*Note #1: I meant to type “divide by b” and not “divide by 2” at the end of the proof in the last blog. (Thanks Jer.) However, that’s not the “illegal step” of the proof, it’s just “Aliki’s Daily Mistake”.
*Note #2: The first sentence of this blog only makes sense if you know that I wrote this blog later the same day as the last blog post.
Apparently I jumped the gun a bit on that whole “nothing too out of the ordinary is happening” blog…today I went into Songea for the football (soccer) match between Songea’s own Majimaji (as far as I know this means “waterwater”) and the national favorite Simbas (Simba means lion).
We started our adventure with some fantastic bargain hunting, since we had some time to kill in Songea. I have been in need of some shoes for sports with more ankle support and some dress shoes for teaching so my feet don’t get quite as gross from always wearing sandals. I do not consider bartering something that I enjoy or excel at, but I must say I am pretty proud of my work today. I found the exact type of dress shoes I was hoping for, and I bartered my way down to exactly what I wanted to get them for ($10). Then, wouldn’t you know it, I found a decent pair of Nike basketball shoes (Kobe’s for anyone who cares). Last time we were in Songea, I found a pair of one of my all-time favorite basketball shoes (Reebok Questions for that same group that cares), but they were just a bit too small. This was a huge blessing, because I would have had a very difficult time watching myself turn these works of art into torn-up, reddish pieces of garbage. Today, however, I met my footwear destiny. Sign number 1: The shoes had been customized. What did the previous owner choose to represent, you ask? “MPLS”. Yep, the good old 612 is alive and well here in Tanzania (consider this my “Great American Influence”, in addition to the Minnesota Lynx jersey I saw a guy wearing). Sign number 2: accidental bartering success. I legitimately wasn’t sure if I wanted them, and apparently this came off as me playing some serious hardball with the salesman, because I walked away having paid half of his original asking price! Hizzah!
To point out, this is a magical country in my eyes when it comes to making purchases. I have a special place in my heart for thrift stores, and, as one Br. Nick Kleespie so poignantly pointed out, “Tanzania is like one big thrift store.” It’s great! Things are cheap (partly because of the exchange rate and the fact that most things are used), and there are all sorts of gems- from ridiculous flower printed windbreakers to beautiful pairs of Nike Air Force 1’s. Speaking of which, on one last footwear-related note, there will be future footwear purchases here that put today’s purchases to shame, and I am not talking about Air Force 1’s…
Oh yeah, and then there was the football match. Mike had just purchased a pretty sweet Cameroon jersey, and the moment we walked into the stadium, we realized that was not going to fly. Simba fans and merchandise peddlers flocked to us, and shouted/ blew into their vuvuzelas (yeah, those wonderfully obnoxious horns from the World Cup) until Mike bought a Simba jersey. And then Teresa (volunteer from Austria) had to buy one. Naturally, I had to follow suit. (This made me feel a lot better about the decision I had just made to not buy a sweet Ghana jersey). Once we put the jerseys on, it was pretty sweet to have all of the fans that had already arrived cheering for us, and we even got gestures of thanks from people down on the field who appeared to be Simba staff of some sort. We like to think we saved a minor riot from occurring.
Luckily, we found Br. Pius, Br. Kastor, and a St. B’s teacher right away and sat with them. The stadium is pretty sizable, so it wasn’t full, but there were some pretty dense mobs of people at the entrance when we went in, so the riot police were on high alert. Sitting there waiting for the game to start, it was quite the sight to see the stadium surrounded by beautiful trees and flowers, with gorgeous mountains right behind.
The first half ended with a score of 0-0, which seemed to be somewhat of a surprise (the Simbas were pretty sizable favorites, as they apparently always beat Majimaji). With 15 minutes left in the match, the Simbas finally scored, which was followed quickly by another Simba goal. This was, for the record, the most advanced level of soccer I’ve ever seen live (surpassing the village game I watched earlier this week), and it was pretty awesome. The crowd went mildly nuts afterward, and the numerous riot police did a pretty solid job of making mobs of excited fans run simultaneously to a different part of the stadium to continue celebrating.
The one detail we hadn’t really planned was our return to Hanga. Busses don’t really run after dark, and the game ended around 6:30…We figured that we’d go with the whole Tanzanian idea of “hamna shida” and assume it would work out. Luckily, it did, as Br. Pius came to the rescue and led us to the place where the extra bus specifically because of the match was picking people up. It was a small bus that would probably seat no more than 20 in its already cramped seats. In true Tanzanian style, I would estimate we crammed in closer to 40 people (5 people had some part of their bodies on or above the double seat I was on). Luckily for me, I’ve been working on being comfortable being uncomfortable (more being out of the “comfort zone”, but I got literal practice tonight). Anyway, we all had our own adventures. Mike had to stand for a portion. Teresa got to hold a crying baby with an over-active bladder. I got to hold 3 pairs of shoes (Mike bought one too), while my knees we crunched together and into the metal rod in the seat in front of me by the 3 pairs of legs pressing against my own (I wish I could explain how this was physically possible- all I know is that it happened). All the while my head was planted firmly in or around the vicinity of a stranger’s armpit. How did I pass the time in this unexpected position? I wrote this very blog in my head. So, here’s to you, reader, for giving me something to distract me from a face full of armpit. After many stops and people getting off, the physical position got much better, and all we had left to endure was a bumpier road, a man who refused to believe we didn’t speak Swahili (more likely he enjoyed saying things to us that he didn’t think we’d understand), and a small tiff between passengers.
Honestly, I loved the whole experience, as got to feel the evening breeze on my face (when my armpit friend wasn’t in the way) and really get a piece of what life is like here outside of the monastery. Plus, it reminded me of that wonderful song, “What if God was one of us? Just a stranger on the bus…”. Hmm, I don’t know about that particular bus, but maybe my armpit friend was an angel. That reminds me of a Sarah McLaughlin song…
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