The African brass band

 Saturday is wedding day. Where Irish and other European wedding parties go from church to reception with tooting horns, the announcement of a wedding here comes in the form of what looks like a brass band driving around the streets of the local town playing loud and proud and with sheer gusto. The band usually consists of up to eight members, their instruments including large drum and all of them kitted out in shirts of orange, pink or burgundy colours. It’s a bit like everything here on wheels– overcrowded – but they all manage to hang on to the back of the truck and play in tune for hours while driving up and down the streets. Quite often some of the wedding party squeeze in too. It’s just amazing! While sitting in a café last weekend I was accosted more than five times by the overwhelmingly loud sounds of the wedding band and its jovial musicians. When not puffing, blowing or banging they are grinning white smiles from ear to ear, so proud of their part in the announcement. The locals give them the thumbs up and nod in agreement at their talent whilst trying to catch a glimpse of the wedding party who follow in toe with ribbons and banners across cars and trucks.

My friend Ellen from Norway married Tanzanian David recently. I thought I was going to learn about African weddings, turns out I learned about what they do in Norway. It was fascinating. They married in an Anglican church and the bit I loved most was the trumpeter! When she walked up the aisle with her Dad the trumpet went off out of nowhere. I jumped, like many others, and suddenly a real wave of excitement went through the church. When they said their ‘I do’s' there was another trumpet call. By the time they were married, half an hour into the ceremony we were all laughing and smiling and moving in our seats. I thought that given they were married how could the rumours of three hours in the church possibly be true. They were very true. Over three hours later we walked out after much singing and clapping, even dancing in the seats. The Africans know how to sing. Oh and the obligatory brass band round of the town took place while my friends and I dashed off for a sneaky G&T before getting to the reception. It didn’t seem right to go to a wedding without doing the Irish on it!

Tradition has it that at a Norwegian wedding dancing and singing takes priority. However, before I had settled into my seat ready for the meal and the fanfare of the couples arrival and cutting of the cake the Norwegian party informed me of the juicy stuff. Tap your spoon against your glass and it demands that the Bride and Groom have to kiss – standing on the table! Stamp your feet and they have to kiss under the table! Finally bang the table and the Bride’s parents have to kiss. I don’t remember how many times I tapped spoons and forks against glasses! There was a lot of standing on the table and kissing. 

What was absolutely lovely was that Ellen's mum wrote her a song and sang it to her and her new husband. Then her best friends also sang her a song they had written together.  We all got a copy of the lyrics and had to sing along to the tune of a folk song. We even got a balloon each and had to blow it until it burst. I thought that was the best thing ever, especially after a few drinks! Later on there were various other African ‘activities’ that we all partook in. Each person made their way as part of a circle around the room to toast and clink glasses with the bride and groom and those on the top table. We also had to present out gifts by dancing up to a podium and present them to the Bride and Groom. Back to Norwegian tradition, the Brides family including her brother and his wife and family performed a traditional dance to present their gifts. Her parents danced for what seemed like ages and whose energy seemed incredible.  It was a lovely day and a real taste of how different cultures can merge and co-exist. I can imagine it was a stressful time for Ellen's family what with all the African formalities they were asked to partake in and being so far from home but there were smiles all round and each of her friends and family who traveled seemed to be having the time of their lives.  Here’s to their future and the wedding brass band!

Anyone for a dala-dala ride?

I forgot what it was like to travel in a dala-dala! The common and familiar local buses that ferry people up and down the country at devilish speeds is not a form of transport I like to take. Simply because I’d like to live beyond my next birthday. Called Matatu in Kenya (sounds a bit like matata which is the Swahili word for trouble!) these privately owned mini buses, most usually Hiace vans are the closest thing to suffocation you’ll get.

I took a short journey recently with three others and as we piled into the back of the eight seater people carrier I took stock of the situation. Four of us adults squished in the back, three and at times four people contorted into the most awkward looking positions in the boot and three in the front seat. Men have knees up to their chins, often bent forward or sideways to crippling proportions, women are made into small parcels. I usually end up holding onto the edge of an inch of the seat and mostly on top of somebody else. The muscles in my thighs buckling under the pressure. A total of seventeen and eighteen people at any one time enjoyed our journey that day and that was few! The average dala-dala takes up to twenty when full! The best part however has to be the high volume African beat blasting from the speakers, obligatory for any dala-dala driver who takes his job seriously. No thinking allowed and only shouting when required. I always suggest keeping your eyes off the road and anywhere but straight ahead once he puts his foot down. Never know when you might see death come knocking.

No discrimination in Africa - goats, chickens or other all allowed. It is possible to squeeze a goat into all sorts of situations and so long as you can close the door the usual thing is to just pack it in. It is not unusual to see a goat drop out of the back of a dala-dala, poor thing usually almost dead from lack of air. Chickens can sit on your knee or under your arm so take up far less space. There is always a ticket man, he basically takes your fare. This is a serious job and he runs the show. He is also the man who decides if you can fit or not. He will mostly err on the side of the more the merrier and just shove you in. If there is any sign of a gap you’re in, and I mean a gap of even the smallest proportions! He himself travels with his whole self and head out the window or door, ready for decapitation at any moment. Apparently it has happened. I heard that someone lost their head in Moshi! Not funny but quite hilarious given the chest out confident manner in which they all hang out these doors and windows. King of the dala-dala…oops, I lost my head! So when the dala-dala man isn’t losing his head he’s out there touting for business, often over ear deafening music and clearing the streets of travelers and many of its wandering goats and chickens. This is such a familiar sight here and worth experiencing to say you’ve survived it. Although given my last contortionist attempt I just wouldn’t be taking one everyday!