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Between the frantic bustle of overloaded dala dalas (minibusses) and burly 4x4s shuffling batches of tourists off on safari move a eclectic mix of bicycles, filling the transportation gap for a large majority of the population here in Tanzania. The small, nimble bicyclists fight drivers and pedestrians for space on congested streets. The bicycles are usually loaded with a passenger on the back (one ride is a few hundred shillings, or $0.25) or a bunch of bananas on the way to market. The roadside is full of cycles repair shops where you’ll see men (always men, never women) fixing flats or truing wheels. It’s certainly no Amsterdam — riders are at the bottom of the road food chain. Accidents are common, as the riders must jockey for position between exhaust-spewing cargo trucks and men pulling carts overloaded with sisal and bags of cement.

Most of the bicycles in Tanzania, like the automobiles, are imported from China. They are heavy, up-right city cruisers with beefy 26″ wheels and thick tires, a requirement for the often potholed, uneven roads in the city. Riders will decorate their machines with tassels or bright-colored fabric trailing from the seat post. All bicycles have full fenders and mudflaps.

In Dar Es Salaam, I noticed a large number of tricycles, usually with a meter-long platform on the back. These vehicles were always manned by at least two people: one to pedal, and one to help push it up steep hills. Very few of the cycles here have multiple gears, and when they do, the derailleurs are often broken or full of dirt.

I have seen a handful of road bikes in the month that I’ve been here. One early Sunday morning I spotted a group of five or six riders decked out in full kit with older European road bikes. Perhaps they were discussing starting the Arusha Critical Mass?

The team spent Wednesday morning visiting the staff and students of the Arusha School, a primary school in the Arusha city center. We paired off into groups of two to lead projects with the students. Hiroya and I partnered up to teach the kids origami, while other folks did science experiments, played marbles, and danced like vegetables. The kids were a joy to work with, all very curious about who the strangers on campus were. By far the most exciting thing for them was not the activities, or the stuff we brought to share, but rather to commandeer our digital cameras and run around campus taking pictures of each other and the stranger gaggle of foreigners, then clustering around to see the result on the LCD screens.

The campus was a collection of classroom buildings, joined by dusty dirt pathways, and the kids wandered in and out of them between class. At times it was hard to determine if class was really in session, as teachers were sometimes absent from rooms, and children aimlessly wandered the grounds, eager to take a photo or to talk about their favorite singer, Chris Brown. An ancient turtle slowly meandered across a patch of grass, older than the buildings surrounding it.

The classrooms at the school were austere and rather worn-down, without any sort of technology like televisions or computers, or even books and basic supplies like paper and pencils. The desks were battered and uncomfortable, simple welded steel and wood devices. The chalkboard chipped and stained with years of accumulated dust and grime. The walls coated in peeling paint and crude graffiti that sixth graders world-wide are compelled to leave behind. The windows had no screens, and had strong iron bars over them, casting a penitentiary mood over the interior.

Hiroya and I were left largely to ourselves to teach some thirty students, all sixth graders, how to fold origami paper cranes. There was no instructor for the class, and we more or less improvised our entire talk. After much too brief introductions, in which I introduced myself as a guy from the same city as Barack Obama, we launched into the origami. I had only learned the pattern an hour before, so I was only slightly less confused as the students. What began as patient listening on part of the students quickly devolved into barely organized chaos, as they clamored after Hiroya and I, shouting “Teacher, teacher! Is this right?” then thrusting some mangled attempt at folding paper into our faces.

We persevered, however, and managed to reign in the chaos. I found a few students who were quick learners, then dispatched them to instruct their classmates. The few hopeless cases I took pity on and just folded the paper for them. No matter how many times I would demonstrate a fold, they simply just stared blankly at me and motion for me to do it for them. After 40 minutes with this one group (we had only planned for only 15 minutes, and to do three classes), they all finally had cranes, some more majestic than others, a few barely recognizable, one torn to shreds, and patiently shared one or two pencils to draw on eyes, the finishing touch on their masterpieces.