This post is a little pre-mature, but I am going to try to do a village marathon (I have found that as opposed to when I first came to village, now it is where I feel happiest and most at home), so I am not sure when I will be able to update again...
June 2009
"Then the time came when the risk that it took to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."
-Anais Nin
I left my home a year ago this June. I had barely been out of Oregon, to be quite honest. Today, I sit in an internet cafe in a small town in Tanzania. This year I have cried and laughed, screamed and smiled, and I have learned... and learned... and learned...
Successes, Failures and Lessons Learned...
-I can speak and understand another language.
-A lot of times, I have no idea what to do. But I think that this is ok.
-PCVs are special people. They understand where you have been, why you are here and where you want to go.
-To be grateful for the small things in life- a rainfall, a healthy child, a good meal, a connection with a friend... There are a million things everyday.
-Everyone is on their own life path. You can only be responsible for yours.
-I love LOVE Tanzania. This is sort of weird. PCVs play this game when we are feeling unhappy. Someone says- "Brie, now why are you here?" You can name off anything you want- "Because the pineapples are cheap, because I want to change the world, because no one can get a job in America, because my village would be sad if I left, because I am changing my life..." The problem would come if you could not name anything off. The amazing thing is that for all the hard times, I can find a million reasons why I love Tanzania and Tanzanians. Most recently after playing this game I recieved a text from a PCV friend that said, "Damn girl, you are digging deep and bursting boundaries within yourself that most people can't even begin to try and face. I admire you and your spirit, lady. If you want this experience, you can have it. You just got to know it and I know that you do." That is why I am here.
-I can live without electricity and running water.
-I am more sensitive and less sensitive at the same time. I have listened to stories of abuse, rape and violence, of disease and hardship. I have seen people dying and people being born. I have seen complete joy, pure bliss in people who have nothing.
-I know what it feels like to be a minority, and sometimes it isn't that fun.
-I can do anything that I want to, if I decide that I am going to.
-I like to travel and have adventures. This will be important for the rest of my life.
-I am fully accepted in a Tanzanian village. I am a teacher, mentor, friend, and family member... In short, I am a villager. Acceptance has never been so rewarding.
-I have learned that the average American knows very little about life in the rest of the world.
-I am braver, tougher and stronger than I thought.
-Small acts of love are everywhere.
-I own about the minimal amount of clothes possible. And it is not that big of a deal.
-I have learned that the phrase "developing countries" is sort of a joke. We go in with "all the answers" but learn more in return. My village driver can fix a broken down car with one screwdriver and a bit of duct tape, a child can recognize a small sprout as what one day will be an avocado tree... Don't underestimate what people can accomplish with very little.
-Laughter and acceptance go a long way.
-People are not always what you hoped. In the end, all you have is yourself.
-I thought that I was more "put together" than I am. I am sort of reckless, impulsive and wild.
-My body might not be the shape or size that embodies "beauty" in America, but I can still be grateful. My legs can propel me over Southern Highlands hills, my immune system fights for my health, my arms lift buckets of water, and my hand can grasp onto the hand of a child. And I think that is beautiful.
-I know a lot about the behaviors of chickens and rats.
-I know what it feels like to be really and completely alone. The type of aloneness that scares the shit out of you because your only choice is to get real with yourself.
-Being stuck in a car in the mud is just being stuck in a car in the mud, ugali again is just ugali again, dirty feet are just dirty feet, huge spiders are just huge spiders... don't sweat the small stuff, and the matter of small or large is all in how you look at it.
-I talk a lot in America, in Africa I have learned to listen more.
-I have learned that my American family are the most giving, beautiful people who I love beyond words. But if you go somewhere with an open heart, even those most different from you will become your family. Family is everywhere in Tanzania. Even though my family has never been to Africa, they are here everywhere. I see my brothers in eager little boy's faces that I attempt to teach, my sisters are in the shy smiles of girls preparing food, I see my mom's hands in women all over the village who are working hard to create something beautiful, my dad is in every baba's kind eyes and encouraging words. Family appears where there is love.
-Material possessions break, get lost, get stolen from you- I let it go. I try to count the "real" things I have- My health, good family and friends, patience, forgiveness...
-I left my heart in Oregon.
-I attempt to live with no regrets. There are people all over the world who say, "I wish I would have..." I am trying not to be one of those people.
-I can light my charcoal jiko (stove) in one light.
-Romantic love might be important, but I think true love is different. It is a look that someone accepts you as what you are, trusts you and like you have changed their world just by being in it.
-I am my own best friend. This is pretty loser-ish, but also pretty cool.
-When I become a RPCV it will be my biggest life accomplishment so far.
-I have learned to try to make every moment as funny, wild, memorable, fun as possible. Sometimes PCV life is tough. So we end up doing things like pretending to be astronauts on a different planet, dancing with random children in the street, going on scavanger hunts in villages where you can't buy anything, breaking into bad American pop songs at unexpected moments. Everyday can be an adventure, if you choose to make it one.
*Thank you to everyone who has supported me this last year. Written the emails, sent the letters and packages and made the long distance phone calls. I love you and your support means everything to my experience here.
xoxo,
Brie
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Image Village Part Mbili
Me... Aren't I angelic?
Me with a new 'do and a lot of attitude
Mama Johnson and Johnson
Mjemah and Monika, taking a break from paper grading
Mwalimu Monika (Mama Latifah)
Jen
Mwalimu Msanga and Mwalimu Vakinka (Mama Lau)
Msanga (Katherine and Rebecca's Baba Mdogo- Uncle and caretaker)
Mwalimu Simon (Baba Lau) Love this man. He is only 30 but reminds me so much of my own dad sometimes...
A child
Kathrine (left) and a friend.
Kids after school getting ready to work. What looks like sticks are hoes... it is farming time.
Mwalimu Mjemah (Baba Anna), as per usual, cracking me up...
Our outdoor grading table. Around the table from the left- Mledwa, Mary, Juster, Simon, Mwalango, Monika, Msanga, and Vakinga
Kids.
Kids at school. If they are not in uniform they are too young or cannot afford to go.
Atu, age 6. My Mwalimu Mkuu and Mwalimu Anita's Daughter.
Clavel, Mchumba Wangu, (My Fiance). He told his Mom that when he grew up he was going to marry me. I am super lucky! Isn't he adorable!
Clavel, Age 3 and Lau, Age 4. If both sets of your parents were teachers and you were too young for school you would probably join the "Lost Boys" too...
My female teachers- Mwalimu Monika (Mama Latifah, squatting), Mwalimu Jen, Mwalimu Mary, Mwalimu Vakinga (Mama Lau), Mwalimu Anita (Mama Atu), and Mwalimu Juster. Not Pictured: Mwalimu Mtitu (Mama Clavel) and Me.
The ladies I spend most of my time with....
Mwalimu Vakinga, Me (the white one), and Mwalimu Mary
Mary
My Darasa Sita A Class. Yep, that is right, I try to teach these kids...
Lau, up close and personal. This kid's favorite thing to do is crawl all over me.
Katherine and Kimulimuli.
My friends
Me, Rocking out at home
My picture wall!
My bed and new paint job...
My super great wardrobe made by my talented fundi (Carpenter) Killian... The days of a suitcase are over!
Mwalimu Mledwa
My Cow... Chillin'
The Gift of Love
"He saw that Fatima's eyes were filled with tears. 'You're crying?' 'I'm a woman of the desert,' she said, averting her face. 'But above all I am a woman.'"
-Paulo Coelho
May 25, 2009
Sometimes, this blog may get too personal when i have no idea who is reading it. It is supposed to be about a Peace Corps in Tanzania but I find it really difficult to separate myself from that. Who I am is intricate to the experience. PCV life is not a great and blissful life, but it is also not a life of complete and utter despair. It is just a kind of life, with it's own ups and downs. Last week I coped okay with this life. This week I did not. And I committed the "great PC sin" of crying in front of Tanzanians. Tanzanians don't cry and are generally uncomfortable when Americans do. We are told to hold it in at all costs until behind the closed doors of our home. Unfortunately, I have never been one to hold much in...
This week I was just plain sad. I did not shirk on my work and showed up for everything I was supposed to, although usually I can be found hanging out with the village in my free time, this week I spent time alone. However, the other night I experienced that greatest act of love from practical strangers. I was home alone when there was a commotion at my door and I opened it to find my female teachers gathered. They told me to come with them and I tried to make excuses for why I couldn't go, but ended up following them to Jen's house. They had heated water for me to bathe and I took the bucket bath in her courtyard while they waited for me. Then Mama Latifah brushed my hair and they told me that we were headed to Mwalimu Mledwa's. I really didn't feel like going to the bar but they said that it was closed and that the Mwalimu Mkuu was waiting for me. When we got there, it turned out that all my male teachers had gathered. Mama Maki had been cooking and there was about every kind of Tanzanian food for us to eat. My Mwalimu Mkuu starts by telling me that they all feel that I am suddenly unhappy and did they do something because they are afraid that I will go home and not come back. I look around at these people who have made my life livable here. Who all look so sweet, so worried, so loving. I tell them everything- in a mixture of Swahili and English with someone always translating for someone else. I try to tell them what I have lost here, what I have gained, that I have thrown so much away and was it worth it?
They listen and nod and let me cry. They let me miss America, a country and a culture they don't understand. They let me miss my family, my friends, my "real" life... They let me miss myself. When I am finished, Mwalimu Mwalango says, "I guess we did not realize how hard it would be to come here. Thank you for coming. We are happy you are here." Then Mwalimu Mledwa talks to me, in a strange way channelling my Dad. He tells me that I should not have lost anything by being here to help people. He tells me about the need to risk it all to gain much. He tells me I am brave. Then he tells me that every morning his ten year old daughter, Maxillia, who is in my Darasa sita class, asks him if I will be teaching that day. Finally, the other day he asked her why she wants to know and she tells him because I am a good teacher (which is a total lie). He asked her what makes me so good. She told him, "Because she looks at me like I can do anything I want." (Which is a look I have tried to perfect with my students.) I tell him, "Well, she can do whatever she wants. Maybe she will be a teacher or a doctor or something." Then he says, "But Brie, what if she just gets married and has kids?" I look at him and tell him, "Well, I think she is going to be a pretty good wife and mom then, one who believes in herself and her choices, don't you think?" Mwalimu Mledwa just smiles at me and says "Yes, she will be, but take your own advice. I think you will be too. Believe in your choices, you are a special person and we are so lucky to know you." The next day my village chairperson comes to my house and tells me that it is mine and I can live in it for as long as I want to live here. Then I get a text from Juster that says, "Brie Mama, Please be brave and courageous. Our village loves you. We are with you for each and everything."
After that night, things changed. I made dates with everyone. I cooked with different Mamas, and learned to make Tanzanian dishes. A bunch of my women friends and I had a dance party. I played with kids. I went and drank beer and watched football with my guy friends who are my age. I helped Mama Lau who I have just found out is pregnant again and I could not be more excited. I helped people, I smiled at people, I made people food, I held people's hands, I told people that I loved them and they were important to me. I found resilience and I found love. Everywhere I looked, it was there.
-Paulo Coelho
May 25, 2009
Sometimes, this blog may get too personal when i have no idea who is reading it. It is supposed to be about a Peace Corps in Tanzania but I find it really difficult to separate myself from that. Who I am is intricate to the experience. PCV life is not a great and blissful life, but it is also not a life of complete and utter despair. It is just a kind of life, with it's own ups and downs. Last week I coped okay with this life. This week I did not. And I committed the "great PC sin" of crying in front of Tanzanians. Tanzanians don't cry and are generally uncomfortable when Americans do. We are told to hold it in at all costs until behind the closed doors of our home. Unfortunately, I have never been one to hold much in...
This week I was just plain sad. I did not shirk on my work and showed up for everything I was supposed to, although usually I can be found hanging out with the village in my free time, this week I spent time alone. However, the other night I experienced that greatest act of love from practical strangers. I was home alone when there was a commotion at my door and I opened it to find my female teachers gathered. They told me to come with them and I tried to make excuses for why I couldn't go, but ended up following them to Jen's house. They had heated water for me to bathe and I took the bucket bath in her courtyard while they waited for me. Then Mama Latifah brushed my hair and they told me that we were headed to Mwalimu Mledwa's. I really didn't feel like going to the bar but they said that it was closed and that the Mwalimu Mkuu was waiting for me. When we got there, it turned out that all my male teachers had gathered. Mama Maki had been cooking and there was about every kind of Tanzanian food for us to eat. My Mwalimu Mkuu starts by telling me that they all feel that I am suddenly unhappy and did they do something because they are afraid that I will go home and not come back. I look around at these people who have made my life livable here. Who all look so sweet, so worried, so loving. I tell them everything- in a mixture of Swahili and English with someone always translating for someone else. I try to tell them what I have lost here, what I have gained, that I have thrown so much away and was it worth it?
They listen and nod and let me cry. They let me miss America, a country and a culture they don't understand. They let me miss my family, my friends, my "real" life... They let me miss myself. When I am finished, Mwalimu Mwalango says, "I guess we did not realize how hard it would be to come here. Thank you for coming. We are happy you are here." Then Mwalimu Mledwa talks to me, in a strange way channelling my Dad. He tells me that I should not have lost anything by being here to help people. He tells me about the need to risk it all to gain much. He tells me I am brave. Then he tells me that every morning his ten year old daughter, Maxillia, who is in my Darasa sita class, asks him if I will be teaching that day. Finally, the other day he asked her why she wants to know and she tells him because I am a good teacher (which is a total lie). He asked her what makes me so good. She told him, "Because she looks at me like I can do anything I want." (Which is a look I have tried to perfect with my students.) I tell him, "Well, she can do whatever she wants. Maybe she will be a teacher or a doctor or something." Then he says, "But Brie, what if she just gets married and has kids?" I look at him and tell him, "Well, I think she is going to be a pretty good wife and mom then, one who believes in herself and her choices, don't you think?" Mwalimu Mledwa just smiles at me and says "Yes, she will be, but take your own advice. I think you will be too. Believe in your choices, you are a special person and we are so lucky to know you." The next day my village chairperson comes to my house and tells me that it is mine and I can live in it for as long as I want to live here. Then I get a text from Juster that says, "Brie Mama, Please be brave and courageous. Our village loves you. We are with you for each and everything."
After that night, things changed. I made dates with everyone. I cooked with different Mamas, and learned to make Tanzanian dishes. A bunch of my women friends and I had a dance party. I played with kids. I went and drank beer and watched football with my guy friends who are my age. I helped Mama Lau who I have just found out is pregnant again and I could not be more excited. I helped people, I smiled at people, I made people food, I held people's hands, I told people that I loved them and they were important to me. I found resilience and I found love. Everywhere I looked, it was there.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Life Lately...
May 17, 2009
"Sometimes when you have a bad crop it isn't always witchcraft, but maybe you are just a bad farmer." -Actual quote from TZ on BBC Radio Africa at which point I promptly turned my dial to Voices of America instead. Not witchcraft!?! That idea is outrageous!
In the morning when I wake up to the primary school bell ringing and the lizards sunning themselves on my bedroom walls, all I want to do is go back to sleep. It does not really matter that I got into bed at 8.30 the night before and did what any good PCV does and set my alarm clock for eleven and a half hours away. Sleep is the common coping mechanism for PCVs and most usually sleep 10+ hours a night and still are avid nappers. But unfortunately, as of late, sleep alludes me. Suddenly, for some reason unknown to me, I have become the baby Jesus trying to sleep in a manger. Let me explain: My bedroom is huge and hangs at the back of the house on the edge of a ravine. It is like a look-out where three walls have windows peering into my African world. The room is "nothing- proof" . I can feel the wind blow, the bugs come in, the rain runs down the walls, and when I lie at the right angle on my bed, I can see the stars- my very own sky light. So it is glorified camping and I might as well be outside. So for the last week or so all the village cows sleep outside my bedroom, surrounding me on three sides. Cows make noises that you didn't know they can make. For one thing they don't "moo" that is much too cute of a word and bellow would be more accurate. They can also do this snort/snore type of noise. They enjoy a midnight snack on occasion, which requires more munching noises than I would think necessary. The manger scene makes up about 12 cows, 20 goats and whatever chickens decide to RSVP. The real party "animal" is an insomniac rooster who enjoys a nightly crow around 2.30 each morning. The bats come in and out of the ceiling and the owls scritch and scratch as they land on the tin roof. From somewhere comes the shriek of a bush baby and I thank god that he doesn't know about the house party. So all in all, you can do the only thing that you can do most of the time in Tanzania: Force yourself to laugh. Then in my head I think, "You have got to be freakin' kidding me."
Many "weird and wondrous" things happened over the past few bits of time, as always. So here is the news- in no particular order:
Maybe the weirdest thing is that my village decided to give me electricity. It was like they said, "Ok, she has lived without it for a year now and proved that she can handle it, so let's mix things up and see what happens if we give it to her." So there now is a bulb hanging from the middle of my living room, (I don't have it in any other room.) The first night I forgot about it and lit the candles kama kawaida (Like normally). My teachers thought that this was hilarious. The second night I spent about 25 minutes turning the light off and on repeatedly and just staring at it in awe. This caused Mwalimu Mjemah to ask, "Brie, do they have electricity in America?" To which I responded, "Yes." "Okay," he said, "Because it seems like you have never seen it." I didn't respond and just carried on with my light switching. Now I have realized that having electricity just shines a light on all the dirt and spiders and I can live just fine without it. Luckily, it only rarely works, so life continues. Now I am wondering what the chances are that they will install a cell tower in my house so I might actually get some service.
I had a conversation with my teachers that was so ridiculous that I can't even believe that I had it. It would have been hard enough in English but in Kiswa with our cultural differences it was just ridic. It started with me explaining why right now in America it is night time. I drew pictures in the dirt to illustrate and all 15 of my interested teachers gathered around. Eventually, I was explaining lunar eclipses, why people on the equator have darker skin than on the poles, how Tanzania might be the birthplace of humanity, which lead to a conversation about genetics, which leads to them explaining to me why white women are more beautiful than black women, which causes me to explain why white women don't think that this is so, which leads to a conversation about anorexia, which they cannot even fathom (Why would someone not eat when being fat is so pretty? But, Brie, the food is available and they just won't eat it? Total nightmare trying to explain.) Somehow this leads to talking about bride price and American wedding rituals, which then goes to where all conversations must when I am there- when will I marry a Tanzanian, which then leads to the other place all conversations must go if I am there- because I am here to teach about AIDS and I wrap up the convo with a nice little AIDS education bit. Then I go home hoping to take an eight hour nap.
Katherine, Anna and some random kids and I spent the better part of a day blowing bubbles...
Margaret (one of my closest PCV neighbors and friend from my group) came to my site this week. Basically so she could hold my hand and I wouldn't have to spend this week alone. We ended up going to my village bar which turned into a loud crazy hilarious party. Where my village nurse actually told Margaret that I am the descendant of angels... haha. We think that it is the blue eyes... Tanzanians have no idea what to think about them. The next day Margaret and I walk 30-40 K to her village. This is a far distance and takes us about 6-7 hours. As we walk we realize that we live in the middle of nowhere. Every Tanzanian in both of our villages thinks that we are absolutely crazy for making this walk.
I spend a lot of time at our village bar this week. It is run by Mama Maki, she is our village Oprah Winfry, minus the talk show, magazine, book clubs... but she does have a monopoly on almost everything in the village. She is married to Mwalimu Mledwa and they have three children together. He also has four more from other random women in the village. (This is totally normal here...) Together they own our village car (Stan works for them), our village bar, our village TV, four motorcycles, and two houses. They also have his teacher's salary, so by and large they are the richest people in our village. They are really sweet and parental though. The village bar is just fun. All of the men gather there every evening and just drink, watch TV and hang out. Jen usually comes with me because it is not acceptable for a woman to go to the bar alone. (Also she wants to carry on her affair with Mwalimu Mjemah, that I pretend to not know about and I want to speak Swahili and have something to do on these long evenings I usually spend alone in my house.) I like to talk with my male teachers, my village baba (a guy that I call my father because he always talks to me in Swahili I know, he has good energy and he looks after me), and surprisingly the vijana (Tanzanian men aged 18-30). This last category is most commonly hated by female PCVs. They can be just plain annoying, rude, somewhat aggressive, they have no work and no education, just overall most female PCVs avoid them like the plague. Since being mugged by vijana in Dar es Salaam, I have decided to go toward what i resist and face the "vijana-fear". So I have made a big show of being friends with them. I figure the friendlier I am, the more likely that this group will do me no harm. The guys totally don't know what to do with me. They all try to propose at first, but give up after a bit. Then we just start talking - they correct my Swahili mistakes and are all fascinated about my life in America. Strangely, I have begun to feel comfortable and safe with them. One of my good vijana friends, Puce, I was forced to trust early on. I was totally lost on the way to Tally's village- I had been wandering through nothing for hours when I see this youth approaching me and of course he is carrying a machete. So I brace myself to get thrown to the ground and robbed, but at least he will be putting me out of my endless walking misery. Instead he says "Shikamoo" (Greeting of respect to elders or people of a higher status than you) to which I give a tentative reply. "You're lost, huh?" (He says in Swahili) "Yep" I reply. "Ok, let me carry your bag and I will take you there." Then he proceeds to take my backpack. I ask him what his name is. "Puce", he says. And I tell him that my name is Brie. "Yeah, I know," he says and looks at me like I am an idiot and then walks with me two hours in the right direction to Tally's house. So begins our friendship. Today he loves to tell the story about how we met and all the vijana laugh because they think that it is hilarious that I thought he was going to rob me... This makes me feel good actually, that this is a joke in my village. My friend, William, wants to take me to a neighboring village and Stan, my driver, wants to teach me how to drive the village car. I like to hang out with all of them because they have next to nothing to do so they are always loitering around and I think that they are a group that is difficult for most female PCVs to reach. At the end of every evening, Mwalimu Mledwa walks me home and waits while I unlock my door. He tells me that if any of those guys are bothering me than to let him know. to which I reply, "Nashukuru, Baba. Uskiu mwema." (I am grateful, Father. Goodnight.) And as the richest, most respected man in my village, I figure he is a good person to have on my side.
Yesterday, I spent almost an entire day laying on a mat in the middle of a corn field eating pineapple with about six mamas. (This is what your tax dollars are going to- but at least it is not a war right?) I was with Mama Johnson, but the rest of the mamas I did not know real well. Most of them were very pregnant but still working on the farm. So we laid a grass mat down in the shade of the corn field to rest, eat and talk. Mama Johnson has started teaching me Kibena in earnest and it is sort of funny to pick up a language with no books and when it is being taught to you in Kiswahili. It has been great for my Kiswa though. So they teach me for a while, but eventually it gets old so I just lay back on the mat and watch the emerald green corn blow in the wind against a brilliant blue sky. I listen to the mamas babble away in Kibena and i breath in the smell that I have come to associate with Tanzanians, Tanzania and my whole PC experience. A distinct smell of soil on skin, of sun on skin. Of sweat, of wood smoke, of cooking oil. Of people who work hard to survive. It is a smell of family, community and peace. And I give thanks again that I have come to a corn field in the African Continent. I live here- Africa. Sometimes, I have to remind myself.
On the way home, an incredibly weird thing happens. I am walking with Mama Johnson and an older woman dressed in rags comes up to us. She gets on her knees in front of me, bows down and takes my hand. I figure she is getting ready to beg for money, which is weird because my villagers don't generally beg from me. But instead she tells me her story. She tells me: Mama, God has blessed you, so I am hoping that in turn you will bless me. I need your help. I have AIDS. I have never been tested but I know that deep in my heart I have it. My husband died and two of my children are dead and I know we all have it. I am sure. The story goes on a bit longer and into more horrific detail about the deaths of all the members of her family. When I teach at the primary school I always ask if you can tell someone has AIDS just by looking at them. (The answer is no, of course.) But all the kids say yes and then proceed to list accurate AIDS symptoms. I can see know why they think that they can tell. The way the disease progresses here, it is very obvious that this woman is sick. I am thankful that PC introduced us to many people living with AIDS (PLWAs) at various points during training. Coming to Tanzania was my first experience coming face to face with Africa's most dreaded disease. So I think I am able to hide my shock the shock is not that a person in my village is positive, because I just sort of assume that they all are. I figure that the village has a high percentage because of our location in Iringa region (14.7%), the fact we haven't been tested and a number of other factors and observations. The shock comes from that she is telling me at all in a place where the stigma is so high no one will even say the name of the disease. She wants to be tested and wants medicine to be available at our dispensary because she cannot afford to go into town and get it. I take her hand, look her in the eye, thank her for her bravery of coming forth and promise to try to help her. Now, suddenly and unexpectedly, AIDS has a face for me. I hope that I can make the rest of her life a bit easier.
"Sometimes when you have a bad crop it isn't always witchcraft, but maybe you are just a bad farmer." -Actual quote from TZ on BBC Radio Africa at which point I promptly turned my dial to Voices of America instead. Not witchcraft!?! That idea is outrageous!
In the morning when I wake up to the primary school bell ringing and the lizards sunning themselves on my bedroom walls, all I want to do is go back to sleep. It does not really matter that I got into bed at 8.30 the night before and did what any good PCV does and set my alarm clock for eleven and a half hours away. Sleep is the common coping mechanism for PCVs and most usually sleep 10+ hours a night and still are avid nappers. But unfortunately, as of late, sleep alludes me. Suddenly, for some reason unknown to me, I have become the baby Jesus trying to sleep in a manger. Let me explain: My bedroom is huge and hangs at the back of the house on the edge of a ravine. It is like a look-out where three walls have windows peering into my African world. The room is "nothing- proof" . I can feel the wind blow, the bugs come in, the rain runs down the walls, and when I lie at the right angle on my bed, I can see the stars- my very own sky light. So it is glorified camping and I might as well be outside. So for the last week or so all the village cows sleep outside my bedroom, surrounding me on three sides. Cows make noises that you didn't know they can make. For one thing they don't "moo" that is much too cute of a word and bellow would be more accurate. They can also do this snort/snore type of noise. They enjoy a midnight snack on occasion, which requires more munching noises than I would think necessary. The manger scene makes up about 12 cows, 20 goats and whatever chickens decide to RSVP. The real party "animal" is an insomniac rooster who enjoys a nightly crow around 2.30 each morning. The bats come in and out of the ceiling and the owls scritch and scratch as they land on the tin roof. From somewhere comes the shriek of a bush baby and I thank god that he doesn't know about the house party. So all in all, you can do the only thing that you can do most of the time in Tanzania: Force yourself to laugh. Then in my head I think, "You have got to be freakin' kidding me."
Many "weird and wondrous" things happened over the past few bits of time, as always. So here is the news- in no particular order:
Maybe the weirdest thing is that my village decided to give me electricity. It was like they said, "Ok, she has lived without it for a year now and proved that she can handle it, so let's mix things up and see what happens if we give it to her." So there now is a bulb hanging from the middle of my living room, (I don't have it in any other room.) The first night I forgot about it and lit the candles kama kawaida (Like normally). My teachers thought that this was hilarious. The second night I spent about 25 minutes turning the light off and on repeatedly and just staring at it in awe. This caused Mwalimu Mjemah to ask, "Brie, do they have electricity in America?" To which I responded, "Yes." "Okay," he said, "Because it seems like you have never seen it." I didn't respond and just carried on with my light switching. Now I have realized that having electricity just shines a light on all the dirt and spiders and I can live just fine without it. Luckily, it only rarely works, so life continues. Now I am wondering what the chances are that they will install a cell tower in my house so I might actually get some service.
I had a conversation with my teachers that was so ridiculous that I can't even believe that I had it. It would have been hard enough in English but in Kiswa with our cultural differences it was just ridic. It started with me explaining why right now in America it is night time. I drew pictures in the dirt to illustrate and all 15 of my interested teachers gathered around. Eventually, I was explaining lunar eclipses, why people on the equator have darker skin than on the poles, how Tanzania might be the birthplace of humanity, which lead to a conversation about genetics, which leads to them explaining to me why white women are more beautiful than black women, which causes me to explain why white women don't think that this is so, which leads to a conversation about anorexia, which they cannot even fathom (Why would someone not eat when being fat is so pretty? But, Brie, the food is available and they just won't eat it? Total nightmare trying to explain.) Somehow this leads to talking about bride price and American wedding rituals, which then goes to where all conversations must when I am there- when will I marry a Tanzanian, which then leads to the other place all conversations must go if I am there- because I am here to teach about AIDS and I wrap up the convo with a nice little AIDS education bit. Then I go home hoping to take an eight hour nap.
Katherine, Anna and some random kids and I spent the better part of a day blowing bubbles...
Margaret (one of my closest PCV neighbors and friend from my group) came to my site this week. Basically so she could hold my hand and I wouldn't have to spend this week alone. We ended up going to my village bar which turned into a loud crazy hilarious party. Where my village nurse actually told Margaret that I am the descendant of angels... haha. We think that it is the blue eyes... Tanzanians have no idea what to think about them. The next day Margaret and I walk 30-40 K to her village. This is a far distance and takes us about 6-7 hours. As we walk we realize that we live in the middle of nowhere. Every Tanzanian in both of our villages thinks that we are absolutely crazy for making this walk.
I spend a lot of time at our village bar this week. It is run by Mama Maki, she is our village Oprah Winfry, minus the talk show, magazine, book clubs... but she does have a monopoly on almost everything in the village. She is married to Mwalimu Mledwa and they have three children together. He also has four more from other random women in the village. (This is totally normal here...) Together they own our village car (Stan works for them), our village bar, our village TV, four motorcycles, and two houses. They also have his teacher's salary, so by and large they are the richest people in our village. They are really sweet and parental though. The village bar is just fun. All of the men gather there every evening and just drink, watch TV and hang out. Jen usually comes with me because it is not acceptable for a woman to go to the bar alone. (Also she wants to carry on her affair with Mwalimu Mjemah, that I pretend to not know about and I want to speak Swahili and have something to do on these long evenings I usually spend alone in my house.) I like to talk with my male teachers, my village baba (a guy that I call my father because he always talks to me in Swahili I know, he has good energy and he looks after me), and surprisingly the vijana (Tanzanian men aged 18-30). This last category is most commonly hated by female PCVs. They can be just plain annoying, rude, somewhat aggressive, they have no work and no education, just overall most female PCVs avoid them like the plague. Since being mugged by vijana in Dar es Salaam, I have decided to go toward what i resist and face the "vijana-fear". So I have made a big show of being friends with them. I figure the friendlier I am, the more likely that this group will do me no harm. The guys totally don't know what to do with me. They all try to propose at first, but give up after a bit. Then we just start talking - they correct my Swahili mistakes and are all fascinated about my life in America. Strangely, I have begun to feel comfortable and safe with them. One of my good vijana friends, Puce, I was forced to trust early on. I was totally lost on the way to Tally's village- I had been wandering through nothing for hours when I see this youth approaching me and of course he is carrying a machete. So I brace myself to get thrown to the ground and robbed, but at least he will be putting me out of my endless walking misery. Instead he says "Shikamoo" (Greeting of respect to elders or people of a higher status than you) to which I give a tentative reply. "You're lost, huh?" (He says in Swahili) "Yep" I reply. "Ok, let me carry your bag and I will take you there." Then he proceeds to take my backpack. I ask him what his name is. "Puce", he says. And I tell him that my name is Brie. "Yeah, I know," he says and looks at me like I am an idiot and then walks with me two hours in the right direction to Tally's house. So begins our friendship. Today he loves to tell the story about how we met and all the vijana laugh because they think that it is hilarious that I thought he was going to rob me... This makes me feel good actually, that this is a joke in my village. My friend, William, wants to take me to a neighboring village and Stan, my driver, wants to teach me how to drive the village car. I like to hang out with all of them because they have next to nothing to do so they are always loitering around and I think that they are a group that is difficult for most female PCVs to reach. At the end of every evening, Mwalimu Mledwa walks me home and waits while I unlock my door. He tells me that if any of those guys are bothering me than to let him know. to which I reply, "Nashukuru, Baba. Uskiu mwema." (I am grateful, Father. Goodnight.) And as the richest, most respected man in my village, I figure he is a good person to have on my side.
Yesterday, I spent almost an entire day laying on a mat in the middle of a corn field eating pineapple with about six mamas. (This is what your tax dollars are going to- but at least it is not a war right?) I was with Mama Johnson, but the rest of the mamas I did not know real well. Most of them were very pregnant but still working on the farm. So we laid a grass mat down in the shade of the corn field to rest, eat and talk. Mama Johnson has started teaching me Kibena in earnest and it is sort of funny to pick up a language with no books and when it is being taught to you in Kiswahili. It has been great for my Kiswa though. So they teach me for a while, but eventually it gets old so I just lay back on the mat and watch the emerald green corn blow in the wind against a brilliant blue sky. I listen to the mamas babble away in Kibena and i breath in the smell that I have come to associate with Tanzanians, Tanzania and my whole PC experience. A distinct smell of soil on skin, of sun on skin. Of sweat, of wood smoke, of cooking oil. Of people who work hard to survive. It is a smell of family, community and peace. And I give thanks again that I have come to a corn field in the African Continent. I live here- Africa. Sometimes, I have to remind myself.
On the way home, an incredibly weird thing happens. I am walking with Mama Johnson and an older woman dressed in rags comes up to us. She gets on her knees in front of me, bows down and takes my hand. I figure she is getting ready to beg for money, which is weird because my villagers don't generally beg from me. But instead she tells me her story. She tells me: Mama, God has blessed you, so I am hoping that in turn you will bless me. I need your help. I have AIDS. I have never been tested but I know that deep in my heart I have it. My husband died and two of my children are dead and I know we all have it. I am sure. The story goes on a bit longer and into more horrific detail about the deaths of all the members of her family. When I teach at the primary school I always ask if you can tell someone has AIDS just by looking at them. (The answer is no, of course.) But all the kids say yes and then proceed to list accurate AIDS symptoms. I can see know why they think that they can tell. The way the disease progresses here, it is very obvious that this woman is sick. I am thankful that PC introduced us to many people living with AIDS (PLWAs) at various points during training. Coming to Tanzania was my first experience coming face to face with Africa's most dreaded disease. So I think I am able to hide my shock the shock is not that a person in my village is positive, because I just sort of assume that they all are. I figure that the village has a high percentage because of our location in Iringa region (14.7%), the fact we haven't been tested and a number of other factors and observations. The shock comes from that she is telling me at all in a place where the stigma is so high no one will even say the name of the disease. She wants to be tested and wants medicine to be available at our dispensary because she cannot afford to go into town and get it. I take her hand, look her in the eye, thank her for her bravery of coming forth and promise to try to help her. Now, suddenly and unexpectedly, AIDS has a face for me. I hope that I can make the rest of her life a bit easier.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Welcome to Image Village Part Moja
Thanks to my parents and sisters, I now have a camera! Thank you, best birthday present ever! Here is a preliminary introduction to some people in my village. It is important to remember that unlike Americans, many Tanzanians may have never seen a camera, and certainly have not had one pushed in their face since the time of their birth. So when I show up as the first white person, and now, a year into our relationship, start flashing pictures there is some surprises. I am hoping the more familiar they get with the camera being around the better the pictures will get (Also have to get familiar with a new camera!) So enjoy.
"To the people of poor nations, we pledge to work alongside you to make your farms flourish and let clean waters flow; to nourish starved bodies and feed hungry minds. And to those nations like ours that enjoy relative plenty, we say we can no longer afford indifference to suffering outside our borders; nor can we consume the world's resources without regard to effect. For the world has changed and we must change with it."
-President Obama
Kijijini Image (Ee-Ma-Gay)
Juster and my cat, Kimulimuli (Firefly)
Kimulimuli, also known as Batratcat or the holy terror. The most pathetic animal. It is a miracle his mouth is not open in this picture.
Mama Anna and Anna
Aggy, one of my primary school girls, doing what they do best: working
Mama Lau (Mwalimu Vaking) holding a chicken
Juster, dancing in front of the row of teacher's houses
Anna, looking mischevious
The most beautiful child
Anna, being serious
Anna and I
Anna, my village child
Mama Mary working at our village sewing machine
Main road in Image: What we do? Watch the corn grow... Exciting life.
My Little Sis, Mary
Me and my village Mama (Mama Mary, also known as Mama Brie, even though she is barely older than me...)
Kids doing what they do best in Africa: Sitting in the dirt
My Family: Mary (age 6, in purple), Anna (age 2, in yellow), random baby someone gave me (age brand new) and me.
Worried-looking, but beautiful child
Boy chewing grass
A Friend
One of my Mama's working on the shamba (farm)
One of my Village Mama's planting potatoes
A mama clearing for planting
Two of my Mama friend's hard at work
Average house in my village in Tanzania: 1-2 rooms, made of brick with grass roof, person count 6-12, chicken count 15, spider count 243 and rising...
Lau, Age 4, Son of Mwalimu Simon and Mwalimu Vakinga, Leader of the "Lost Boys"
Anna's foot and my hand
Image Primary School: Part of my Darasa Sita Class
Shule
Little bit of life in Primary School
Over my fence and into my village...
View off my back porch into Mlangali part of Image
My back porch. First door on the left goes into my bathing room, second door into my "kitchen", both windows look into my living room.
The nicest house in my village- also known as Nyumba Kwa Brie
My front porch looking out over the ravine into another part of the village.
Me at home
"To the people of poor nations, we pledge to work alongside you to make your farms flourish and let clean waters flow; to nourish starved bodies and feed hungry minds. And to those nations like ours that enjoy relative plenty, we say we can no longer afford indifference to suffering outside our borders; nor can we consume the world's resources without regard to effect. For the world has changed and we must change with it."
-President Obama
Kijijini Image (Ee-Ma-Gay)
Juster and my cat, Kimulimuli (Firefly)
Kimulimuli, also known as Batratcat or the holy terror. The most pathetic animal. It is a miracle his mouth is not open in this picture.
Mama Anna and Anna
Aggy, one of my primary school girls, doing what they do best: working
Mama Lau (Mwalimu Vaking) holding a chicken
Juster, dancing in front of the row of teacher's houses
Anna, looking mischevious
The most beautiful child
Anna, being serious
Anna and I
Anna, my village child
Mama Mary working at our village sewing machine
Main road in Image: What we do? Watch the corn grow... Exciting life.
My Little Sis, Mary
Me and my village Mama (Mama Mary, also known as Mama Brie, even though she is barely older than me...)
Kids doing what they do best in Africa: Sitting in the dirt
My Family: Mary (age 6, in purple), Anna (age 2, in yellow), random baby someone gave me (age brand new) and me.
Worried-looking, but beautiful child
Boy chewing grass
A Friend
One of my Mama's working on the shamba (farm)
One of my Village Mama's planting potatoes
A mama clearing for planting
Two of my Mama friend's hard at work
Average house in my village in Tanzania: 1-2 rooms, made of brick with grass roof, person count 6-12, chicken count 15, spider count 243 and rising...
Lau, Age 4, Son of Mwalimu Simon and Mwalimu Vakinga, Leader of the "Lost Boys"
Anna's foot and my hand
Image Primary School: Part of my Darasa Sita Class
Shule
Little bit of life in Primary School
Over my fence and into my village...
View off my back porch into Mlangali part of Image
My back porch. First door on the left goes into my bathing room, second door into my "kitchen", both windows look into my living room.
The nicest house in my village- also known as Nyumba Kwa Brie
My front porch looking out over the ravine into another part of the village.
Me at home
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