Abdallah

by David C. Bjorkquist

From Tanzania Journal, December 30, 1991 - February 10, 1992

Eleanor and I spent six weeks in the village of Bonga, in the Region of Arusha, Tanzania this year as part of my sabbatical leave. Ray and Nellie Faye Hagberg, our longtime friends who have been missionaries to Tanzania since the late 1950s, had patiently invited us to visit them for several years. One of our conditions for staying with them was that they would give us something to do during our time there. They assured us that there would be no lack of work.

Eleanor did such things as teach English and sew mattress covers from used motel bedsheets for students going away to secondary school. I had the opportunity to work with a group of students from Nangwa Technical School who were taking a required summer practicum. In addition to several construction projects, we worked on English and on problems of material estimating, as well as the math and science related to them. At the end of one working day, we were gathered at the workbench to study the calculation of board feet when Abdallah came down from the road and joined us.

Abdallah watched and listened while we worked at estimating the board feet in the foot locker we had constructed. Occasionally, he offered a solution. At the end of the session, he asked if he “could join my brothers in learning to do this practical work and in studying.” Intially he struck me as slick and ingratiating and I was cautious. However, I was captivated by his desire to learn and saddened by the limited learning opportunities that exist there. He, like several others, saw us as a resource for learning. The students were eager to learn and easily stimulated. They gave me a level of authority that I had never before experienced as a teacher. There was no question in their minds that we could help them significantly.

Abdal could not join us on the construction projects due to a lack of tools, but I agreed to let him come for lessons in the afternoon. As I agreed to this, I wondered how many others might come with requests to join us. Actually, Abdal did not show up for the next several days.

When he did come, he said that he had had to be gone to town. He offered no other explanation, and he wanted to pick up where he had left off with the lessons. His English was better than that of the other young men, so he was able to translate for us as we worked on the lessons. He had more school education than the others, as he had prepared to be a primary school teacher. Abdal had been assigned to a school at Lende on the coast south of Ear es Salaam, but he said that he had not gone to this assignment because the government had not provided him with money for transportation to get there. It was a three-day trip by bus and, thus, both physically difficult and expensive. Perhaps reports of a high incidence of malaria in the Linde area had deterred him, as well.

Abdal and his family appeared to be relatively well off as farmers in the village. I had seen him on the road hauling a load with a donkey. Most people have to carry their loads, usually on their heads. Few have donkeys for hauling. Most people farm with a hoe, but Abdal had a team of four oxen for working in the fields. (Four oxen in a team seems to be the minimum for getting the work done. The zebu cattle that are used as oxen are comparatively small, and their diet consists of grass and other plants they can find as they graze along the edges of fields, roads, and pathways.) I know that Abdal had other cattle, and perhaps goats and sheep as well, because he invited me to come to his house at milking time to watch them milk.

One afternoon after our lesson, Abdal and I arranged for me to watch him plow with his oxen the next morning. We set the time and he gave me directions to his shamba (farm plot). There are many shambas in the valley. As we conversed, he asked me questions about life in the United Sates. He wanted to know whether teachers could afford to drive a car and whether they drove to school. I was embarrassed, knowing that he had never driven a car and rarely ridden in one, to tell him that most teachers and many students drive cars to school in the United States.

Abdal inquired about our livestock. What animals did we have? He was surprised to learn that we did not have cattle — “Not even a goat? Do you have any birds? Any chickens? How big is your shamba?” He did not understand why we have restrictions in our cities about raising livestock and poultry. Livestock are not a problem in Tanzanian cities. Rather, they are a great advantage for providing protein in the diet. When I described the size of my backyard garden, he wanted to know what we grew and if we raised enough to feed our family. He understood my talk of beans and corn but found it strange that we did not have bananas, papaya, or pineapple. The idea of buying most of our food in stores puzzled him. Based on what the people there have experienced in Bonga, nearby Babati town, or even Arusha, describing our grocery stores would be difficult.

I thought of our Tanzanian friends hoeing in their shambas as I prepared the soil and planted my garden this spring. We enjoy our fresh garden produce, and its flavor seems to excel that of the food from the grocery shelf. I wondered, though, how I would feel if we were dependent on our garden for all our food, both in amount and variety. If we were, it would raise the intensity of gardening to a level I have never experienced. Dry soil, for example, would be a serious worry, not just an incidental observation. Aware of the consequences of crop failure, I would find it threatening to experiment with new varieties of seeds. Also I would probably make provisions to keep others from stealing my ripe crop.

According to our arrangement, the next morning I found Abdal’s shamba where he and Hassan were plowing with oxen. He had one black ox and three gray oxen — almost blue gray. They had decorative brands over the shoulders. Abdal said that everyone in the village knew his oxen by the brands. The oxen were yoked together in pairs, one pair ahead of the other, and hooked to the plow with a chain. The farmer walked behind the plow, which had a single plowshare of about ten inches and was controlled by its handles. A second person guided the oxen with a switch and kept them moving.

I took several pictures. Then Abdal wanted to take my picture. I took the plow and found that it was not easy to keep the plowshare in the soil. When I was watching Abdal, the oxen seemed to plod along. Now in front of me, they walked plenty fast. After a few rounds, I was ready to give the plow to someone else.

Finally, as we were turning at one end of the field, the oxen walked all the way around and, to the extent the chain would allow, faced the plow. They stood with their heads down and refused to move. Abdal explained that they had been plowing since shortly after daybreak (about three hours ago), and the oxen needed to get out of the field and get to a place where they could eat grass. The grass diet does not allow the oxen to build a very large reserve of energy, and it appeared that their energy had been expended. Everyone accepted, without complaint, that the oxen were tired and needed to quit. The oxen determine the length of the plowing day. This would be hard on a Minnesota farmer — and on most of the rest of us who do not seem to be able to fit everything we think we should do into the time available.