotel, I must sign the log book. All data (date, time, name, company ...) are entered correctly but at "Purpose of visit" is effectively written: Swimming.
I correct and change it in " visiting the guests".

Wednesday, normal visiting time in this hotel, the askari is there again.
He greets me and asks "To swim, just like yesterday?"
I explode with laughter ...

Emergency First Response

In preparation of the Rescue Diver course, I had to get some kind of first aid certificate, Emergency First Response.

Appointment is on Saturday morning in the Water Sports Centre.

The instructor waits me and introduces himself: I am Abdul Karim, but you can call me Abdul. And what's your name?

I'm Ilse.

Ah, du kommst aus Deutschland!

No, I'm not from Germany.

But Ilse is a German name.

Could be, but do all the people named Abdulkarim from Zanzibar?

He hesitates before he says "eeh, yes!" . But, despite his answer, he understands.

And with this tension the lesson starts. It starts with a movie, as always with PADI courses.

This is followed by a quiz, I answer correctly on about all the questions.

Follows the practice. Abdul begins to explain again what I actually just have seen in the movie, but sometimes in he uses his own interpretation. If I ask a questions, he is annoyed. He is the teacher, I am the student, I just have to accept what he says, no questions. It's that simple.

Actually I am not surprised about his behaviour. I have experienced the opposite in Kenya: when I was teaching, no one dared to ask me a question spontaneously, I had to push to my listeners to speak and to be critical. So I keep myself to the most urgent and important questions ...

Practice. Mouth to mouth breathing and chest compressions. To exercise this, Abdul has brought a doll along, or at least the upper body of a first aid doll.

I ask him what her name is. He looks around and then suddenly says "little Anne".

Hmm, I have my doubts: Little Anne has no breasts. I make him aware of, "It can not be a  woman, she has no breasts."

In his eyes I see again that irritation: no questions!

The bag of pop says "little Anne", breasts or no breasts, her name is “little Anne”.

The lips of little Anne get disinfected for mouth-to-mouth breathing and for the chest compression I have to put my hands between the non-breast of Anne. These things can not practiced on living persons.

The last part of the course consists of a few other First Aid tricks: staunching of a bleeding wound, splinting a broken leg or arm, saving someone from suffocation death by choking. Practical exercise this time is don on living people: ourselves.

And especially the latter - choking -  is again sensitive. You have to push up the diaphragm.

Abdul is Muslim, and he cannot touch me, being a woman. So he explains me the exercise first in a theoretical way, than I apply the practice on him.

At the end of the day I get my certificate. But I do wonder what will happen if something happens to me, and I start asking questions to my "saviour" ... would he dare to touch me?

Dove

As usual, I was in a hurry to go from one hotel to the other. Fortunately, the hotels ly in "my street", a long, straight, wide road. Here I can smoothly drive 70Km per hour.

But as always when you're in a hurry - Murphy's Law, right? – there were some obstacles: some goats, a dala dala.

Fortunately there was no oncoming traffic, so I  can overtake the dala dala: I accelerate and... suddenly I see in the middle of the road a dove. I think quickly:  will I braking? Will I dodge more? Or maybe she will fly when she sees me coming?

I opt for the last solution but slightly dodge anyway. I pass the dala dala but I don’t see the pigeon fly.

When I look in my mirror, I see the pigeon on the pavement waving with her wing. A sense of guilt overwhelms me.

Suddenly a boy of about nine years comes from the roadside and runs to the doves.

My guilt fades ... Tonight one family will have meat for dinner...

Africa, you love it or you hate it.

For those who want to know how it is to work in Africa, for those who want to know what it is to work in a place where people have a completely different culture… this is a real, but daily story, of how I work in Zanzibar.

I have written it before: people àre very nice and friendly here. But friendliness has not always much to do with working and knowledge.

As an (over-organised) European, you just have to be patient… and don’t loose your smile in such situations…

So this morning… I arrived at hotel “La Gemma dell’Est”, a 5 star resort in the Nord of the island. As all hotels, they have security at the gate checking who comes in and who goes out of the hotel. As I wear a uniform and I drive always the same car, most hotel guards already know me by now and let me in.

In La Gemma dell’Est it is a bit different. I was stopped by the guard.

Guard: “Good morning. How are you?”

Me: “I am fine thank you.”

I never ask “And how are you?” which is actually a bit rude. But if I ask, another question from his side  will follow (And how is the work today?) and then another (And how is your family?) and another… and there will be no end. And most of the time I am in a hurry.

Guard: “How can I help you?”

Me: “Well, you could help me by opening the barrier.”

Guard: “Where are you going?”

You should realise now that the gate of La Gemma is already 100 inside the territory of the hotel, so there is no other possibility than going to the hotel.

Me: “I am going to ‘The Royal Zanzibar’.”

That is the hotel nearby…

Guard: “Why do you come here?”

Me: “For fun, I just come here for fun.”

It is clear the guard has not understood anything. He looks at me.
I tell him: “Ask me a ‘good’ questions (I cannot use the word ‘intelligent’, that is too difficult for him) and I will give you a good answer.”

And the guard: “Yes madam, so how can I help you?”

Me: “Well, you could help me by opening the barrier.”

Guard: “Where are you going?”

And of course, I do it again: “I am going to ‘The Royal Zanzibar’!”

Guard: “But this is La Gemma dell’Est. Why do you come here? “

Me: “As I told you, I come here for fun.”

All this time I have my uniform, my name tag and behind the front window of my car there is a board with the Thomas Cook and the Neckermann logo.

Fortunately, the guards colleague comes to the gate, he sees me and asks the other guard to open the gate.

He opens the gate, but in his eyes I can still see the questions:” Can I help you? Where are you going? Why do you come here?”

When I leave the hotel, about 45 minutes later, he opens the barrier spontaneously. But the question marks… they are still in his eyes…

Education

We have an animated conversation at the table. Taking about the slowliness of the Zanzibarin people, their stupidity (or maybe this is difference in culture).

It depends all on their education that they are not willing to leanr.

Education? They don’t even receive any education. They are running freely in their villages, educated by everyone and by nobody. They don’t know what discipline is.

Maybe something of this is true.

And than suddenly a young girl passes at the reception of this 5*hotel, wearing only a bikini.

Who is now not well-educated?

I found this picture on facebook. It tells a lot on education, culture,…

Ndimu.

7:30, the restaurant is open since half an hour. I take a place at the managers table and one of the waiters notices that I don’t have a cup. He walks – a walk that is something between the walk of a penguin and a Jamaican musician – towards another table, takes a cup, gives it to me and disappears.

Oh, I get a cup but I don’t get anything to drink.

Some time later a trainee comes to ask if I want coffee.
No, but I would like to have a bottle of water, wìth a glass.

He looks surprised: a glass?

Sic… most of the guests take their bottle of water away, but I want to drink water.

After breakfast I would like to have a cup of tea. I ask another trainee, this time it is a girl, to bring me tea with lemon please.

She disappears and comes back with tea and… milk

What’s this?

Milk!

Did I ask for milk?

No!

So please take away the milk and bring me what I asked for.

She disappears again and I see at her behaviour that she has no intention to return to bring me something else.

When I see her after some minutes I tell her: I’m still waiting for the lemon.  She answers with the typical “aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah” and leaves again.

This time she disappears completely and does not return at all.

The other trainee comes by and asks me if I want some more water.

No I don’t, thank you, but maybe you could look for your colleague who is looking for lemon for me.

Are you still waiting for your lemon? The chef, who has joined me, asks me

Eh... yes.

Most probably she doesn’t now what lemon is and she has disappeared for not admitting it.

Starting from tomorrow I will ask for “ndimu”.