October 23, 2008
I don't cry very much here. I try to distract myself from anything sad. But sometimes you can't distract anymore. Today I taught 20 minutes of an English class at school. It was to the equivalent of 2nd graders. I counted them as the other teacher was finishing up-there was 67 of them aged 7-9. I was told 16 of them were absent. Can you imagine? In the states that would be more than half the class. I guess there are usually that many working in the farm or sick. The month before I arrived in village I was told that 12 students here died of Typhoid. Anyways, I am a horrible teacher. But the kids watched me with a lot of attention and I have been told by other PCVs that even if I am a bad teacher just having a warm body in the classroom paying attention to them is more than they usually have. So it went alright.
I am a bit sick- dizzy, headache, fever. Shouldn't be anything too serious though. There is no way I have malaria so I will be fine. But compounded with the teaching, with a staff meeting where I had no idea what was going on and watching kids get hit more- some across the face... When I went to Juster's home for chai the frustration boiled over. In me, frustration manifests in tears. I have been told by other PCVs to not cry in front of Tanzanians. They don't cry and don't know how to react when you do. (Which tells you how many PCVs have done it. )Juster handled it very well. Mostly, I expressed frustration that I am not speaking well enough to get to know people. She reminded me how far I have come, how little time I have really been here, how much I do understand. I told her that I was fearful that the village would think I didn't want to talk to them. She responded the way my mom would-" Brie, you can only be responsible for what you do. You are trying very hard. They need to try too. You are doing nothing wrong." I still felt discouraged. It is funny when things are going poorly here something always happens to entirely restore my faith in being here.
This time it occurred on the way to town. They always put me in the front of the truck in stead of in the bed with everyone else. The car leaves for town at 4 am- so it is cold and dark. I usually am squished in the cab with a man of high rank in our village and the driver. Then some child is placed on my lap. I can't imagine putting your kid on a strangers lap in the states, but here it is the norm. So I have held babies, but most of the time I hold a sick kid. And I wonder what does this kid have? And I feel relieved that I have been vaccinated for everything as you cannot fear sickness here, you can't really avoid it. This ride, however, there was no child on my lap and I sat next to a Mama who I did not know. Juster put me in the cab and told them I was feeling sick. This mama was beautiful, she spoke to me in Kibena and I told her I didn't understand, so she sang to me in Kibena instead. I apologized for not speaking Kibena or Kiswahili very well. She repeated over and over, "Utaelewa, Utaelewa" (You will understand.) It was so sweet and so patient. She held me hand, let me sleep on her shoulder and petted my hair. I felt like a child, but it felt nice to have love. When we got to Njombe, I was feeling better she made me promise I would come visit her. She makes clothes and said she wanted to make me a skirt and feed me. I am glad to have another friend.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
Pancakes
October 22, 2008
There are five chickens that live with me now. I am not sure where they came from. They sleep at night huddled together in my choo along with the baby mice- who Josh says I should kill because they are really rats and they will come into the house. But we all know that I haven't touched them and am choosing to believe that they will stay baby mice and stay in the choo- we shall see who is right... The chickens peck around the compost pile during the day and are great company, however, I had to put a stop to their activities when they started coming into the house. I am hoping they will start to leave some eggs in the choo room, but sort of seems weird to find food where you do your business... I spent most of the day today trying to rid my bed of the bed bugs that have moved in there. We think it is so cute in the states to say "Sleep tight, don't let the bed bugs bite". The reality is not quite so cute. Washing my giant blanket in a bucket was a chore that got me tired, soaking wet, and broke my clothesline- oh well, hopefully they are gone for good.
I have discovered that some people read this that I don't know- I have gotten emails from all sorts of people- which is great. Many of them are applying to the PC. I didn't really think about people like that reading this and I feel like sometimes my writing is a bit depressing. So in order to not scare people from joining the PC, thought I would explain more why I have had trouble at site. So I am the first volunteer in my village. They have no experience with white people, or the Peace Corps. They really have no idea what I am doing here. I think that the former head teacher was who applied to have a PCV but he left before I arrived. You might think- "Great, so she can just hang out in Africa for two years." But the actuality of this is not so great, I need something to keep me busy. We were taken to site for the first time by our Village Executive Officers (VEOs), they are basically like a mayor. Most PCVs have their VEO as their best friend, they introduce them to the community, help them call meetings, check on them, etc. Ummm... not the case in my experience. I haven't seen my VEO since the night he dropped me off. The good news is: I hyave found out that my community is pissed. Mzee Ngoda- my wizard neighbor- who is super-prominant in the community was complaining to Juster that he didn't think it was right that I wasn't formally introduced to the community, I guess he wanted there to be some sort of party. So I have not had the suppost system that was supposed to be here.
I went to school today, saw more kids get beaten... this time boys were forced to lay down and were beaten with sticks up their back and behinds. I had an open discussion with the teachers in our office about it. I told them I didn't like it and didn't want any part of it. They wanted to know our methods in the states. I explained report cards going home to parents, parental punishments: groundings, no tv, no friends, no sweets, summer school, etc. This turned out to be hilarious to them because as they brought up how would this ever work here? No one has tv, regular sweets, summer school doesn't exist and parents encourage children to skip school to work on the farm. This is going to be an uphill battle. I don't know how to change any of this. Change- a weird idea because what works for one culture will not work in another.. However, I am still too American to accept this as an appropriate form of punishment. They are doing pretty poorly in school, with girls underscoring boys by a lot in all subjects- showing me the need for the girls group even more. Oh and the English exam- the highest school in any level in the whole school was a 64%- a "D"- by a boy, of course. I am going to try to teach some English, but really I just speak it, I don't know why things are the way they are. I need my Dad, the English language guru to explain to these kids how it works.
One skill I have adopted from my Dad is how to make pancakes. I eat pancakes now for about one meal a day. I blast Bob Dylan on the ipod and make mango or banana pancakes. However, different from my dad I make them over a fire, without a spatula or frying pan- tricky, I know. But I have become an expert. I top them with peanut butter or jam- which would be a bummer in the states and I don't think Tanzanians know about maple syrup. But when you live in a country that grows peanut and makes the best peanut butterihave ever had and has jams that include mango, passionfruit, guava, pinneapple, peach- by the way, that is ONE type of jam all together. The toppings are pretty good. Thanks for the inheritance, Dad. :-)
There are five chickens that live with me now. I am not sure where they came from. They sleep at night huddled together in my choo along with the baby mice- who Josh says I should kill because they are really rats and they will come into the house. But we all know that I haven't touched them and am choosing to believe that they will stay baby mice and stay in the choo- we shall see who is right... The chickens peck around the compost pile during the day and are great company, however, I had to put a stop to their activities when they started coming into the house. I am hoping they will start to leave some eggs in the choo room, but sort of seems weird to find food where you do your business... I spent most of the day today trying to rid my bed of the bed bugs that have moved in there. We think it is so cute in the states to say "Sleep tight, don't let the bed bugs bite". The reality is not quite so cute. Washing my giant blanket in a bucket was a chore that got me tired, soaking wet, and broke my clothesline- oh well, hopefully they are gone for good.
I have discovered that some people read this that I don't know- I have gotten emails from all sorts of people- which is great. Many of them are applying to the PC. I didn't really think about people like that reading this and I feel like sometimes my writing is a bit depressing. So in order to not scare people from joining the PC, thought I would explain more why I have had trouble at site. So I am the first volunteer in my village. They have no experience with white people, or the Peace Corps. They really have no idea what I am doing here. I think that the former head teacher was who applied to have a PCV but he left before I arrived. You might think- "Great, so she can just hang out in Africa for two years." But the actuality of this is not so great, I need something to keep me busy. We were taken to site for the first time by our Village Executive Officers (VEOs), they are basically like a mayor. Most PCVs have their VEO as their best friend, they introduce them to the community, help them call meetings, check on them, etc. Ummm... not the case in my experience. I haven't seen my VEO since the night he dropped me off. The good news is: I hyave found out that my community is pissed. Mzee Ngoda- my wizard neighbor- who is super-prominant in the community was complaining to Juster that he didn't think it was right that I wasn't formally introduced to the community, I guess he wanted there to be some sort of party. So I have not had the suppost system that was supposed to be here.
I went to school today, saw more kids get beaten... this time boys were forced to lay down and were beaten with sticks up their back and behinds. I had an open discussion with the teachers in our office about it. I told them I didn't like it and didn't want any part of it. They wanted to know our methods in the states. I explained report cards going home to parents, parental punishments: groundings, no tv, no friends, no sweets, summer school, etc. This turned out to be hilarious to them because as they brought up how would this ever work here? No one has tv, regular sweets, summer school doesn't exist and parents encourage children to skip school to work on the farm. This is going to be an uphill battle. I don't know how to change any of this. Change- a weird idea because what works for one culture will not work in another.. However, I am still too American to accept this as an appropriate form of punishment. They are doing pretty poorly in school, with girls underscoring boys by a lot in all subjects- showing me the need for the girls group even more. Oh and the English exam- the highest school in any level in the whole school was a 64%- a "D"- by a boy, of course. I am going to try to teach some English, but really I just speak it, I don't know why things are the way they are. I need my Dad, the English language guru to explain to these kids how it works.
One skill I have adopted from my Dad is how to make pancakes. I eat pancakes now for about one meal a day. I blast Bob Dylan on the ipod and make mango or banana pancakes. However, different from my dad I make them over a fire, without a spatula or frying pan- tricky, I know. But I have become an expert. I top them with peanut butter or jam- which would be a bummer in the states and I don't think Tanzanians know about maple syrup. But when you live in a country that grows peanut and makes the best peanut butterihave ever had and has jams that include mango, passionfruit, guava, pinneapple, peach- by the way, that is ONE type of jam all together. The toppings are pretty good. Thanks for the inheritance, Dad. :-)
Thoughts While Biking
October 17, 2008
So I wasn't originally going to include this entry- I write a lot things that I don't include because I don't think they will be interesting to people but I have time at the Internet so it comes before the flower farm pics- out of order, but whatever.
To get to the party, I decided that my transport to town is so horrible that it would be worth it to ride 30K to Josh's village which is further away from town then mine and take his public transport in because his is much quicker. That is how bad my transport is: It is worth it for me to expend energy going further from town. His village is along the main road into Njombe, mine is not- so that is the big difference.
Before I get into it though, I want to mention something. At COS (Close of Service Conference- which I am still two years away from but know enough people who are closing to have some information) they tell you not to refer to your site as a "village" to other Americans because they have no concept of what an African village is. Do you? I like to use the word because Tanzanians use it and the village is pretty much what I pictured it would be- but maybe you are picturing something else. So thought I might attempt to describe where I live. It is big- I am not talking about a few measly huts- there are a lot of them. With a primary school of almost one thousand children, this is not a small place. However, the village is probably more than half made up of primary aged children. Most of the houses are about three rooms- two bedrooms and a sitting room. This houses about six people. They cook outside or in a separate hut and the choo (hole in the ground) is separate from the house as well. Almost all the house (except mine and about five others) are made of mud with a thatched roof. Mine is cement with a tin roof- however, my choo is like the others and is removed from the house. You can buy almost nothing in the village. There are a few dukas (shops) but they are really just someone selling tomatoes, beans and matches out of their living room. We have four fundis that I know about- this is like a jack of all trades- they made my furniture, they repair the homes, basically they are fix-it people. There are a few women who sew clothes. There is one bar. (I really hope you are not picturing Bridgeport Brewery or Rennie's in Eugene or even some hole in the wall place you might find around 6th and Hawthorne- don't picture these places.) This is some one's living room where men sit around and do nothing drinking pombe (locally made liquor) and they occasionally they have a few beers ordered from town. There is one TV in my village, no one has running water, some people have electricity which on a good week works for one night, we own two cars one of which is usually broken down. Are you picturing my village? Probably not, but I am going to keep calling it that.
Anyways, I decide to ride my bike. Village mornings are a beautiful time. Tanzanians are all awake by 5.30 AM. I like this time because it is getting light- the sun is red, the roosters are crowing, the mist is rising out of the valleys, there is a coolness in the air. Primary school children run around doing chores. Women head to the farms with a baby strapped to their back, a jembe (hoe) over their shoulder, and a bucket of water on their head. It is a peaceful time. Seeing Tanzania by bike is different than I have seen it before. My villagers shout out greetings as I ride passed and I am happy I have a bike. Then once I am through my village the biking gets tough. Tanzania would be a mountain bikers paradise, but for Brie: the girl whose favorite activity is to sit on the couch, eat ice cream and watch movies; This is work. I feel really Lance Armstrong-esque and like I am totally hardcore until I almost wreck in the gravel and scare myself. The roads are rough by bike and I actually get off on downhills to walk the bike as they are so sharp down with such rough gravel and dust that I am afraid of wrecking. Josh wrecked about a year ago on one of these roads, broke his collarbone and had to be medically evacuated for a month to have surgery in South Africa. As much as I would like to see South Africa, I am really not one for pain and I really want to see my friends and go to the farm. So I take it slow. The uphills are so extreme that I have to get off and walk those too- so at one point I wonder if it is even worth it to have the bike.
On one of those walking uphills, as I am panting, I take a moment to appreciate. The eucalyptus trees reaching up to the blue sky with leaves twinkling and I realize that I am alone. On a main road (or as main as they get here) I am alone- there are no cars, no people- then I see monkeys, so I am not all the way alone. There is something magical/special about where I am and I remember how difficult it is to be alone in nature in America. Americans love when confronted with over-population to blame it on Africans- "Oh, if they would just stop having babies... blah blah blah." Which I must admit is partly true- they do have a lot of kids. But since Americans are the ones reading this, I would like to inform you how little resources these kids take up compared to you. I will use myself as an example. In Tanzania, I live off two 5 gallon buckets of water a day- 10 gallons. This accounts for all my drinking water, cooking, bathing, dish washing, house mopping and I don't use it all so that once a week I have saved up enough to wash some clothes. Water is a worldwide problem that Americans just don't seem to get. In Tanzania, I wash fruit is some water and then pour it into a bucket to then bathe in. I wash dishes in a bucket and then use the water again in my garden. When I think of America, where I ran the laundry machine, the dishwasher and took showers that easily used up this 10 gallons, I feel ashamed that I took this for granted. I know Americans will never live like Africans, but it should be a challenge to us to think about our waste. There is nowhere in Tanzania that water is safe to drink without boiling it, even in Dar es Salaam. So next time you turn on the faucet, feel a bit thankful that you could drink that water straight (I know, you think it will taste bad) and not die, which is more than most of the world can say. Think for a minute about all the resources you are using- can you cut any of them out? Global warming is affecting places like Tanzania first- but they are not the ones using the resources. They are harvesting rain water off their roof, you are letting the water run while you brush your teeth. I think we can change our lifestyle a lot in the states. I know I plan to when I return. I bike and bike and walk and walk and I feel grateful that I have experienced what it is like to take a warm shower for minutes on end, but I am equally grateful to be sweating up hills looking forward to a bath in a bucket that is only a quarter full. I am glad I know this life. I am glad that I have a shared experience of going without like most of our neighbors on the other side of the planet.
So I wasn't originally going to include this entry- I write a lot things that I don't include because I don't think they will be interesting to people but I have time at the Internet so it comes before the flower farm pics- out of order, but whatever.
To get to the party, I decided that my transport to town is so horrible that it would be worth it to ride 30K to Josh's village which is further away from town then mine and take his public transport in because his is much quicker. That is how bad my transport is: It is worth it for me to expend energy going further from town. His village is along the main road into Njombe, mine is not- so that is the big difference.
Before I get into it though, I want to mention something. At COS (Close of Service Conference- which I am still two years away from but know enough people who are closing to have some information) they tell you not to refer to your site as a "village" to other Americans because they have no concept of what an African village is. Do you? I like to use the word because Tanzanians use it and the village is pretty much what I pictured it would be- but maybe you are picturing something else. So thought I might attempt to describe where I live. It is big- I am not talking about a few measly huts- there are a lot of them. With a primary school of almost one thousand children, this is not a small place. However, the village is probably more than half made up of primary aged children. Most of the houses are about three rooms- two bedrooms and a sitting room. This houses about six people. They cook outside or in a separate hut and the choo (hole in the ground) is separate from the house as well. Almost all the house (except mine and about five others) are made of mud with a thatched roof. Mine is cement with a tin roof- however, my choo is like the others and is removed from the house. You can buy almost nothing in the village. There are a few dukas (shops) but they are really just someone selling tomatoes, beans and matches out of their living room. We have four fundis that I know about- this is like a jack of all trades- they made my furniture, they repair the homes, basically they are fix-it people. There are a few women who sew clothes. There is one bar. (I really hope you are not picturing Bridgeport Brewery or Rennie's in Eugene or even some hole in the wall place you might find around 6th and Hawthorne- don't picture these places.) This is some one's living room where men sit around and do nothing drinking pombe (locally made liquor) and they occasionally they have a few beers ordered from town. There is one TV in my village, no one has running water, some people have electricity which on a good week works for one night, we own two cars one of which is usually broken down. Are you picturing my village? Probably not, but I am going to keep calling it that.
Anyways, I decide to ride my bike. Village mornings are a beautiful time. Tanzanians are all awake by 5.30 AM. I like this time because it is getting light- the sun is red, the roosters are crowing, the mist is rising out of the valleys, there is a coolness in the air. Primary school children run around doing chores. Women head to the farms with a baby strapped to their back, a jembe (hoe) over their shoulder, and a bucket of water on their head. It is a peaceful time. Seeing Tanzania by bike is different than I have seen it before. My villagers shout out greetings as I ride passed and I am happy I have a bike. Then once I am through my village the biking gets tough. Tanzania would be a mountain bikers paradise, but for Brie: the girl whose favorite activity is to sit on the couch, eat ice cream and watch movies; This is work. I feel really Lance Armstrong-esque and like I am totally hardcore until I almost wreck in the gravel and scare myself. The roads are rough by bike and I actually get off on downhills to walk the bike as they are so sharp down with such rough gravel and dust that I am afraid of wrecking. Josh wrecked about a year ago on one of these roads, broke his collarbone and had to be medically evacuated for a month to have surgery in South Africa. As much as I would like to see South Africa, I am really not one for pain and I really want to see my friends and go to the farm. So I take it slow. The uphills are so extreme that I have to get off and walk those too- so at one point I wonder if it is even worth it to have the bike.
On one of those walking uphills, as I am panting, I take a moment to appreciate. The eucalyptus trees reaching up to the blue sky with leaves twinkling and I realize that I am alone. On a main road (or as main as they get here) I am alone- there are no cars, no people- then I see monkeys, so I am not all the way alone. There is something magical/special about where I am and I remember how difficult it is to be alone in nature in America. Americans love when confronted with over-population to blame it on Africans- "Oh, if they would just stop having babies... blah blah blah." Which I must admit is partly true- they do have a lot of kids. But since Americans are the ones reading this, I would like to inform you how little resources these kids take up compared to you. I will use myself as an example. In Tanzania, I live off two 5 gallon buckets of water a day- 10 gallons. This accounts for all my drinking water, cooking, bathing, dish washing, house mopping and I don't use it all so that once a week I have saved up enough to wash some clothes. Water is a worldwide problem that Americans just don't seem to get. In Tanzania, I wash fruit is some water and then pour it into a bucket to then bathe in. I wash dishes in a bucket and then use the water again in my garden. When I think of America, where I ran the laundry machine, the dishwasher and took showers that easily used up this 10 gallons, I feel ashamed that I took this for granted. I know Americans will never live like Africans, but it should be a challenge to us to think about our waste. There is nowhere in Tanzania that water is safe to drink without boiling it, even in Dar es Salaam. So next time you turn on the faucet, feel a bit thankful that you could drink that water straight (I know, you think it will taste bad) and not die, which is more than most of the world can say. Think for a minute about all the resources you are using- can you cut any of them out? Global warming is affecting places like Tanzania first- but they are not the ones using the resources. They are harvesting rain water off their roof, you are letting the water run while you brush your teeth. I think we can change our lifestyle a lot in the states. I know I plan to when I return. I bike and bike and walk and walk and I feel grateful that I have experienced what it is like to take a warm shower for minutes on end, but I am equally grateful to be sweating up hills looking forward to a bath in a bucket that is only a quarter full. I am glad I know this life. I am glad that I have a shared experience of going without like most of our neighbors on the other side of the planet.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Flower Farm Party
Flower Farm Party Pics: October 18, 2008
Josh and Benja, cooking at Flower Farm before the party
Adina and Zummi
Adina and I: Pre- Party
Benja, doing yoga at the flower farm
Flower Farm Views
Roses grown by Zummi and Adina
Rose Greenhouses on the Hill
Josh and Benja, cooking at Flower Farm before the party
Adina and Zummi
Adina and I: Pre- Party
Benja, doing yoga at the flower farm
Flower Farm Views
Roses grown by Zummi and Adina
Rose Greenhouses on the HillBrie the Martian
October 14, 2008
I have always wondered why Juster and Jen ask me what oil I use on my skin and hair and then act surprised when I say none. I always think "Oil? Why would you add oil to someone who rarely bathes?" Then my heels cracked open and I began to understand the necessity of it. Jen and Juster decided I needed a make-over the other day. So the braided my hair exclaiming how beautiful I would now be. And despite the difference in our hair, they actually did a pretty decent job putting corn rows in. I brought over some old Newsweek magazines, an old Star and Intouch. Bring these to the party actually caused these female teachers to scream with delight. They don't know who any of the people are but are fascinated by American media. I'll begin with the trash celebrity mags- Tanzanians have a totally different concept of beauty than Americans and were shocked to see the revealing clothing. They pointed to a picture of Britany Spears and told me I looked like "that girl". All I thought was "Really? When was the last time I was staggering around the village drunk in a bikini cigarette in hand?" But really, "This is Star Magazine. You could have picked any other white girl in here and it would have been a compliment." But honestly, Tanzanians think all Americans look alike. I have been actually asked how we tell people apart because we all look alike. My answer: we have different eye color, hair color, heights, skin color, builds..... Anyways, one white person, same as all the rest.
So I must admit I have this fantasy. Similar to the one of taking my host siblings to Disneyland just to see what they would do. This one involves giving Juster an American make-over. She thinks she is unattractive because she is thin which does not fit with the African standard of beauty. She is about my height, but much thinner with African woman curves.She wears her hair typically covered and underneath braided. But her hair is about as long as mine and I have watched it get braided. When it is just in its natural state is is big and beautiful. So my image is this: Juster in sunglasses, hair natural, jeans, boots, tank top (She would never wear any of this) strolling down NW 23rd in Portland doing a bit of shopping. She would stop traffic. But she lives in a tiny village in Tanzania, so for now we just have dance parties in her living room- she is incredible, I, on the other hand, am not. The magazines were interesting to watch them read. Because I live in Africa, I am fairly closed off from the rest of the world, but I still know what is out there. Watching them read ads for cars, make-up, reality TV shows that they have no idea exist was weird to see there reactions. Almost more importantly, I was wondering, do they know who Shakespeare even is? And is that really that important when you are trying to get by in an African village in the 21st century? I would like to argue that it is, but I just don't know. It is amazing to think that there are people all over the world that are this closed off- which brings me to the Newsweeks.
The Female teachers have all completed secondary school. Jen and Juster are the only two that speak any English, the rest do not. But 90% of Tanzanians do not go to school past Primary, so this makes these women among the 10% most educated Tanzanians. Yet- I am going to relay some of the conversation we had. I am not judging these women, because they know many skills and things that I do not, but I was surprised by some of the questions I was asked. We speak a combination of Kiswahili and English when we talk, but obviously writing this in English. So I bring the Newsweek out with Obama on the front- we have talked a bit about him- they have heard his name but know little else.
Juster: Brie, you said that this man was African, but he is not. He is Mzungu (White Foreigner).
Me: Why is he Mzungu?- I said he was half black, he is all American.
Juster: Because he is Mzungu clothes (The picture of him he is in a nice suit.) He cannot be the president of the United States.
Me: Why not?
Juster: Because he cannot control all the white people, are you not afraid of war? The white people will start a war. Brie, white people do not like black people. Isn't he part of the second class?
Me: There are black people in America too, and we want Obama. There will not be a war white people against black people. Americans are all equal we have no classes (Not sure this is entirely true, but what we are told to believe, right?)
Juster: I think this is just you. I think you are not afraid of Africans because you live here and are very poor with us. It is very funny that you cook over a fire and have no electricity. You really are very funny. I wonder when Africans go to America we think this is very good for them and they are very smart, but what do Americans think about you coming and living here. You really are going backwards.
Me: Many Americans want to visit Africa. But many are also afraid. They think you are all starting wars like in Sudan and the Congo. They think you all are very hungry and have AIDS. But people in America like to hear about how you live and they are happy that I am here trying to help.
Jen: Yes, Americans are afraid of us. You are very brave because we are very poor. Will Obama help us in Africa?
Me: Yes, I think he will. We want him because he will stop the fighting in Iraq, he is going to help our health care system, find more jobs, help our environment.... (I go on and on with hopes)
Jen: But Americans are very rich, they are all very happy. (This might be the most common Tanzanian misconception about America).
Me: No- things are bad in America. (I go on to try to describe our economic downfall, our worldwide fall in popularity, etc.)
Juster: I can not believe that there are poor people in America. Brie, how many villages in Oregon (They know this is where I am from although they have no idea where it is.) don't have electricity?
Me: (Still working hard to picture what a "village" in Oregon would look like- Drain? Jewell? Glide?- I don't know, she sort of has me here. I look around at the thatched roofs of my village, the mud walls, the chickens milling about, the kids sitting in the dirt... hmmm.... "Oregon villages") That's not poverty in the states. (Then I make a mistake) Some people even live out of their cars, they have no house!
(This elicits a lot of laughter, as I forget that no one has cars here, yet everyone has a mud hut and a corn field.)
Juster: (Jokes) Why do they put their couches- in there cars?
(Clearly, I did not make a good point about American poverty)
Me: Obama is the answer.
Jen: I know there is somewhere called South America. Will he be president there too? (For a second, I judge. How could a teacher who is educated not know the answer to this? I try not to show it on my face. And why should she know? It doesn't affect her any. When I told people I was coming to Tanzania, most people could place it on a map. )
Me: No, it is a separate continent. He won't be president of Canada or Mexico either. Only the United States.
Jen: Oh, yes. It is like Tanzania and Uganda. We have different presidents. But what a bout Bush? Will he be president to?
Me: No. (Again I judge. Then I realize that she actually knows who our president is and how many Americans know who the president of Tanzania is? Anyone?) Just Obama-- luckily.
Juster: Germany and America are very close to each other, yes?
Me: (Again, thinking; "Is she serious?" Later I realize that Germans and Americans are both white and both speak English to Tanzanians- so why not think they are close geographically? If they were in Africa where people looked the same and could speak the same language they would be close.) No, Germany is in Europe- The Atlantic Ocean is between us.
Juster: So, what is your mother tongue?
Me: English
Juster: But what language do your parents speak?
Me: English
Juster: But you only know English?
Me: English, Basi. (Basi is this great Kiswahili word they put at the end of sentences which basically means "stop" or "Enough".)
Juster: In America, everyone speaks English?
Me: Some people speak other languages- but there are no tribal languages like here.
Jen: So what tribe are you?
Me: ( I think of being smart and answering Cherokee and picture my family with feathers and war paint- but the joke would be lost- so I answer) I have some Irish in me.
Jen: So you are Irish?
Me: No, I am American... (It is all lost in Translation- Who am I? What am I doing here? It is all confusion to them. I am a Martian.)
I have always wondered why Juster and Jen ask me what oil I use on my skin and hair and then act surprised when I say none. I always think "Oil? Why would you add oil to someone who rarely bathes?" Then my heels cracked open and I began to understand the necessity of it. Jen and Juster decided I needed a make-over the other day. So the braided my hair exclaiming how beautiful I would now be. And despite the difference in our hair, they actually did a pretty decent job putting corn rows in. I brought over some old Newsweek magazines, an old Star and Intouch. Bring these to the party actually caused these female teachers to scream with delight. They don't know who any of the people are but are fascinated by American media. I'll begin with the trash celebrity mags- Tanzanians have a totally different concept of beauty than Americans and were shocked to see the revealing clothing. They pointed to a picture of Britany Spears and told me I looked like "that girl". All I thought was "Really? When was the last time I was staggering around the village drunk in a bikini cigarette in hand?" But really, "This is Star Magazine. You could have picked any other white girl in here and it would have been a compliment." But honestly, Tanzanians think all Americans look alike. I have been actually asked how we tell people apart because we all look alike. My answer: we have different eye color, hair color, heights, skin color, builds..... Anyways, one white person, same as all the rest.
So I must admit I have this fantasy. Similar to the one of taking my host siblings to Disneyland just to see what they would do. This one involves giving Juster an American make-over. She thinks she is unattractive because she is thin which does not fit with the African standard of beauty. She is about my height, but much thinner with African woman curves.She wears her hair typically covered and underneath braided. But her hair is about as long as mine and I have watched it get braided. When it is just in its natural state is is big and beautiful. So my image is this: Juster in sunglasses, hair natural, jeans, boots, tank top (She would never wear any of this) strolling down NW 23rd in Portland doing a bit of shopping. She would stop traffic. But she lives in a tiny village in Tanzania, so for now we just have dance parties in her living room- she is incredible, I, on the other hand, am not. The magazines were interesting to watch them read. Because I live in Africa, I am fairly closed off from the rest of the world, but I still know what is out there. Watching them read ads for cars, make-up, reality TV shows that they have no idea exist was weird to see there reactions. Almost more importantly, I was wondering, do they know who Shakespeare even is? And is that really that important when you are trying to get by in an African village in the 21st century? I would like to argue that it is, but I just don't know. It is amazing to think that there are people all over the world that are this closed off- which brings me to the Newsweeks.
The Female teachers have all completed secondary school. Jen and Juster are the only two that speak any English, the rest do not. But 90% of Tanzanians do not go to school past Primary, so this makes these women among the 10% most educated Tanzanians. Yet- I am going to relay some of the conversation we had. I am not judging these women, because they know many skills and things that I do not, but I was surprised by some of the questions I was asked. We speak a combination of Kiswahili and English when we talk, but obviously writing this in English. So I bring the Newsweek out with Obama on the front- we have talked a bit about him- they have heard his name but know little else.
Juster: Brie, you said that this man was African, but he is not. He is Mzungu (White Foreigner).
Me: Why is he Mzungu?- I said he was half black, he is all American.
Juster: Because he is Mzungu clothes (The picture of him he is in a nice suit.) He cannot be the president of the United States.
Me: Why not?
Juster: Because he cannot control all the white people, are you not afraid of war? The white people will start a war. Brie, white people do not like black people. Isn't he part of the second class?
Me: There are black people in America too, and we want Obama. There will not be a war white people against black people. Americans are all equal we have no classes (Not sure this is entirely true, but what we are told to believe, right?)
Juster: I think this is just you. I think you are not afraid of Africans because you live here and are very poor with us. It is very funny that you cook over a fire and have no electricity. You really are very funny. I wonder when Africans go to America we think this is very good for them and they are very smart, but what do Americans think about you coming and living here. You really are going backwards.
Me: Many Americans want to visit Africa. But many are also afraid. They think you are all starting wars like in Sudan and the Congo. They think you all are very hungry and have AIDS. But people in America like to hear about how you live and they are happy that I am here trying to help.
Jen: Yes, Americans are afraid of us. You are very brave because we are very poor. Will Obama help us in Africa?
Me: Yes, I think he will. We want him because he will stop the fighting in Iraq, he is going to help our health care system, find more jobs, help our environment.... (I go on and on with hopes)
Jen: But Americans are very rich, they are all very happy. (This might be the most common Tanzanian misconception about America).
Me: No- things are bad in America. (I go on to try to describe our economic downfall, our worldwide fall in popularity, etc.)
Juster: I can not believe that there are poor people in America. Brie, how many villages in Oregon (They know this is where I am from although they have no idea where it is.) don't have electricity?
Me: (Still working hard to picture what a "village" in Oregon would look like- Drain? Jewell? Glide?- I don't know, she sort of has me here. I look around at the thatched roofs of my village, the mud walls, the chickens milling about, the kids sitting in the dirt... hmmm.... "Oregon villages") That's not poverty in the states. (Then I make a mistake) Some people even live out of their cars, they have no house!
(This elicits a lot of laughter, as I forget that no one has cars here, yet everyone has a mud hut and a corn field.)
Juster: (Jokes) Why do they put their couches- in there cars?
(Clearly, I did not make a good point about American poverty)
Me: Obama is the answer.
Jen: I know there is somewhere called South America. Will he be president there too? (For a second, I judge. How could a teacher who is educated not know the answer to this? I try not to show it on my face. And why should she know? It doesn't affect her any. When I told people I was coming to Tanzania, most people could place it on a map. )
Me: No, it is a separate continent. He won't be president of Canada or Mexico either. Only the United States.
Jen: Oh, yes. It is like Tanzania and Uganda. We have different presidents. But what a bout Bush? Will he be president to?
Me: No. (Again I judge. Then I realize that she actually knows who our president is and how many Americans know who the president of Tanzania is? Anyone?) Just Obama-- luckily.
Juster: Germany and America are very close to each other, yes?
Me: (Again, thinking; "Is she serious?" Later I realize that Germans and Americans are both white and both speak English to Tanzanians- so why not think they are close geographically? If they were in Africa where people looked the same and could speak the same language they would be close.) No, Germany is in Europe- The Atlantic Ocean is between us.
Juster: So, what is your mother tongue?
Me: English
Juster: But what language do your parents speak?
Me: English
Juster: But you only know English?
Me: English, Basi. (Basi is this great Kiswahili word they put at the end of sentences which basically means "stop" or "Enough".)
Juster: In America, everyone speaks English?
Me: Some people speak other languages- but there are no tribal languages like here.
Jen: So what tribe are you?
Me: ( I think of being smart and answering Cherokee and picture my family with feathers and war paint- but the joke would be lost- so I answer) I have some Irish in me.
Jen: So you are Irish?
Me: No, I am American... (It is all lost in Translation- Who am I? What am I doing here? It is all confusion to them. I am a Martian.)
Weekend Guests
October 10-12,
This weekend I stayed at my site- but my closest PCV neighbors came to spend the weekend with me. Josh- who I have gotten to know really well since staying with him during my early site panic and hanging out with him on weekends in town or at one of our sites- he has helped me dig a garden and fix my house up a bit. Also coming for the weekend was Margaret- who is from my group and was my room mate when we first arrived in country. She is 22 and from Michigan. Teresa- also from my group, who is 27 and from Colorado. When I say they are my closest neighbors "close" is sort of an overstatement. They are all within tough biking distance. Over rough back roads- they can each make it within a day, biking from various directions, I am sort of centrally located. This was Josh's 4th or 5th time at my site- so he knows the way well and has even given some of the toughest parts of the journey nicknames: one hill is "Kilimanjaro" another is "Mt. Meru" etc. Obviously not since we are in the highlands and not up north, but still some pretty extreme hills. The first things Margaret says to me when she gets to my house huffing and puffing is "I need a cigarette".
I try to have warm bucket baths ready for all of them when they arrive. We have a great time- mostly just talking and eating. A few of us are on the 1-2 meal a day diet, so when we get together we really eat. Those of us new ones used to make fun of the PCVs that would come help during training because they would all be really skinny, but then when food was available would stack their plates high and go back for seconds. We wondered where they put all that food, now we understand a little better the situation when you are at site. But this weekend we ate well. We made hummus, muffins, burritos, popcorn, cake, hot chocolate, coffee, etc. But Tanzanian style American cooking takes forever! Example: I say we made burritos. This did not consist in pulling tortillas out of the fridge and opening a can of refried beans. It means we pulled out the flour, the salt, the oil- lit the charcoal and rolled the tortilla dough out one by one with a nalgene bottle and cooked them each over the fire individually. And that is even before we get started with any fillings....
It was great to have people around to play hostess for. However, I was not a very good one as I only own two spoons and one fork- so one of us had to eat Tanzanian style at every meal. At night we built a fire and played cards. It was nice to not go to bed at 8 pm and still be having a good time around 11. But having company and then having them leave is even more lonely, so I am back to bed at 8.
I am getting excited for some of the tentative holiday plans I have coming up. Everything here is changeable since travel, weather, people are fairly unplanned here. But nice to look forward to some ideas that have been put out there by friends. If any of them don't work out I will try to just hang out with Zummi and Adina on the farm. Halloween, one of my favorite holidays- hoping to head to Iringa town. There are a lot of PCVs in this area and good food/Christmas shopping. Thanksgiving- this will be the first one I can remember not going to my grandparents house in Southern Oregon. So I am hoping that viewing the snow covered peaks of Kilimanjaro will be a good distraction. There is a PCV up there outside of Moshi who I don't know- but is a friend of Josh's who is hosting a gathering. I would really like to see this part of Northern Tanzania. Christmas- my friend, Greta, in my region is going to host a party at her site. New Years- there is supposed to be this amazing beach outside of Dar called Kipepeo (Butterfly) Beach. There are thatched roof huts along the beach at a reasonably priced resort we are hoping to stay in. So all in all looking forward to these trips is making time pass faster.
This weekend I stayed at my site- but my closest PCV neighbors came to spend the weekend with me. Josh- who I have gotten to know really well since staying with him during my early site panic and hanging out with him on weekends in town or at one of our sites- he has helped me dig a garden and fix my house up a bit. Also coming for the weekend was Margaret- who is from my group and was my room mate when we first arrived in country. She is 22 and from Michigan. Teresa- also from my group, who is 27 and from Colorado. When I say they are my closest neighbors "close" is sort of an overstatement. They are all within tough biking distance. Over rough back roads- they can each make it within a day, biking from various directions, I am sort of centrally located. This was Josh's 4th or 5th time at my site- so he knows the way well and has even given some of the toughest parts of the journey nicknames: one hill is "Kilimanjaro" another is "Mt. Meru" etc. Obviously not since we are in the highlands and not up north, but still some pretty extreme hills. The first things Margaret says to me when she gets to my house huffing and puffing is "I need a cigarette".
I try to have warm bucket baths ready for all of them when they arrive. We have a great time- mostly just talking and eating. A few of us are on the 1-2 meal a day diet, so when we get together we really eat. Those of us new ones used to make fun of the PCVs that would come help during training because they would all be really skinny, but then when food was available would stack their plates high and go back for seconds. We wondered where they put all that food, now we understand a little better the situation when you are at site. But this weekend we ate well. We made hummus, muffins, burritos, popcorn, cake, hot chocolate, coffee, etc. But Tanzanian style American cooking takes forever! Example: I say we made burritos. This did not consist in pulling tortillas out of the fridge and opening a can of refried beans. It means we pulled out the flour, the salt, the oil- lit the charcoal and rolled the tortilla dough out one by one with a nalgene bottle and cooked them each over the fire individually. And that is even before we get started with any fillings....
It was great to have people around to play hostess for. However, I was not a very good one as I only own two spoons and one fork- so one of us had to eat Tanzanian style at every meal. At night we built a fire and played cards. It was nice to not go to bed at 8 pm and still be having a good time around 11. But having company and then having them leave is even more lonely, so I am back to bed at 8.
I am getting excited for some of the tentative holiday plans I have coming up. Everything here is changeable since travel, weather, people are fairly unplanned here. But nice to look forward to some ideas that have been put out there by friends. If any of them don't work out I will try to just hang out with Zummi and Adina on the farm. Halloween, one of my favorite holidays- hoping to head to Iringa town. There are a lot of PCVs in this area and good food/Christmas shopping. Thanksgiving- this will be the first one I can remember not going to my grandparents house in Southern Oregon. So I am hoping that viewing the snow covered peaks of Kilimanjaro will be a good distraction. There is a PCV up there outside of Moshi who I don't know- but is a friend of Josh's who is hosting a gathering. I would really like to see this part of Northern Tanzania. Christmas- my friend, Greta, in my region is going to host a party at her site. New Years- there is supposed to be this amazing beach outside of Dar called Kipepeo (Butterfly) Beach. There are thatched roof huts along the beach at a reasonably priced resort we are hoping to stay in. So all in all looking forward to these trips is making time pass faster.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Rainy Season Begins
New Livingroom Furniture complete with Safari bottle candle holder
Tanzanian Furniture is not complete without doilies
Barack, my Gecko, hanging out on his fav windowFirst of all I would like to say Congratulations to My friend, (and Reed's Sister) Kari, who gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. Welcome Denver, and Congrats Kari and Boyd!
October 8, 2008
Last night I would say that the rainy season officially began. I heard that one day it would start raining and then continue every day after. It is a different type of rain though- you can set your watch to it, as it rains at the same time every day. (I wonder if the chickens mind that they are no longer the time keepers?) In Oregon- arguably a state that gets more rain than any other- we joke about how you need about 18 speeds for your windshield wipers to deal with all sorts of types of rain. In Tanzania, there is just one type: hard. I hadn't seen rain here before. I had heard that roads would be impassable and we learned permiculture during training so that we could channel the large amount of water that would eventually be running through our gardens. I must admit, I had a hard time picturing these scenes while being surrounded in dust.
But last night- the rain pounded on the tin roof and it drowned out every other sound- the sound was like what it must be like to drown in the ocean: waves crashing overhead. I built a fire and heated water for tea and read my book. The wind blew outside and the rain fell and it felt good. It felt like home. It is funny- joining the Peace Corps most people see as sort of a selfless act- it is only those who are serving who realize how selfish we are. Being here is maybe the most selfish I have ever been. When I email people I feel like I only talk about myself, when they call me I really only discuss what I have been doing, how hard my life is, blah, blah, blah. Sometimes I feel like this person was born four months ago, in an adult body with no past. But then something will pull me back and remind me that there was life before Africa- that I have faced other struggles. It is amazing how used to anything a person can get. There are still times I have this revelation, "Oh, I know- I will just heat this up in the microwave-" Only a second later to realize- "Microwave? What am I talking about? I don't even have electricity or running water much less modern appliances. Did I really ever put anything in a microwave? Was life really ever that easy?" I try to forget things before Africa- generally it is just easier to accept what life here offers. But last night I was taken home- it was the rain.
Back in Oregon, I remembered it is actually October, one of my favorite months. The fire I had built was no longer there- I hadn't built it. My dad had. I could see him adding wood to our large stone fireplace at our Pattulo house, while singing "Bad Moon Rising." I am sitting on the couch petting my white cat, Angel Baby. Maybe I am 17 or so and still in high school, but not really because Reed and Erik are there drinking apple cider at the table with my sisters. My mom is in the kitchen making pickles. I can hear the jars clinking and smell the dill. My brothers are running up and down the hallway yelling. They are already in their Halloween costumes, even though they will be made to eat "real food" before we set out for trick-or-treating. The fire crackles and the rain pounds and I tell myself- "Come away from here". And there I am- sitting in my living room under the ocean- just me and my gecko, Baraka, on the "dark continent". And I am reminded of a few lines from an Ani DiFranco song that applies more and more often to my life here: " When I look around, I think this is good enough, and I try to laugh at whatever life brings. When I look down, I just miss all the good stuff. When I look up, I just trip over things." So I look forward.
(Side Note: I have a gecko. I don't really own him- he owns himself. He lives on one window in my house. He is there everyday- at first we would surprise each other when I flung open the curtins- now I expect him. He is tiny, about 2 inches long and he sings in the evening. He is named partly for our furture president: Barack comes from the Kiswahili name Baraka a common male name in this part of Africa meaning: lucky- let us hope so for Obama's sake! At first I was worried he was stuck inside, I expressed this concern to Josh, who reminded me that we can see the sky through my roof and feel the wind through my windows- Baraka is hardly trapped.)
The next day I asked Juster to be my counterpart. I don't know why I was so nervous, I felt like I was proposing. She tells me all the time that she loves me and we are best friends. She feeds me and visits me- but I was still afraid she would say no. Maybe first I should explain what being a counterpart is. Each PCV is supposed to pick a Tanzanian in their village who we trust, who will help us on our projects and go with us to a two week long conference in January. Basically it is supposed to be our Tanzanian helper. The first project we are to do with them is to do a Village Situation Analysis, which involves interviewing our villagers in-depth and then writing up a report with our recommendations for what we can help with. The report is written in English and Kiswahili and then presented by us at the conference. I need Juster for this- she is honest, sweet and speaks English. It is not that I can't ask the villagers the questions, but what if I can't understand their answers? I feared Juster would be too busy, wouldn't want to help- it is a lot of work with nothing in it for her. But I shouldn't have been worried. She was so flattered. She smiled at me, laughed and promised to do the best she could for me. So we begin work.
October 8, 2008
Last night I would say that the rainy season officially began. I heard that one day it would start raining and then continue every day after. It is a different type of rain though- you can set your watch to it, as it rains at the same time every day. (I wonder if the chickens mind that they are no longer the time keepers?) In Oregon- arguably a state that gets more rain than any other- we joke about how you need about 18 speeds for your windshield wipers to deal with all sorts of types of rain. In Tanzania, there is just one type: hard. I hadn't seen rain here before. I had heard that roads would be impassable and we learned permiculture during training so that we could channel the large amount of water that would eventually be running through our gardens. I must admit, I had a hard time picturing these scenes while being surrounded in dust.
But last night- the rain pounded on the tin roof and it drowned out every other sound- the sound was like what it must be like to drown in the ocean: waves crashing overhead. I built a fire and heated water for tea and read my book. The wind blew outside and the rain fell and it felt good. It felt like home. It is funny- joining the Peace Corps most people see as sort of a selfless act- it is only those who are serving who realize how selfish we are. Being here is maybe the most selfish I have ever been. When I email people I feel like I only talk about myself, when they call me I really only discuss what I have been doing, how hard my life is, blah, blah, blah. Sometimes I feel like this person was born four months ago, in an adult body with no past. But then something will pull me back and remind me that there was life before Africa- that I have faced other struggles. It is amazing how used to anything a person can get. There are still times I have this revelation, "Oh, I know- I will just heat this up in the microwave-" Only a second later to realize- "Microwave? What am I talking about? I don't even have electricity or running water much less modern appliances. Did I really ever put anything in a microwave? Was life really ever that easy?" I try to forget things before Africa- generally it is just easier to accept what life here offers. But last night I was taken home- it was the rain.
Back in Oregon, I remembered it is actually October, one of my favorite months. The fire I had built was no longer there- I hadn't built it. My dad had. I could see him adding wood to our large stone fireplace at our Pattulo house, while singing "Bad Moon Rising." I am sitting on the couch petting my white cat, Angel Baby. Maybe I am 17 or so and still in high school, but not really because Reed and Erik are there drinking apple cider at the table with my sisters. My mom is in the kitchen making pickles. I can hear the jars clinking and smell the dill. My brothers are running up and down the hallway yelling. They are already in their Halloween costumes, even though they will be made to eat "real food" before we set out for trick-or-treating. The fire crackles and the rain pounds and I tell myself- "Come away from here". And there I am- sitting in my living room under the ocean- just me and my gecko, Baraka, on the "dark continent". And I am reminded of a few lines from an Ani DiFranco song that applies more and more often to my life here: " When I look around, I think this is good enough, and I try to laugh at whatever life brings. When I look down, I just miss all the good stuff. When I look up, I just trip over things." So I look forward.
(Side Note: I have a gecko. I don't really own him- he owns himself. He lives on one window in my house. He is there everyday- at first we would surprise each other when I flung open the curtins- now I expect him. He is tiny, about 2 inches long and he sings in the evening. He is named partly for our furture president: Barack comes from the Kiswahili name Baraka a common male name in this part of Africa meaning: lucky- let us hope so for Obama's sake! At first I was worried he was stuck inside, I expressed this concern to Josh, who reminded me that we can see the sky through my roof and feel the wind through my windows- Baraka is hardly trapped.)
The next day I asked Juster to be my counterpart. I don't know why I was so nervous, I felt like I was proposing. She tells me all the time that she loves me and we are best friends. She feeds me and visits me- but I was still afraid she would say no. Maybe first I should explain what being a counterpart is. Each PCV is supposed to pick a Tanzanian in their village who we trust, who will help us on our projects and go with us to a two week long conference in January. Basically it is supposed to be our Tanzanian helper. The first project we are to do with them is to do a Village Situation Analysis, which involves interviewing our villagers in-depth and then writing up a report with our recommendations for what we can help with. The report is written in English and Kiswahili and then presented by us at the conference. I need Juster for this- she is honest, sweet and speaks English. It is not that I can't ask the villagers the questions, but what if I can't understand their answers? I feared Juster would be too busy, wouldn't want to help- it is a lot of work with nothing in it for her. But I shouldn't have been worried. She was so flattered. She smiled at me, laughed and promised to do the best she could for me. So we begin work.
New Section: PCV Blogs
If you really love Peace Corps Volunteers, Tanzania, reading blogs or all of the above- there is a new section on my blog now. On the left hand side are some blogs from my some of my friends in my class. We are all on our own adventure but much of what they write about and photograph is what I am experiencing too. These people have a great sense of humor and big loving hearts- I wish I had the time to keep up on all their blogs, so if you do- Karibu.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
I Go To School
September 30, 2008
My hardest cross- cultural experience so far. Primary school- I hated it in the states. I don't know why I thought that I would like it here. Maybe because here the teachers are my friends, there won't be any homework, I am already different so there is no reason to try to fit in. I had visited the classes briefly before, just to introduce myself, but now I was going for an entire day. I got ready- dressed conservatively, professionally. I wore my teacher shoes. I got to school at 7.30- greeted the head teacher and went to the office for the teachers. They showed me to what will be my desk, they called me "Mwalimu Brie"- even though I have yet to teach anyone anything.
I was to spend 20 minutes watching each teacher teach something before rotating to the next class. Different than American schools, here the teachers rotate and the students stay in the class. There are seven levels- the last five are split into two "streams"- making 12 classes at my school, with 990 students at the school this makes each class enormous. I cannot really explain what it is like to walk into a classroom at the primary school. Do I talk about the dark rooms with dirty walls? Or maybe I should start with the unraveling red sweaters covering filthy white button-ups, over too big blue skirts and shorts? But no, I think I will start with the eyes- all the big brown eyes staring in wonder as I walk into the room. When I make eye contact with a student they smile, exposing small white teeth and become embarrassed and look away. I watch them assess me, and am reminded of West Linn High School where everyone is seeing what you wore that day and if you have worn it before. However, here there is no judgement, only interest and a slight fear. I don't mind, I feel fear too. There is nothing like having the eyes of about 80 African children on you. I want to know all of them, but there are just too many. They stand up in unison and greet me when I enter the room, the way that they have been taught. They stay standing until I tell them to sit down. Then they sit. Cramped, six or so to a small bench, hovering over one lesson book to share.
First I watch Mjemah teach math- geometry. I haven't taken math since I was a junior in high school and I didn't understand it then, so I am not getting much out of it in Kiswahili. Next, he takes me to Jen's classroom. We walk in, she has her back to us, she is beating a student on the back, the student is facing me, I can read nothing from his face. I look to Mjemah, there is no sign of shock on his face. Jen stops as soon as she sees we are there. She tells me in English that this boy did not do his exercise. Jen is my friend. I knew it was okay to beat students in schools here, but I was not really prepared. I made an excuse in my head- "This is a bad student"- even though I knew if I went to primary school here I would have been beaten plenty too. She goes on with teaching, but I am slightly shaken. Each class I go to, I feel the teacher stress a bit, like I am an auditor checking up on them. The students are slightly stressed too- when a question is asked they are all eager to answer. In Katherine's class she gets in trouble, but luckily not beaten, for enthusiastically standing up while raising her hand to answer a question. All the while the kids make eye contact with me . I told Juster about this and she laughed and said, "Brie they are all so silly, really. They all think that if they show you that they are the smartest and best you might keep them." "Keep them," I said, "Don't they have parents?" She replied with, "Yes, most of them do- but they want you to take them." "Take them where?" I asked. Her response, "They want you to take them anywhere." I reminded her that I wasn't married and would probably not be capable of caring for 990 seven to fourteen year olds.
I watched all 15 of the teachers teach something. I saw nine of them beat a child, two of them beat their entire class. I cannot really convey the horror of it. I am still in shock even as I type this. I know I am pretty overly sensitive to the ways of the world, I cannot even watch a violent movie. I have seen parents hit their kids in the states, I have hit my siblings, but watching a child get beaten in school is entirely different. Especially an African child. Imagine the child I have described- ragged uniform, thin, shaved head, big eyes,- being hit repeatedly. During the two class beatings, I was unsure of what to do. One teacher came in with two sticks, handed one to the main teacher, and the students all put out their hands. Wap! Wap! Twice on each hand, on each student, like a whip in the wind and then connecting with bare skin. I looked away- I could not meet the students eyes, I could not condone what was being done. The sound would not leave my head. I thought about standing up and yelling for them to stop it. I thought about walking out. I thought about going to the students who had already been beaten and kissing there hands like we would do to an injured child in the states. But I did none of this. I looked away- tears threatening to roll down my cheeks. I said in my head, "Brienne, this is not the time- you are an anthropologist (which I keep telling myself to deal with a lot of what happens here.) You are just hear to observe. The teachers don't know any better- this is what was done to them when they were in school. Just because this is not my way, doesn't mean that my way is better or right and this is wrong." But deep in my heart I still felt this was wrong. None of the students cried, but they could not keep the tears from streaming down there cheeks in pain as they held their red hands. Shame written on there faces when they looked at me- I wanted to shrink into the wall.
When I was able to escape, I text Josh, who teaches at a secondary school and I know has had to see a lot of this. I text fear, frustration, guilt. He text back- opportunity. He advised me to pull the teachers aside, explain our methods in America, to set a different example, to remind them of TZ corporal punishment laws, to start a dialogue. I pulled both Jen and Juster aside later to talk about what I felt. (I did not see Juster beat a student, but instead teach a pretty good English class, but I know from this conversation that she has.) They both told me that African students are more stubborn than American students- which is funny, because they both admitted that they didn't in fact know any American students. Mostly, I listened to start with, I wanted to know why they believed that beatings would work. It just seemed to be the only option that they had thought of. Juster had an interesting response, " We learned this way from you white people. This is the way that you used to control Africans." Ouch! Thanks again colonization- the root of all evils here. I told her an American teacher would go to jail for what I had seen that day. This shocked her a bit, and she reminded me that in America we treat children as equals, which they are not. I am brainstorming more talks about these issues, but for now I just told them that students in my classes would not be beaten. They both laughed and said, "How will you control them? You won't teach them anything then. It will never work, you will get nothing from them." I told them I will control them through friendship, admiration, through mutual respect, through love- not through fear. They thought about this a minute, but they still don't believe that it could work.
At the start of the new year, I am hoping to begin to teach a health/life skills class to both girls and boys at the school. It will be taught in both English and Kiswahili, so that I can practice and they can begin some English lessons. It will answer health questions and have a strong arts component because this is not taught in schools. We will put on productions, write and draw about health issues for other students and the community. And there will be no beatings. Next to this, Primary school in the states was a piece of cake.
My hardest cross- cultural experience so far. Primary school- I hated it in the states. I don't know why I thought that I would like it here. Maybe because here the teachers are my friends, there won't be any homework, I am already different so there is no reason to try to fit in. I had visited the classes briefly before, just to introduce myself, but now I was going for an entire day. I got ready- dressed conservatively, professionally. I wore my teacher shoes. I got to school at 7.30- greeted the head teacher and went to the office for the teachers. They showed me to what will be my desk, they called me "Mwalimu Brie"- even though I have yet to teach anyone anything.
I was to spend 20 minutes watching each teacher teach something before rotating to the next class. Different than American schools, here the teachers rotate and the students stay in the class. There are seven levels- the last five are split into two "streams"- making 12 classes at my school, with 990 students at the school this makes each class enormous. I cannot really explain what it is like to walk into a classroom at the primary school. Do I talk about the dark rooms with dirty walls? Or maybe I should start with the unraveling red sweaters covering filthy white button-ups, over too big blue skirts and shorts? But no, I think I will start with the eyes- all the big brown eyes staring in wonder as I walk into the room. When I make eye contact with a student they smile, exposing small white teeth and become embarrassed and look away. I watch them assess me, and am reminded of West Linn High School where everyone is seeing what you wore that day and if you have worn it before. However, here there is no judgement, only interest and a slight fear. I don't mind, I feel fear too. There is nothing like having the eyes of about 80 African children on you. I want to know all of them, but there are just too many. They stand up in unison and greet me when I enter the room, the way that they have been taught. They stay standing until I tell them to sit down. Then they sit. Cramped, six or so to a small bench, hovering over one lesson book to share.
First I watch Mjemah teach math- geometry. I haven't taken math since I was a junior in high school and I didn't understand it then, so I am not getting much out of it in Kiswahili. Next, he takes me to Jen's classroom. We walk in, she has her back to us, she is beating a student on the back, the student is facing me, I can read nothing from his face. I look to Mjemah, there is no sign of shock on his face. Jen stops as soon as she sees we are there. She tells me in English that this boy did not do his exercise. Jen is my friend. I knew it was okay to beat students in schools here, but I was not really prepared. I made an excuse in my head- "This is a bad student"- even though I knew if I went to primary school here I would have been beaten plenty too. She goes on with teaching, but I am slightly shaken. Each class I go to, I feel the teacher stress a bit, like I am an auditor checking up on them. The students are slightly stressed too- when a question is asked they are all eager to answer. In Katherine's class she gets in trouble, but luckily not beaten, for enthusiastically standing up while raising her hand to answer a question. All the while the kids make eye contact with me . I told Juster about this and she laughed and said, "Brie they are all so silly, really. They all think that if they show you that they are the smartest and best you might keep them." "Keep them," I said, "Don't they have parents?" She replied with, "Yes, most of them do- but they want you to take them." "Take them where?" I asked. Her response, "They want you to take them anywhere." I reminded her that I wasn't married and would probably not be capable of caring for 990 seven to fourteen year olds.
I watched all 15 of the teachers teach something. I saw nine of them beat a child, two of them beat their entire class. I cannot really convey the horror of it. I am still in shock even as I type this. I know I am pretty overly sensitive to the ways of the world, I cannot even watch a violent movie. I have seen parents hit their kids in the states, I have hit my siblings, but watching a child get beaten in school is entirely different. Especially an African child. Imagine the child I have described- ragged uniform, thin, shaved head, big eyes,- being hit repeatedly. During the two class beatings, I was unsure of what to do. One teacher came in with two sticks, handed one to the main teacher, and the students all put out their hands. Wap! Wap! Twice on each hand, on each student, like a whip in the wind and then connecting with bare skin. I looked away- I could not meet the students eyes, I could not condone what was being done. The sound would not leave my head. I thought about standing up and yelling for them to stop it. I thought about walking out. I thought about going to the students who had already been beaten and kissing there hands like we would do to an injured child in the states. But I did none of this. I looked away- tears threatening to roll down my cheeks. I said in my head, "Brienne, this is not the time- you are an anthropologist (which I keep telling myself to deal with a lot of what happens here.) You are just hear to observe. The teachers don't know any better- this is what was done to them when they were in school. Just because this is not my way, doesn't mean that my way is better or right and this is wrong." But deep in my heart I still felt this was wrong. None of the students cried, but they could not keep the tears from streaming down there cheeks in pain as they held their red hands. Shame written on there faces when they looked at me- I wanted to shrink into the wall.
When I was able to escape, I text Josh, who teaches at a secondary school and I know has had to see a lot of this. I text fear, frustration, guilt. He text back- opportunity. He advised me to pull the teachers aside, explain our methods in America, to set a different example, to remind them of TZ corporal punishment laws, to start a dialogue. I pulled both Jen and Juster aside later to talk about what I felt. (I did not see Juster beat a student, but instead teach a pretty good English class, but I know from this conversation that she has.) They both told me that African students are more stubborn than American students- which is funny, because they both admitted that they didn't in fact know any American students. Mostly, I listened to start with, I wanted to know why they believed that beatings would work. It just seemed to be the only option that they had thought of. Juster had an interesting response, " We learned this way from you white people. This is the way that you used to control Africans." Ouch! Thanks again colonization- the root of all evils here. I told her an American teacher would go to jail for what I had seen that day. This shocked her a bit, and she reminded me that in America we treat children as equals, which they are not. I am brainstorming more talks about these issues, but for now I just told them that students in my classes would not be beaten. They both laughed and said, "How will you control them? You won't teach them anything then. It will never work, you will get nothing from them." I told them I will control them through friendship, admiration, through mutual respect, through love- not through fear. They thought about this a minute, but they still don't believe that it could work.
At the start of the new year, I am hoping to begin to teach a health/life skills class to both girls and boys at the school. It will be taught in both English and Kiswahili, so that I can practice and they can begin some English lessons. It will answer health questions and have a strong arts component because this is not taught in schools. We will put on productions, write and draw about health issues for other students and the community. And there will be no beatings. Next to this, Primary school in the states was a piece of cake.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Village Life
The best way to describe my village life is through Dr. Seuss:
"I am afraid sometimes you'll play lonely games too. Games you can't win 'cause you'll play against you. All alone! Whether you like it or not, alone will be something you'll be quite a lot. And when your alone there's a very good chance you'll meet some things that scare you right out of your pants. There are some down the road between hither and yon that will scare you so much you won't want to go on. But on you will go."
There is no typical day yet for me in the village, but I will attempt to create one through a hybrid of days. Village days I spend mostly in my head- as my inability to communicate gives me ample time to think and process. I have received many emails about what an amazing life I am leading, how I am changing the world, etc.- which I appreciate, however, this entry's goal is to dispel these myths. The blog usually just hits the high points, but this entry will let you know exactly what I am doing most of my days. I should say that for the first three months the Peace Corps really expects nothing out of their volunteers, so it isn't that I am just not working. We are just supposed to hang out and try to survive, so here we go:
I wake up for the final time- after multiple night wakings at 6 am. I wake up then not because I have anything to do, but because it is starting to get light, the roosters are going crazy and I can hear the primary school kids doing their morning chores. So I roll over, and I think "What am I going to do to fill this long day?" (I know this sounds crazy to Americans who work 40+ hours a week and would love a day filled with nothing, but it is difficult to go on and on like this with no schedule.) So I get up. I put on a skirt. I access the damage the rats created during the night. I open the back door to let the wind from the valley blow into my home and it gives my villagers the signal that I am open for "Hodi-ing". Oh to describe what it means to be "Hodi-ed". My "Simplified Swahili" book claims that there is no English equivalent, but I will try. "Hodi" is what you say to announce your presence at some one's home- You say it in a particular voice that reminds me of one my Great Grandmother, Muzzie might use. Tanzanians don't really knock, the Hodi is sufficient. It is customary even to Hodi if you are following the owner of the house inside, you say it as you cross the threshold. The response is always- "karibu" - welcome. What comes with hodi-ing is salimia-ing, which is also a foreign concept to Americans. Salimia- means to greet, but it is really more than that.People will call you just to Salimia, they will come to your house just to salimia. They will ask: how is your morning? Did you wake up peacefully? How is your home? What is your news? All sorts of questions like this must be asked multiple times before you can go on with any sort of other business, and sometimes people just want to ask these questions and there is no business. To Americans, who love privacy, this is a little odd. "Why are you wasting my time?" we think. Since I live alone, they get worried that I am lonely, so I get hodied a lot, which basically just makes it hard to get other things done.
During the hodi hours, I usually try to listen to radio news. Until yesterday, I had listened to the news in German, Japanese, French and Kiswahili. Once with Bob Marley singing "Redemption Song" over the Japanese newscaster- there must have been a cross is station. Oh, shortwave radio, gotta love it. I would listen and pick out "Obama"- and cheer. At least he is doing something, even if I can't understand what it is. Finally, heard BBC Radio Africa in English- all about the market crisis and how America is no longer the world's "Super Power" and I turned it off. Mostly because here it is hard to listen and worry about rising gas prices, and who is a "Super Power" over who. Then I sit and stare for awhile. I am serious. Sure I contemplate some things- "Everyone I know is in bed right now- weird" But mostly, I just space out. Because- I can.
Then, because I am starving and refuse to light the charcoal jiko more than once a day, I go looking for food. This is very easy. I walk through the primary school- salimia some teachers, one of them is bound to invite me home with them to eat. Usually, the teacher is Juster. I know it is ridiculous for an American to be begging for food from a Tanzanian. But eating and sitting together is appreciated here. Juster says, "We are best friends, so we must share." I am going to practice making a cake next weekend on the charcoal fire because Roma and some other volunteers are coming to visit me. Then once I have perfected the process, I am going to have all the teachers over for some cake. After eating with Juster, we sit. I came across this quote in one of my PC books,
" ... People in Western civilization no longer have time for each other, they do not share the experience of time. This explains why Westerners are incapable of understanding the psychology of sitting. In villages all over the world, sitting is an important social activity. Sitting is not a 'waste of time' nor is it a manifestation of laziness. Sitting is having time together, time to cultivate social relations." - Andreas Fuglesang
Being in Tanzania has made me realize more about America and Americans than I thought it would. We feel the need to have noise, to be entertaining or entertained. It is not that we are more active than Tanzanians, because we most certainly are not. But they will visit a neighbor just to greet them and sit with them, maybe for an hour or more, maybe not even talking- just to keep them company. I found all of this silence and sitting really awkward at first. But now it is relaxing- to not be forced to think of something to say in your second language is relieving, to be alone with your thoughts, but still in some one's presence is reassuring. Juster and I sit a lot, sometimes in silence, sometimes exchanging cross cultural information. Sometimes when Juster is not teaching we go walking.
There are six subvillages in my village and so there are many people to meet and greet. I met one of my closest neighbors- who is actually not that close to me since I am on the school grounds. He is an old man, who the villagers believe is a wizard. He told me how my village got it's name from the Kibena word for "Knife". The story goes that the villagers were murdering each other, some were possessed by witches (On a side note: Supposedly there are a lot of "Witches" in my village- Cool, I guess) Anyways, the missionaries came and started calling the village the village of knives- the name stuck. Just yesterday, Juster had a stomach pain that she blamed on witches. This is a big things in this area. I am thinking of doing a side project, that has nothing to do with the PC, on tracking and recording some of these "Magenie/Witch" type stories and writing something about witchcraft and spirituality in this part of Tanzania. Not sure what type of format this writing will take- but I find the beliefs here to be fascinating.
After the primary school lets out, I get my favorite visitor- Katherine. She is my only child friend so far in the village. She is seven, but looks no older than five. Petite as a little ballerina, she reminds me of a dark little thumbalina in her tattered dress. She has small white baby teeth, a shaved head (Like all P. School students) and a voice so squeaky and high it sounds like it could break glass. Katherine comes to my house alone and greets me in a rural fashion. First, she curtsies and lowers he head. Then she raises her hands up and I kneel so she can touch her hands first to my head and then to my heart, while saying in her high little voice "Shikamoo!"- which literally means, "I will hold your feet." This greeting comes from colonial times but is now the respectful greeting for someone older or in a higher class than you are. I respond with "Marahaba"- I accept. I had a really hard time with this greeting when I first came to Tanzania. Not giving it to people who are older than me, but receiving it from people, because I knew it's origins and people give it to me who are much older than I am because I am white. I think it is sort of awkward even when children do it- because I have respect for them as well. My host siblings would give me that greeting every time they saw me. What it really comes down to is that in Tanzania, not everyone is equal. I have realized that this is something that is fundamentally instilled in all Americans- "Liberty and justice for all", or equality.
Anyways, I am convinced that Katherine is the bravest child in my village, as she is the only child who comes to the white woman's house alone and walks right in. The rest of the children who I see are frightened or embarrassed, but not Katherine. At first I didn't know what to do with her. I left the door open and worried her parents would be concerned with where she was and why she was hanging out with this strange adult- but than I realized that this is not America. People here trust, they don't check up on their kids, they don't worry about kidnappings, etc. So I shut the door, gave her a lolly pop, made us some hot chocolate and made my first child friend. I got down the box of crayons and some paper, thinking that I would have to coax her into drawing, but hardly. She drew and drew and sang and sang as she drew. This gave me an idea. Kids here are not encouraged to play or be creative or to express much. So, project one: I am going to create a girls group, almost more for myself than for the girls, because let's face it: I need some friends and something to do. Why girls? They have life a lot harder here than boys, and being a woman it will be easier. It will start out slowly and casually, with Katherine maybe one day a week coming to my house after school. Soon once other kids are more comfortable with me and see what a good time she is having more of her friends will come. My ideas so far are doing small activities together- writing and illustrating stories, working on homework together, teaching each other Kiswahili and English, doing yoga in my courtyard, baking, or gardening. I also have this pen pal idea that I need to work the kinks out of. I want to match these girls up with some girls in the states, then they can write to each other about their lives and issues that girls are facing worldwide. I would translate the letters, therefore practicing my Kiswahili. Might need help getting American girls interested, but I know the girls here would love to receive letters from America and practice their writing. It would be very small scale, but I would hope that through these activities we could start to talk openly about health, self esteem, spirituality, sexuality, what it means to be a woman in Africa, while playing and creating. The thing that I am most fearful about in starting this is my lack of language- I just keep telling myself it will come.
After Katherine leaves, I have a few hours until dark. I finally light the charcoal jiko- even though it takes me 4-6 tries and I have to get down on my knees and blow on it. I take one of the buckets of water that some primary school child has fetched for me and put it over the jiko to heat up a bath. As it heats, I start sorting rice and beans- pulling out the bad one, the rocks, the bugs. Than I cut tomatoes and onions to add to the nightly concoction. After the water is hot, I put dinner on the jiko and then haul the water to the courtyard to bathe. I bathe as well as one can in the village, and have started to bathe more often, as I have heard that cleanliness will keep the jiggers (Who lay eggs in your feet) away. Then as dinner continues to cook, I read or write or text other volunteers- "What are they doing?" or "When are we meeting in town?" I light the candles for light and the fire for warmth- I lock and close the doors and pull the jiko inside. I sit and think how fun it would be to eat this dinner with someone, to play cards, to enjoy the fire. I think about my parents, who I hope can visit, and picture how impressed they will be when they come and see that I can cook dinner over a fire. But I am alone, and when it comes down to it, all we really have is ourselves- so I see what I have to offer. I eat dinner out of the pot and then boil drinking water to put through my filter. I think of home- I try not to think of home- I think of this present moment- I think of what I need to do immediately next to stay comfortable, to stay healthy, to stay sane, to stay here. So I distract myself, I write, I read, I listen to my ipod.
Is it 8.30 yet? This is the time that I make myself stay in the living room until. It is. I brush my teeth, blow out all the candles except one in my room and go in. Inside the bedroom the moon in blazing through the windows, lighting up the valley below. I almost don't even need a candle the sky is lit up naturally. Nights in Africa are long. It gets dark around 7 pm and since we are on the equator, it doesn't get light again until after 6 am. Nights are also really loud, not loud in the American sense- when your village only has one car which is usually broken down it is hard to have "Traffic noise". But loud in a foreign sense: bugs chirping and chiming together, People talking, laughing, singing, drumming, animals moving about, rats and bats having a party in the ceiling boards, a bushbaby wailing in the dark, the house settles and the tin roof creaks. The worst nightmare for a light sleeper/insomniac. Can I sleep? Will I ever fall asleep? I only have to wonder once, because living in Tanzania is exhausting. But my sleep is fitful as my dreams are filled with garble I don't understand, black and white people mixing, scenes from Lake Oswego, from Eugene, from Kilosa, from Njombe. Where am I? Who am I? In my dreams I look down- my hands are black, but my arms are white-
"I am afraid sometimes you'll play lonely games too. Games you can't win 'cause you'll play against you. All alone! Whether you like it or not, alone will be something you'll be quite a lot. And when your alone there's a very good chance you'll meet some things that scare you right out of your pants. There are some down the road between hither and yon that will scare you so much you won't want to go on. But on you will go."
There is no typical day yet for me in the village, but I will attempt to create one through a hybrid of days. Village days I spend mostly in my head- as my inability to communicate gives me ample time to think and process. I have received many emails about what an amazing life I am leading, how I am changing the world, etc.- which I appreciate, however, this entry's goal is to dispel these myths. The blog usually just hits the high points, but this entry will let you know exactly what I am doing most of my days. I should say that for the first three months the Peace Corps really expects nothing out of their volunteers, so it isn't that I am just not working. We are just supposed to hang out and try to survive, so here we go:
I wake up for the final time- after multiple night wakings at 6 am. I wake up then not because I have anything to do, but because it is starting to get light, the roosters are going crazy and I can hear the primary school kids doing their morning chores. So I roll over, and I think "What am I going to do to fill this long day?" (I know this sounds crazy to Americans who work 40+ hours a week and would love a day filled with nothing, but it is difficult to go on and on like this with no schedule.) So I get up. I put on a skirt. I access the damage the rats created during the night. I open the back door to let the wind from the valley blow into my home and it gives my villagers the signal that I am open for "Hodi-ing". Oh to describe what it means to be "Hodi-ed". My "Simplified Swahili" book claims that there is no English equivalent, but I will try. "Hodi" is what you say to announce your presence at some one's home- You say it in a particular voice that reminds me of one my Great Grandmother, Muzzie might use. Tanzanians don't really knock, the Hodi is sufficient. It is customary even to Hodi if you are following the owner of the house inside, you say it as you cross the threshold. The response is always- "karibu" - welcome. What comes with hodi-ing is salimia-ing, which is also a foreign concept to Americans. Salimia- means to greet, but it is really more than that.People will call you just to Salimia, they will come to your house just to salimia. They will ask: how is your morning? Did you wake up peacefully? How is your home? What is your news? All sorts of questions like this must be asked multiple times before you can go on with any sort of other business, and sometimes people just want to ask these questions and there is no business. To Americans, who love privacy, this is a little odd. "Why are you wasting my time?" we think. Since I live alone, they get worried that I am lonely, so I get hodied a lot, which basically just makes it hard to get other things done.
During the hodi hours, I usually try to listen to radio news. Until yesterday, I had listened to the news in German, Japanese, French and Kiswahili. Once with Bob Marley singing "Redemption Song" over the Japanese newscaster- there must have been a cross is station. Oh, shortwave radio, gotta love it. I would listen and pick out "Obama"- and cheer. At least he is doing something, even if I can't understand what it is. Finally, heard BBC Radio Africa in English- all about the market crisis and how America is no longer the world's "Super Power" and I turned it off. Mostly because here it is hard to listen and worry about rising gas prices, and who is a "Super Power" over who. Then I sit and stare for awhile. I am serious. Sure I contemplate some things- "Everyone I know is in bed right now- weird" But mostly, I just space out. Because- I can.
Then, because I am starving and refuse to light the charcoal jiko more than once a day, I go looking for food. This is very easy. I walk through the primary school- salimia some teachers, one of them is bound to invite me home with them to eat. Usually, the teacher is Juster. I know it is ridiculous for an American to be begging for food from a Tanzanian. But eating and sitting together is appreciated here. Juster says, "We are best friends, so we must share." I am going to practice making a cake next weekend on the charcoal fire because Roma and some other volunteers are coming to visit me. Then once I have perfected the process, I am going to have all the teachers over for some cake. After eating with Juster, we sit. I came across this quote in one of my PC books,
" ... People in Western civilization no longer have time for each other, they do not share the experience of time. This explains why Westerners are incapable of understanding the psychology of sitting. In villages all over the world, sitting is an important social activity. Sitting is not a 'waste of time' nor is it a manifestation of laziness. Sitting is having time together, time to cultivate social relations." - Andreas Fuglesang
Being in Tanzania has made me realize more about America and Americans than I thought it would. We feel the need to have noise, to be entertaining or entertained. It is not that we are more active than Tanzanians, because we most certainly are not. But they will visit a neighbor just to greet them and sit with them, maybe for an hour or more, maybe not even talking- just to keep them company. I found all of this silence and sitting really awkward at first. But now it is relaxing- to not be forced to think of something to say in your second language is relieving, to be alone with your thoughts, but still in some one's presence is reassuring. Juster and I sit a lot, sometimes in silence, sometimes exchanging cross cultural information. Sometimes when Juster is not teaching we go walking.
There are six subvillages in my village and so there are many people to meet and greet. I met one of my closest neighbors- who is actually not that close to me since I am on the school grounds. He is an old man, who the villagers believe is a wizard. He told me how my village got it's name from the Kibena word for "Knife". The story goes that the villagers were murdering each other, some were possessed by witches (On a side note: Supposedly there are a lot of "Witches" in my village- Cool, I guess) Anyways, the missionaries came and started calling the village the village of knives- the name stuck. Just yesterday, Juster had a stomach pain that she blamed on witches. This is a big things in this area. I am thinking of doing a side project, that has nothing to do with the PC, on tracking and recording some of these "Magenie/Witch" type stories and writing something about witchcraft and spirituality in this part of Tanzania. Not sure what type of format this writing will take- but I find the beliefs here to be fascinating.
After the primary school lets out, I get my favorite visitor- Katherine. She is my only child friend so far in the village. She is seven, but looks no older than five. Petite as a little ballerina, she reminds me of a dark little thumbalina in her tattered dress. She has small white baby teeth, a shaved head (Like all P. School students) and a voice so squeaky and high it sounds like it could break glass. Katherine comes to my house alone and greets me in a rural fashion. First, she curtsies and lowers he head. Then she raises her hands up and I kneel so she can touch her hands first to my head and then to my heart, while saying in her high little voice "Shikamoo!"- which literally means, "I will hold your feet." This greeting comes from colonial times but is now the respectful greeting for someone older or in a higher class than you are. I respond with "Marahaba"- I accept. I had a really hard time with this greeting when I first came to Tanzania. Not giving it to people who are older than me, but receiving it from people, because I knew it's origins and people give it to me who are much older than I am because I am white. I think it is sort of awkward even when children do it- because I have respect for them as well. My host siblings would give me that greeting every time they saw me. What it really comes down to is that in Tanzania, not everyone is equal. I have realized that this is something that is fundamentally instilled in all Americans- "Liberty and justice for all", or equality.
Anyways, I am convinced that Katherine is the bravest child in my village, as she is the only child who comes to the white woman's house alone and walks right in. The rest of the children who I see are frightened or embarrassed, but not Katherine. At first I didn't know what to do with her. I left the door open and worried her parents would be concerned with where she was and why she was hanging out with this strange adult- but than I realized that this is not America. People here trust, they don't check up on their kids, they don't worry about kidnappings, etc. So I shut the door, gave her a lolly pop, made us some hot chocolate and made my first child friend. I got down the box of crayons and some paper, thinking that I would have to coax her into drawing, but hardly. She drew and drew and sang and sang as she drew. This gave me an idea. Kids here are not encouraged to play or be creative or to express much. So, project one: I am going to create a girls group, almost more for myself than for the girls, because let's face it: I need some friends and something to do. Why girls? They have life a lot harder here than boys, and being a woman it will be easier. It will start out slowly and casually, with Katherine maybe one day a week coming to my house after school. Soon once other kids are more comfortable with me and see what a good time she is having more of her friends will come. My ideas so far are doing small activities together- writing and illustrating stories, working on homework together, teaching each other Kiswahili and English, doing yoga in my courtyard, baking, or gardening. I also have this pen pal idea that I need to work the kinks out of. I want to match these girls up with some girls in the states, then they can write to each other about their lives and issues that girls are facing worldwide. I would translate the letters, therefore practicing my Kiswahili. Might need help getting American girls interested, but I know the girls here would love to receive letters from America and practice their writing. It would be very small scale, but I would hope that through these activities we could start to talk openly about health, self esteem, spirituality, sexuality, what it means to be a woman in Africa, while playing and creating. The thing that I am most fearful about in starting this is my lack of language- I just keep telling myself it will come.
After Katherine leaves, I have a few hours until dark. I finally light the charcoal jiko- even though it takes me 4-6 tries and I have to get down on my knees and blow on it. I take one of the buckets of water that some primary school child has fetched for me and put it over the jiko to heat up a bath. As it heats, I start sorting rice and beans- pulling out the bad one, the rocks, the bugs. Than I cut tomatoes and onions to add to the nightly concoction. After the water is hot, I put dinner on the jiko and then haul the water to the courtyard to bathe. I bathe as well as one can in the village, and have started to bathe more often, as I have heard that cleanliness will keep the jiggers (Who lay eggs in your feet) away. Then as dinner continues to cook, I read or write or text other volunteers- "What are they doing?" or "When are we meeting in town?" I light the candles for light and the fire for warmth- I lock and close the doors and pull the jiko inside. I sit and think how fun it would be to eat this dinner with someone, to play cards, to enjoy the fire. I think about my parents, who I hope can visit, and picture how impressed they will be when they come and see that I can cook dinner over a fire. But I am alone, and when it comes down to it, all we really have is ourselves- so I see what I have to offer. I eat dinner out of the pot and then boil drinking water to put through my filter. I think of home- I try not to think of home- I think of this present moment- I think of what I need to do immediately next to stay comfortable, to stay healthy, to stay sane, to stay here. So I distract myself, I write, I read, I listen to my ipod.
Is it 8.30 yet? This is the time that I make myself stay in the living room until. It is. I brush my teeth, blow out all the candles except one in my room and go in. Inside the bedroom the moon in blazing through the windows, lighting up the valley below. I almost don't even need a candle the sky is lit up naturally. Nights in Africa are long. It gets dark around 7 pm and since we are on the equator, it doesn't get light again until after 6 am. Nights are also really loud, not loud in the American sense- when your village only has one car which is usually broken down it is hard to have "Traffic noise". But loud in a foreign sense: bugs chirping and chiming together, People talking, laughing, singing, drumming, animals moving about, rats and bats having a party in the ceiling boards, a bushbaby wailing in the dark, the house settles and the tin roof creaks. The worst nightmare for a light sleeper/insomniac. Can I sleep? Will I ever fall asleep? I only have to wonder once, because living in Tanzania is exhausting. But my sleep is fitful as my dreams are filled with garble I don't understand, black and white people mixing, scenes from Lake Oswego, from Eugene, from Kilosa, from Njombe. Where am I? Who am I? In my dreams I look down- my hands are black, but my arms are white-
Walking, Walking... An Italian Lunch?
Kindergarden Started by CEFA
And I was afraid they would speak too much English here. Chalk Board at a Primary school saying " Our Mottor: Education is a key of Lifse"
Roma drumming for the students. Behind him is one of the Italians, Gabrielle.
September 24, 2008
The next day we left Roma's home after having chai. We left around 10 am for what we believed would be a two hour walk to another village. We set off enjoying the beauty of the southern highlands- up and down, up and down, no flats here. Walking through the dust with sweeping views of chai estates and hills beyond. Walking in this region is super tiring- high altitudes, no flats to rest on, and we are nearing the end of the dry season so the dust lies on the road like snow, usually about a foot deep. It is not super hot, but sweaty just the same, and dirty always dirty. After climbing through a chai field that Roma claimed was a short-cut, it was almost vertically uphill, so that I had to put my hands on the ground to help me climb, I was pretty much exhausted. Also I was wearing my big backpack since I would be away from site for over a week. We were reading to be there. But no.
On and on we went- hour after hour. Finally we got to a village with a secondary school where we rested and had sodas with the head teacher. Whenever, there is more than one white person in a one place it is a big deal- so we met all the students and Roma played them a song written by Jason- about staying in school- Josh knows the guitar part so they played for the students. Then it was back to walking. Around each corner we were sure was the village- be we were mistaken. Roma skipped along, sipping Gatorade through his camel pack and playing the guitar, reminding me of a Tanzanian Pied Piper- with his rats dragging behind him. The bottoms of my feet were falling off- I am not being poetic, the skin was literally coming off them. Finally, around sunset we hitched a ride on a chai truck, realizing that we had been walking for 8 hours, not including the brief break.
So many people have asked me if I am losing weight here- it is impossible not to. Despite the carb heavy diet, I can eat whatever I want in whatever quantity. This is actually a lie, because whatever I want is not available (A croissant from Grand Central Bakery? A Burgerville milkshake, perhaps?) Anyways, it is impossible not to because it is impossible to be still here. Everything takes so much work. There is always walking to be done. The other night I had thirds on rice and beans, which is weird that I thought it was so good, because this is what we eat two to three meals a day.
A student of Josh's, who was home for break showed us around his village. We had all planned on leaving that day, but since I could barely walk I was worried how I would ever get out of there. We went to the primary school, where once again we had to introduce ourselves to all the students. Next we went to CEFA, an Italian NGO, doing work in that village. Here we met two Italian guys who showed us around. They have a great garden, a sewing shop and some kindergartens going. We went to visit one of the Kindergartens where the children sang for us. They also took us to the hydro-electric plant that their organization had built. And as luck would have it, they were headed our direction later that night in their car and offered to drive us to site. We had lunch at their place, complete with red wine, crusty Italian bread, and espresso- as they smoked cigarettes. I felt like I did at Zummi and Adina's- "Where am I again?" The conversation was interesting as their English wasn't great, and we speak no Italian- So most of the communication was done in Kiswahili- every ones second language, except Roma's.
Later as we headed out over the potholed, mountainous road in their truck- All I could think was when you wake up in the morning in Tanzania, you never know what the day will bring or who you will meet. But mostly I thought, "I can't believe I walked this..."
The next day we left Roma's home after having chai. We left around 10 am for what we believed would be a two hour walk to another village. We set off enjoying the beauty of the southern highlands- up and down, up and down, no flats here. Walking through the dust with sweeping views of chai estates and hills beyond. Walking in this region is super tiring- high altitudes, no flats to rest on, and we are nearing the end of the dry season so the dust lies on the road like snow, usually about a foot deep. It is not super hot, but sweaty just the same, and dirty always dirty. After climbing through a chai field that Roma claimed was a short-cut, it was almost vertically uphill, so that I had to put my hands on the ground to help me climb, I was pretty much exhausted. Also I was wearing my big backpack since I would be away from site for over a week. We were reading to be there. But no.
On and on we went- hour after hour. Finally we got to a village with a secondary school where we rested and had sodas with the head teacher. Whenever, there is more than one white person in a one place it is a big deal- so we met all the students and Roma played them a song written by Jason- about staying in school- Josh knows the guitar part so they played for the students. Then it was back to walking. Around each corner we were sure was the village- be we were mistaken. Roma skipped along, sipping Gatorade through his camel pack and playing the guitar, reminding me of a Tanzanian Pied Piper- with his rats dragging behind him. The bottoms of my feet were falling off- I am not being poetic, the skin was literally coming off them. Finally, around sunset we hitched a ride on a chai truck, realizing that we had been walking for 8 hours, not including the brief break.
So many people have asked me if I am losing weight here- it is impossible not to. Despite the carb heavy diet, I can eat whatever I want in whatever quantity. This is actually a lie, because whatever I want is not available (A croissant from Grand Central Bakery? A Burgerville milkshake, perhaps?) Anyways, it is impossible not to because it is impossible to be still here. Everything takes so much work. There is always walking to be done. The other night I had thirds on rice and beans, which is weird that I thought it was so good, because this is what we eat two to three meals a day.
A student of Josh's, who was home for break showed us around his village. We had all planned on leaving that day, but since I could barely walk I was worried how I would ever get out of there. We went to the primary school, where once again we had to introduce ourselves to all the students. Next we went to CEFA, an Italian NGO, doing work in that village. Here we met two Italian guys who showed us around. They have a great garden, a sewing shop and some kindergartens going. We went to visit one of the Kindergartens where the children sang for us. They also took us to the hydro-electric plant that their organization had built. And as luck would have it, they were headed our direction later that night in their car and offered to drive us to site. We had lunch at their place, complete with red wine, crusty Italian bread, and espresso- as they smoked cigarettes. I felt like I did at Zummi and Adina's- "Where am I again?" The conversation was interesting as their English wasn't great, and we speak no Italian- So most of the communication was done in Kiswahili- every ones second language, except Roma's.
Later as we headed out over the potholed, mountainous road in their truck- All I could think was when you wake up in the morning in Tanzania, you never know what the day will bring or who you will meet. But mostly I thought, "I can't believe I walked this..."
Friday, October 3, 2008
Roma
Josh and Roma- Playing music at his house
Roma- Drumming (Pictures are blurry from dust in the air- from all the dancing)
Roma- Dancing and Playing Music
It's a dance Party at Roma's Home!
Two of Roma's ChildrenSeptember 23, 2008
We walked from Josh's village to a neighboring one the next day. We had also met up with two German boys in Josh's village who were there studying the Tanzanian education system who ate pizza with us and drank beer the night before, so they came along too. We walked about 13k to a village which had a volunteer named Jason, he left in July after three years of service, but I never met him. Josh and Jason were close friends since they were neighbors by PC standards, so Josh knows Jason's Tanzanian counterpart, Roma. (We are all supposed to have a Tanzanian counterpart to train and do workshops with. Mine will be Juster.) I want to be careful in explaining Roma- to fully do him justice, because I have never met anyone like him, and it is agreed upon by every PCV who meets him that there is just something special about this guy. Also he is a great example of a PC success story or making change on a small personal scale.
A man walks up to meet us hugs those of us he has met before- but shakes my hand- Roma. He is shorter than I am and thin- attractive, smiling face with a childlike exuberance that can only be taken as a love of people and life, not at all of nativity. Roma jokes that now because Jason is gone, he is the only Mzungu (foreigner) left in his village. This is funny because Roma speaks no English, however, he is very mzungu. Jason gave him almost everything he owned when he left, so Roma has American things all through his house- even a twister board as a curtain. He wears a ring on his finger that says "love" in English. He lives with his wife, Mama David, and his three young children. Roma is different- he plays with his children, is affectionate toward his wife, he cleans up after meals, he is kind to his dog, (which also used to be Jason's)- he says he learned all of these things from Americans and that they make his family happy. A true cross cultural exchange. Roma now rides Jason's bike and helmet (no Tanzanians wear helmets) to vaccinate livestock (a skill he learned from his PCV)- so like I said small scale, sustainable change to a life. I hope that I can have a relationship like this with a Tanzanian. There is no way to describe the way that Roma talks about Jason- besides pure love. Roma is so excited to be introduced to another group of volunteers.
Roma was super excited to have so many white guests- we pitched tents in his yard, which is a great way to stay with a Tanzanian because they don't have to worry about where the white person will sleep and yet you can still take part in all the daily activities. Roma belongs to a drumming/dance group that came over to his place to party with us- we ate dinner, they drummed and we all danced. It was a really beautiful evening with such a warm welcome for us. I was disappointed that I could take so little with Roma- despite the fact that he knows about PCVs, so he speaks slowly in condensed words. But he told me he was sorry that his English was "brokeny"- I told him that my Kiswahili was as well and we smiled at each other- the most basic language.
I wish you could meet Roma and this story would be better- but I must tell it just the same. I am not sure what started it, as I have the unfortunate habit of spacing out periodically when too much Kiswahili is being spoken. But somehow Roma gets on the subject of "Magenie"- which is genie, like we know it- but a very bad spirit. He starts talking about these magenies and encounters with them that he has had. The funniest part about it was he was telling these stories to Josh and I acting out a monologue with Josh translating for me. Josh is an atheist, who fully believes in scientific explanations for everything, so he doesn't buy into all these Tanzanian superstitions. So the funny part was as Roma was acting, he was making Josh translate the whole story to me despite the eye rolls and lack of excitment on his end. I think we all know that I love this ghost/spirit/superstitious stuff- so I was having a great time. It is all so fascinating from a cultural perspective- so I was eating it up, asking questions, responding, etc. Anyways, the story vaguely goes- Roma's wife had called him to come home for "loving time" (Seriously- this is the way he starts the story.) He is on his way home when he sees a genie-I ask how will I know when I see a genie. Answer: The look just like a regular person but they have no eyes, nose or teeth. They also smell really bad...Hmmm... Anyways, the genie chased him and he hide in a field- although, he admits, that it is stupid to hide from a genie as they can get in anywhere and then they just laugh at you for hiding. But this time he was able to escape.
Then he tells us more about genies, because he enjoys that I am so interested. They can rape and impregnate women. When one goes to the fields and leaves their children at home a genie can come and start playing with the children. But then eventually they will eat the child. Also, he has heard of them haunting houses- the solution is to throw a big party and invite the genies. Then when they come you burn the house down... extreme, I know. So Roma acts out all these stories totally straight-faced, thinking that it is crazy that Americans are not fearing the magenie. Josh has his head in his hands and is translating to me in a totally dull, doubtful voice- which is a great compliment to Roma and my excitement. I am attempting to keep from laughing so hard that I cry- and asking josh to question Roma about more things- "What about short genies- like gnomes, or something?" Answer: yes, his mother and grandmother saw them when they were working in the fields. I really wish I had the whole exchange on tape.
I am really happy to have a friend in Roma. Someone who is a genuinely good person and excited about life. Since meeting him I have worked harder than ever at Kiswahili- this way I will have my own really good Magenie story next time we meet.
We walked from Josh's village to a neighboring one the next day. We had also met up with two German boys in Josh's village who were there studying the Tanzanian education system who ate pizza with us and drank beer the night before, so they came along too. We walked about 13k to a village which had a volunteer named Jason, he left in July after three years of service, but I never met him. Josh and Jason were close friends since they were neighbors by PC standards, so Josh knows Jason's Tanzanian counterpart, Roma. (We are all supposed to have a Tanzanian counterpart to train and do workshops with. Mine will be Juster.) I want to be careful in explaining Roma- to fully do him justice, because I have never met anyone like him, and it is agreed upon by every PCV who meets him that there is just something special about this guy. Also he is a great example of a PC success story or making change on a small personal scale.
A man walks up to meet us hugs those of us he has met before- but shakes my hand- Roma. He is shorter than I am and thin- attractive, smiling face with a childlike exuberance that can only be taken as a love of people and life, not at all of nativity. Roma jokes that now because Jason is gone, he is the only Mzungu (foreigner) left in his village. This is funny because Roma speaks no English, however, he is very mzungu. Jason gave him almost everything he owned when he left, so Roma has American things all through his house- even a twister board as a curtain. He wears a ring on his finger that says "love" in English. He lives with his wife, Mama David, and his three young children. Roma is different- he plays with his children, is affectionate toward his wife, he cleans up after meals, he is kind to his dog, (which also used to be Jason's)- he says he learned all of these things from Americans and that they make his family happy. A true cross cultural exchange. Roma now rides Jason's bike and helmet (no Tanzanians wear helmets) to vaccinate livestock (a skill he learned from his PCV)- so like I said small scale, sustainable change to a life. I hope that I can have a relationship like this with a Tanzanian. There is no way to describe the way that Roma talks about Jason- besides pure love. Roma is so excited to be introduced to another group of volunteers.
Roma was super excited to have so many white guests- we pitched tents in his yard, which is a great way to stay with a Tanzanian because they don't have to worry about where the white person will sleep and yet you can still take part in all the daily activities. Roma belongs to a drumming/dance group that came over to his place to party with us- we ate dinner, they drummed and we all danced. It was a really beautiful evening with such a warm welcome for us. I was disappointed that I could take so little with Roma- despite the fact that he knows about PCVs, so he speaks slowly in condensed words. But he told me he was sorry that his English was "brokeny"- I told him that my Kiswahili was as well and we smiled at each other- the most basic language.
I wish you could meet Roma and this story would be better- but I must tell it just the same. I am not sure what started it, as I have the unfortunate habit of spacing out periodically when too much Kiswahili is being spoken. But somehow Roma gets on the subject of "Magenie"- which is genie, like we know it- but a very bad spirit. He starts talking about these magenies and encounters with them that he has had. The funniest part about it was he was telling these stories to Josh and I acting out a monologue with Josh translating for me. Josh is an atheist, who fully believes in scientific explanations for everything, so he doesn't buy into all these Tanzanian superstitions. So the funny part was as Roma was acting, he was making Josh translate the whole story to me despite the eye rolls and lack of excitment on his end. I think we all know that I love this ghost/spirit/superstitious stuff- so I was having a great time. It is all so fascinating from a cultural perspective- so I was eating it up, asking questions, responding, etc. Anyways, the story vaguely goes- Roma's wife had called him to come home for "loving time" (Seriously- this is the way he starts the story.) He is on his way home when he sees a genie-I ask how will I know when I see a genie. Answer: The look just like a regular person but they have no eyes, nose or teeth. They also smell really bad...Hmmm... Anyways, the genie chased him and he hide in a field- although, he admits, that it is stupid to hide from a genie as they can get in anywhere and then they just laugh at you for hiding. But this time he was able to escape.
Then he tells us more about genies, because he enjoys that I am so interested. They can rape and impregnate women. When one goes to the fields and leaves their children at home a genie can come and start playing with the children. But then eventually they will eat the child. Also, he has heard of them haunting houses- the solution is to throw a big party and invite the genies. Then when they come you burn the house down... extreme, I know. So Roma acts out all these stories totally straight-faced, thinking that it is crazy that Americans are not fearing the magenie. Josh has his head in his hands and is translating to me in a totally dull, doubtful voice- which is a great compliment to Roma and my excitement. I am attempting to keep from laughing so hard that I cry- and asking josh to question Roma about more things- "What about short genies- like gnomes, or something?" Answer: yes, his mother and grandmother saw them when they were working in the fields. I really wish I had the whole exchange on tape.
I am really happy to have a friend in Roma. Someone who is a genuinely good person and excited about life. Since meeting him I have worked harder than ever at Kiswahili- this way I will have my own really good Magenie story next time we meet.
Flower Farm
September 21, 2008
It has been a busy week- jetting around my little area of the southern highlands. I have done a lot of meeting and greeting-
First of all, the flower farm- I am not really sure where to begin as it still feels like a dream. Six of us went out there- me, and two other girls from my class- Jess and Margaret. Three of the 2nd year (I sound like I go to Hogwarts- but you know what I mean- they are about to finish service) education guys went with us, Josh, Benja, and Jonathan. Well, I guess I should say they are the ones that took us there since I have only met Zummi and Adina twice before and they are all great friends with them. I should say something here about hanging out with people who are in the process of finishing their service, because I did a lot of it this week. It is great for many reasons- they speak Kiswahili at the superior level (I am supposedly at advanced low- but doesn't really feel like it), this in itself makes it worth it because there is little to no confusion on their end when talking with Tanzanians. They also know when we are getting ripped off, how to get places, they know people wherever we go, and can give advice on things. For example, How to cook a pizza over a charcoal fire? (Answer: cook the crust first flipping it, then top it, then move the coals from the bottom to a lid over it- switching the heat source from the bottom to the top- complicated but worth it.) So overall it is great- I think the reason why they hang out with me maybe my endless questions, texts, worries, etc. that they find funny. Or maybe it is when they express fear of returning to the states I remind them that you can get a milkshake at any hour at home, or that roads can be paved... I don't know. There are times it is tough to hang out with people who have already lived here for two years and are boys- because if you have been here for two years you are in good shape- meaning able to walk with a pack long distances, haul water- no problem. Also you don't worry so much about getting sick- your stomach is tough- well, everything is, nothing phases you. I am looking forward to being at that point. But meanwhile it is frustrating to let someone do all the talking for you, to sit with a blank stare, to text someone, "How do I build my water filter again?" Basically it is just hard to be the newbie.
There are times I think I am being tough when actually I am just being stupid. For example- when building my water filter, you are supposed to poke a hole through a plastic bucket- they tell us to heat a knife up in the fire and force it through. So I heat up the Swiss Army Knife my sister gave me (The most useful thing I brought next to my headlamp.) After the third or fourth time heating and poking, the knife closes on my hand. Once I realize that all my fingers are still there and I don't need to be Med-Evaced to South Africa, I realize it is just a cut with a burn over it- "cool-" I think, "I am so tough..." So I leave it uncovered to "air out". Once I meet up with the second years in Njombe, they didn't think this was such a hot idea, as I do live in Africa in squalor- and they tell me about a girl in their group who has a cut that gets infected causing pus to ooze out of every cut in her body- not so cool. So I agree to let them neosporian and bandage up burt or curn (These are the cut/burn combinations that Benja coined for the injury.) And luckily- no pus just a large pink scar.
Anyways, back to the flower farm. Zummi picked the six of us up in his pick-up at the closest village. (I think you remember what I said about Zummi and Adina from previous entries.) We drove out a ways and then on a hill I could see about 20 large green houses. They are rose farmers- growing and importing to European markets- they are the largest employer in Njombe and have about 130 Tanzanians on staff. A bit after getting there Zummi took us on a tour, it is amazing, they had a shipment going to Amsterdam that day and we got to walk through the greenhouses and learn about how to grow roses here, what buyers are looking for, etc. We went into the sorting rooms, the cooling room, all of this being run off a generator in Tanzania. Adina is a photographer as well, so she also has a studio on the property. Zummi and Adina's house is nice and homey- with a beautiful view. They remind me of my parents at home, if you took twenty years of my parents, moved them to Africa and gave them European accents. They are good parents, warm, inviting, laid back people, with a home that you feel comfortable in immediately. And of course, it is an added benefit that they are willing to feed and bathe a bunch of hungry, dirty American kids...
We did yoga on the lawn, drank wine, ate cheese, listened to music, danced, told stories, etc. Adina made a spectacular dinner of Lebanese food- which she served us on platters and we ate with our hands. I am still thinking about this dinner- I did not know it was possible to make food this good in Tanzania- hummus, tabbouleh, flat bread, falafal, lentils, cucumber raita- there was at least ten different veggie dishes- I was in heaven! Then, get this, the eight of us took a hot tub- outside, under the starry African sky- It was so beautiful. It was weird to think where I was- I could have been anywhere- full, relaxed, surrounded in beauty, laughing with new friends. Definitely my most posh night in Tanzania so far. The next morning after pancakes and coffee (I Know!) Z and A drove us back to Josh's site- which is incredibly generous as it usually takes 4-5 hours to go the 80 K by public transport. But in Zummi's truck took us a little over 2 hours. They hung out for awhile to see what the PC life has to offer-
It has been a busy week- jetting around my little area of the southern highlands. I have done a lot of meeting and greeting-
First of all, the flower farm- I am not really sure where to begin as it still feels like a dream. Six of us went out there- me, and two other girls from my class- Jess and Margaret. Three of the 2nd year (I sound like I go to Hogwarts- but you know what I mean- they are about to finish service) education guys went with us, Josh, Benja, and Jonathan. Well, I guess I should say they are the ones that took us there since I have only met Zummi and Adina twice before and they are all great friends with them. I should say something here about hanging out with people who are in the process of finishing their service, because I did a lot of it this week. It is great for many reasons- they speak Kiswahili at the superior level (I am supposedly at advanced low- but doesn't really feel like it), this in itself makes it worth it because there is little to no confusion on their end when talking with Tanzanians. They also know when we are getting ripped off, how to get places, they know people wherever we go, and can give advice on things. For example, How to cook a pizza over a charcoal fire? (Answer: cook the crust first flipping it, then top it, then move the coals from the bottom to a lid over it- switching the heat source from the bottom to the top- complicated but worth it.) So overall it is great- I think the reason why they hang out with me maybe my endless questions, texts, worries, etc. that they find funny. Or maybe it is when they express fear of returning to the states I remind them that you can get a milkshake at any hour at home, or that roads can be paved... I don't know. There are times it is tough to hang out with people who have already lived here for two years and are boys- because if you have been here for two years you are in good shape- meaning able to walk with a pack long distances, haul water- no problem. Also you don't worry so much about getting sick- your stomach is tough- well, everything is, nothing phases you. I am looking forward to being at that point. But meanwhile it is frustrating to let someone do all the talking for you, to sit with a blank stare, to text someone, "How do I build my water filter again?" Basically it is just hard to be the newbie.
There are times I think I am being tough when actually I am just being stupid. For example- when building my water filter, you are supposed to poke a hole through a plastic bucket- they tell us to heat a knife up in the fire and force it through. So I heat up the Swiss Army Knife my sister gave me (The most useful thing I brought next to my headlamp.) After the third or fourth time heating and poking, the knife closes on my hand. Once I realize that all my fingers are still there and I don't need to be Med-Evaced to South Africa, I realize it is just a cut with a burn over it- "cool-" I think, "I am so tough..." So I leave it uncovered to "air out". Once I meet up with the second years in Njombe, they didn't think this was such a hot idea, as I do live in Africa in squalor- and they tell me about a girl in their group who has a cut that gets infected causing pus to ooze out of every cut in her body- not so cool. So I agree to let them neosporian and bandage up burt or curn (These are the cut/burn combinations that Benja coined for the injury.) And luckily- no pus just a large pink scar.
Anyways, back to the flower farm. Zummi picked the six of us up in his pick-up at the closest village. (I think you remember what I said about Zummi and Adina from previous entries.) We drove out a ways and then on a hill I could see about 20 large green houses. They are rose farmers- growing and importing to European markets- they are the largest employer in Njombe and have about 130 Tanzanians on staff. A bit after getting there Zummi took us on a tour, it is amazing, they had a shipment going to Amsterdam that day and we got to walk through the greenhouses and learn about how to grow roses here, what buyers are looking for, etc. We went into the sorting rooms, the cooling room, all of this being run off a generator in Tanzania. Adina is a photographer as well, so she also has a studio on the property. Zummi and Adina's house is nice and homey- with a beautiful view. They remind me of my parents at home, if you took twenty years of my parents, moved them to Africa and gave them European accents. They are good parents, warm, inviting, laid back people, with a home that you feel comfortable in immediately. And of course, it is an added benefit that they are willing to feed and bathe a bunch of hungry, dirty American kids...
We did yoga on the lawn, drank wine, ate cheese, listened to music, danced, told stories, etc. Adina made a spectacular dinner of Lebanese food- which she served us on platters and we ate with our hands. I am still thinking about this dinner- I did not know it was possible to make food this good in Tanzania- hummus, tabbouleh, flat bread, falafal, lentils, cucumber raita- there was at least ten different veggie dishes- I was in heaven! Then, get this, the eight of us took a hot tub- outside, under the starry African sky- It was so beautiful. It was weird to think where I was- I could have been anywhere- full, relaxed, surrounded in beauty, laughing with new friends. Definitely my most posh night in Tanzania so far. The next morning after pancakes and coffee (I Know!) Z and A drove us back to Josh's site- which is incredibly generous as it usually takes 4-5 hours to go the 80 K by public transport. But in Zummi's truck took us a little over 2 hours. They hung out for awhile to see what the PC life has to offer-
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
