Meet Saidi, a fifty year old mkulima, or a farmer, living 20 miles outside of Dar es Salaam. He is not the stereotypical farmer you would expect in these parts. He can read, write, and speak English well enough whenever I get stuck on Swahili, which is quite often.
I greet him with the customary ‘Shikamoo’, a Swahili greeting reserved for elders. He acknowledges and responds with a friendly ‘Marhaba’. Saidi has grayish hair cut short on the sides and what he calls a ‘big farmer’s belly’ to match his stature as one of the elders around the area.
He has farmed all of his life, with a short intermezzo needed for finishing secondary school. ‘That was important’, he says of his schooling. ‘I never would have survived without it’. He refers in particular to reading, writing, spelling, and counting. ‘People look at you differently if they see you know things’, he claims. ‘It will be harder to trick you if you know how to read a lease or any type of contract, for example’.
Saidi explains there are three types of farmers in Tanzania: those who farm to survive, those who positively love it, and those who become farmers by fate, or by inheriting a farm. The last group never lasts, he says. ‘Especially if they are city boys,’ Saidi laughs. ‘They want nothing to do with farming’. Saidi counts himself in the second group of farmers, those who need to make a living, but are farmers mostly by choice. ‘Farmers are the best parents in the world’, he tells me. ‘Look at how they take care of vegetables. Now imagine just how good they are with children’.
The farm itself is located 30 miles outside of Dar es Salaam. With the start of the rainy season, it gets harder to navigate the dirt roads, which quickly turn to mud. People with 4x4 vehicles have the best chances here, especially if they need to bring their fruits and vegetables to Bongo. ‘I have a small Toyota’, he smiles sheepishly. ‘Good car, but not good enough for the mud’.
The farm has 31 acres—the featured crops include coconuts, watermelons, pineapples, tomatoes, and hohos (local green peppers). In addition, he has more than 70 free range chickens, and would like to add a few goats.
The biggest challenges, he says, are insects, which is why he frequently needs to enlist the help of an agronomist. ‘Pests’, he mutters after turning over a bunch of tomatoes devoured by insects. ‘You can slow them down, but never stop them’. There are also predators, mostly monitor lizards or pythons, who won’t mind a chicken lunch now and then. ‘We usually spot them quickly, though’, Saidi says confidently. ‘They know when to stay away from here’.
His family includes Yvonne, his wife, plus four kids: three daughters and a son. They go to Bongo once a month, Saidi says. ‘Except for Frida, my youngest daughter, they don’t care for life in Bongo. They are happy to get home at the end of the day’. As is he. ‘I like Bongo’, Saidi explains, ‘don’t get me wrong. But only once a month. I don’t like the hustling around here. On the land, we are nicer to each other. It’s less of a fight’.
What does the future look like for Saidi and his family? ‘I need to get ahead’, he says, ‘I am making money, but not a lot. And I will have nothing for retirement’. He says he is contemplating selling part of the land, maybe ten acres through a dalali, or an agent. ‘I would like to diversify my crop’, he says. ‘Build a greenhouse, and more importantly a well. If I had water year round, I could grow food year round. That is hard to do right now’.
Despite his food crops, he says, the most important crop he has is his own: his children. ‘I need to leave something for them. Life will be hard for them if I don’t make improvements. This land will be their land, but I need them to make a living. It will do me no good if they only squeeze a few schillings out of the land, only to move to Bongo later and join the hustlers.’
Ever the farmer: cultivating, he says, even his own children. That is, after all, what being a mkulima is all about.
I greet him with the customary ‘Shikamoo’, a Swahili greeting reserved for elders. He acknowledges and responds with a friendly ‘Marhaba’. Saidi has grayish hair cut short on the sides and what he calls a ‘big farmer’s belly’ to match his stature as one of the elders around the area.
He has farmed all of his life, with a short intermezzo needed for finishing secondary school. ‘That was important’, he says of his schooling. ‘I never would have survived without it’. He refers in particular to reading, writing, spelling, and counting. ‘People look at you differently if they see you know things’, he claims. ‘It will be harder to trick you if you know how to read a lease or any type of contract, for example’.
Saidi explains there are three types of farmers in Tanzania: those who farm to survive, those who positively love it, and those who become farmers by fate, or by inheriting a farm. The last group never lasts, he says. ‘Especially if they are city boys,’ Saidi laughs. ‘They want nothing to do with farming’. Saidi counts himself in the second group of farmers, those who need to make a living, but are farmers mostly by choice. ‘Farmers are the best parents in the world’, he tells me. ‘Look at how they take care of vegetables. Now imagine just how good they are with children’.
The farm itself is located 30 miles outside of Dar es Salaam. With the start of the rainy season, it gets harder to navigate the dirt roads, which quickly turn to mud. People with 4x4 vehicles have the best chances here, especially if they need to bring their fruits and vegetables to Bongo. ‘I have a small Toyota’, he smiles sheepishly. ‘Good car, but not good enough for the mud’.
The farm has 31 acres—the featured crops include coconuts, watermelons, pineapples, tomatoes, and hohos (local green peppers). In addition, he has more than 70 free range chickens, and would like to add a few goats.
The biggest challenges, he says, are insects, which is why he frequently needs to enlist the help of an agronomist. ‘Pests’, he mutters after turning over a bunch of tomatoes devoured by insects. ‘You can slow them down, but never stop them’. There are also predators, mostly monitor lizards or pythons, who won’t mind a chicken lunch now and then. ‘We usually spot them quickly, though’, Saidi says confidently. ‘They know when to stay away from here’.
His family includes Yvonne, his wife, plus four kids: three daughters and a son. They go to Bongo once a month, Saidi says. ‘Except for Frida, my youngest daughter, they don’t care for life in Bongo. They are happy to get home at the end of the day’. As is he. ‘I like Bongo’, Saidi explains, ‘don’t get me wrong. But only once a month. I don’t like the hustling around here. On the land, we are nicer to each other. It’s less of a fight’.
What does the future look like for Saidi and his family? ‘I need to get ahead’, he says, ‘I am making money, but not a lot. And I will have nothing for retirement’. He says he is contemplating selling part of the land, maybe ten acres through a dalali, or an agent. ‘I would like to diversify my crop’, he says. ‘Build a greenhouse, and more importantly a well. If I had water year round, I could grow food year round. That is hard to do right now’.
Despite his food crops, he says, the most important crop he has is his own: his children. ‘I need to leave something for them. Life will be hard for them if I don’t make improvements. This land will be their land, but I need them to make a living. It will do me no good if they only squeeze a few schillings out of the land, only to move to Bongo later and join the hustlers.’
Ever the farmer: cultivating, he says, even his own children. That is, after all, what being a mkulima is all about.
