A Chapter a Day?

Think this is going to be one of those blogs that needs to be divided into chapters…sorry everyone!

Chapter 1 Work:

Currently my PLWHAs group, Upendo, is doing really well. We have close to 30 members and we meet twice a month. The taarafa (kind like a county) Development Officer has been helping us preparing an official constitution as well as begin to prepare our credit group. Members have now almost all paid their “membership fee” as decided in the constitution (just less than $2) and most are putting 500 shillings (40 cents) monthly into our “bank” to use in our rotating credit scheme. We also have been lucky enough to receive contributions from some government leaders and from some short-term missionaries who came last month. Our “pot” is now over $200! The members can hardly wait to start getting loans, but I am insisting that we wait until everyone understands the process and the consequences of not paying back a loan on time.

This group also continues to care for a communal garden. We used the PC “permaculture” (short for permanent agriculture, which focuses on double digging, companion planting, and compost) technique which has gotten some positive and negative feedback. People are annoyed that I won’t use pesticides, which harm the good flora and fauna often along with the bad AND which deteriorate the soil. Although in some ways, I can now see why. Our beans were completely destroyed by bugs. L Some of our other seeds were from America and didn’t agree well with the very cold season we planted them in. Although, despite our difficulties. We had an amazing crop of spinach (which people have already begun to eat to improve their nutrition), our tomatoes (which are a bit expensive for the average Tanzanian to cook with on a regular basis) are progressing well, and our corn is higher than anyone else’s in the village! The garden does pose some problems of its own though. With such a big group it’s hard to keep track of who is doing their share of the work. I know some members are getting incredibly overworked while others get to reap the benefits. I know they are looking to me to step in, but other than a good talking to about teamwork….I’m trying to make sure they solve the problem together as a group.

While writing the group Constitution members agreed to support each other financially when one member has to go to the hospital. We also recently received the gift of a prayer shawl from the members of St. Paul’s Lutheran Church. The missionaries explained to the group treasurer that the shawl was made by an elderly member of the church and that while she made it she prayed for the recipient. After speaking with the group’s treasurer the missionaries also agreed to continue to pray and support the group even now after they’ve returned to Pennsylvania. I know the group appreciated the gifts (clothes, prayer shawl, money, and a water can), but I think the symbol of the shawl was almost more powerful for me. I know often as I work with PLWHAs I begin to feel anxiety for them, and the reminder that these strangers would intercede for them was such a huge comfort and blessing to me. It gave me a renewed hope I didn’t think I really noticed was missing.

I also wrote a grant for my group members to each start personally raising chickens so we are all eagerly awaiting the arrival of these funds so we can get going on building everyone’s coops, planning the training, and buying over a hundred chickens!

I continue to teach Life Skills in two secondary schools, but it is getting a bit harder. I am not a strict teacher like they are used to and my topic is not covered on national exams nor do I continue to hold the star-quality of the random mzungu who shows up to school. I am having to battle more and more with my students and constantly verbally demanding respect. While this struggle does occasionally make me just want to hide or find an excuse to stay home from school, I’m finding that their resistance is making me be honest and genuine with them in a way that wasn’t appropriate earlier. There are two more lessons revolving around HIV/AIDS before we move on to communication skills and I hope to finish these in November despite national exams and final prep (the school year ends here in December). Hopefully in the process I’ll be able to drive home my major points one more time. 1. You have the power to protect yourself from HIV. And you’re worth that effort. 2. HIV is not just a problem for those who are sick. We have a responsibility to help those who are infected and affected by HIV/AIDS live their lives to the fullest. 3. HIV/AIDS is a complicated issue and we have to be willing to take time to help neighbors, loved-ones, and family members make good choices. Sometimes I feel like I’m wasting my time teaching these young kids about HIV. The vast majority of them are healthy and strong and plan on staying that way, but the point I make is that HIV/AIDS education isn’t just for us. It’s about changing our society. It’s about showing us that we have the insight and power to make this world a better place. I hope that that message comes through as we pop condom balloons, debate, throwing popcorn seeds at each other, and play tug-o-war.

Teaching my primary school students life skills is a very different experience. The focus with them is very much on respecting oneself and others and taking basic precautions to keep safe. Through out the year we’ve covered the topics of: bullies, physical/mental disabilities, HIV/AIDS, and sexual abuse. We’re now starting the “Safety” chapter that talks about ways to protect oneself from accidents of various kinds and how to treat in the case accidents occur. I think it will be fun to put my First Aid classes to use with a very hands-on lesson! I am finally starting to know my kids names and their abilities as the year draws to an end. As of now, I don’t know if I will continue on with these students as the go to the sixth grade or if I will teach the in-coming 5th graders. We shall see!

I’m not sure if I’ve written on here yet about my bibi (grandma) group. A group of 7 elderly women caring for orphans approached me and informed me they would like to make a group. Currently we are attempting to officially start the group and make plans, but they have already begun a rotating credit group of their own!

And how could I forget? The choo building project continues to progress well. We are on an incredible time crunch due to the impending rainy season, but I have discovered if anyone can make the impossible possible…it’s Tanzanians. While the availability of a car to transport materials, the late arrival of grant money, and the fact that most villagers are now incredibly busy harvesting grain, we continue to progress well. I am faithful the kids will soon have a clean, safe place to go to the bathroom. To all of you who contributed I truly cannot thank you enough. I wish you could know the students that you are helping! I know that’s impossible, but I promise to do the next best thing and get some pictures of the students (and the progress) on here as soon as possible!

Finally, the icing on the cake work-wise are the preparations for World AIDS Day, December 1. We have a ton of activities planned and hopefully after World AIDS Day I’ll be able to give you a full run-down!

Chapter 2 When the Lights Go Out:

I once again have a list of books to share with you all. I know some people have mentioned wanting to “read books with me” so please feel free to pick a book from my list, read it, and send along your thoughts! It’ll be like cross-continental book club. The ones I’ve recently finished are:
The Importance of Being Ernest and Other Plays by Oscar Wilde
The Metamorphosis, the Penal Colony and Other Stories by Franz Kafka (that was for you, Dr. Mrs.)
Kanthapura by Raja Rao
The Princess Bride (not the original Morgenstern though, the abridged)
Summer Sisters by Judy Blume (yeah, I know…)
The Unlikely Disciple: A Sinner’s Semester at America’s Holiest University by Kevin Roose
The Ghost in Love by Jonathan Carrol
Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee by Dee Brown
The Soloist by Steve Lopez

It’s so funny how different your life is when you don’t have electricity. In a lot of ways, I really love it (granted, I cheat and use Bret’s to charge my phone, iPOD, speakers, and flashlight batteries…). The thing is, I can work work work until dark, but when the lights go out…I’m done for the day. I’m free to sit next to my neighbors fire and talk and eat ugali. I’m free to close my door and be alone. I’m free to cook. I’m free to read (by headlamp or candlelight). I’m free to think. I’m sure electricity is one of the inventions that has most effected the development of the western world, but a part of me loves that I don’t have access to it here. When the “productive hours of the day” are less, that leaves time for doing the things that make me me. I always have time to invest in people and in myself. Sure, it’s inconvenient and sometimes scary, but in the dark I can’t hide from myself. And I can’t run myself ragged. I have to be still, careful. Internal. I have time to read books that I’d never make time for in America. Books that teach me more about me. Books that teach me more about my shameful history. Books that confuse me and remind me that I’m no where close to have it all figured out. Books that remind me of friends. Books that remind me of issues that are far off. Books that make me appreciate the beauty of the human experience and relish my share in it. Maybe the problem isn’t just that the lights are out. Maybe it’s also that the noise is cut-off. The images cease. There’s no tv. There are no cars. I’m alone beneath the stars. It’s cold. I’m tired. If am physically and mentally exhausted…I sleep…and wake up refreshed in the morning. I don’t sit for hours in front of a tv or computer while my body pushes itself to the limit only to wake up tired again the next day. Does this mean I’ll turn my electricity off when I go home? Probably not. I love writing emails. I love watching the news and the occasional trashy tv show, but I think maybe this experience will help me find some sort of happy medium in the future. We’ll see…

Chapter 3 Knobby Fingers:

Well, anyone who knows me really well knows that I crack my fingers like crazy and I’m gonna have gnarly, disgusting fingers when I’m old. Unfortunately, recently I feel like I’m already there. The problem is this. My clothes washing form is a bit off. I never remember to use solely the palms of my hand, in particularly the fleshy part under my thumbs. This leads to me always getting small cuts on my hands on laundry day. For some reason these little tiny cuts always turn into big nasty knobs with ugly scabs that stick out and scratch whoever I touch. It’s not really that big of a deal. But that combined with the fact that laundry takes a shit-load of time, water, and energy makes me less and less into the whole laundry thing. Plus recently, Mama Diana, my neighbor, mom, and one of my best friends here, asked me why I don’t pay her to do my laundry.

So….that leads to the question: Why don’t I just pay someone to do my laundry? Paying someone to do my laundry each week would cost less than $7 a month and would save me probably 6 hours of work (excluding fetching water). This would put money into the hands of a Tanzanian who could really use it and wouldn’t really put a dent in my wallet at all. But I still say no. Why?

Well, initially I wasn’t sure how my “living allowance,” of about $200 per month, would provide. I wanted to live frugally and simply. I also made a commitment to myself to try and live as much like a Tanzanian as I can. To live without running water, electricity, appliances, etc. To make us equals in the toils and labors of life and hopefully through shared experience to catch a glimpse of their worldview. But is that why I continually refuse to pay someone to do my laundry? I don’t run out to the farm with my neighbors every chance I get (that shit is HARD work) and I don’t cut and carry firewood like they do and I use the internet and read books from an endless supply. So who am I really kidding? Why won’t I bend on this issue?

I have to admit that there’s another factor at play. One the Tanzanians will never understand….and that’s my ingrained views, fears, and experiences with race in the United States. Now, don’t get me wrong. Race is definitely an issue in Tanzania. White people “wazungu” have long been a presence here…for good and evil. We represent effortless money without strings. Aid. We’re the barers of religion and education. There is power involved. There’s unequality involved. But it’s not like at home. I am forever scarred by my country’s history of race relations. It took a long time before I didn’t wince when I was called mzungu. Because I didn’t want to be labeled by my color or appearance. I wanted to be a person. A dada (sister) or mwalimu (teacher). I didn’t want to be categorized by my color because since I was a small child I learned that’s an unpardonable sin.

“Thou shalt not be a racist,” is not a part of the Tanzanian Ten Commandments. There’s no history here of slave ships filled with human cargo chained under the hold dying of starvation, disease, and madness. There’s no history here of people being branded with the initial of the European country claiming them as a tradable good. There’s no history here of slaves slowly beat to death as an example to keep the negros in line. There’s no history here of ripping families apart for profit, pacifying with religion, or raping without repercussion. There were never race lynchings or burning crosses. There’s no history here of poll tax or the civil rights struggle. There aren’t ghettos here divided by race. There’s no statistics here drawing ties between poor education, STDs, crime, single-parenthood and race. People aren’t referred to by their race or ethnicity—the closest you may here is that someone is really black or white (which actually means light brown).

If I’m going to be honest with you and with myself, I have to admit that a part of me won’t let Mama Diana or anyone else touch my laundry because I can’t stand the picture in my head. I can’t stand handing someone a bag full of my dirty laundry in exchange for a fist-full of dirty money and a condescending “thank you”—especially if that someone is black. Am I being over-sensitive? Am I being a bit impractical? Probably the answer is yes to both.

So now the question is this…is our country being helped by this over-sensitive, impractical mindset? Is my hyper-sensitivity to race relations helpful to anyone? Am I promoting race reconciliation? Am I reducing stereotypes, producing understanding, or bridging the gap in any way? This might be a better blog if I knew the answer to that question.

I was recently talking to a friend about where I want to live when I grow up. Where I imagine the best environment to raise a child to be, etc. I mentioned that I don’t want to raise a child in a place that lacks diversity. I don’t want any child of mine to cry hysterically when they see a person of another race (yes, that happens to me on a regular basis). I don’t want any child of mine to form their thoughts on race solely on the stereotypes they see on tv or what they read in books. But then again, I love my home-town, despite it’s incredible lack of racial diversity. Why should I run-away from such a place simply because I don’t see enough colors when I stand in line at the grocery store. And is it fair to look at someone of another race as a statistic? Is it fair to want black people or Asian people or Hispanic people around so I can raise a child with an open heart? What if my child only walks away with a sense of the necessity of inter-race relations and not the beauty of relationship. And worse yet, what if my friends of another races feel like their only filling my diversity quota? When will it be that these intersections aren’t a part of my thought process? When will it be that I’ll be able to revel in my friends and loved ones because of the diversity of their thoughts, experiences, sense of humor, talents, and philosophies?

I don’t know when that day will arrive. I don’t think a day will come when it’ll be ok to forget the injustices of the past and present, but I hope that someday guilt and fear won’t guide my thoughts and actions. I hope that my children will observe in me a spirit that seeks justice and a love that is available to all. I hope that they’ll observe a person that treats everyone with respect regardless of all the categories and labels we create. I want my children to be free to love the homeless, the handicapped, the mentally ill, just as I want them to love people of other races. Maybe I won’t be able to completely lose the fear and the guilt, but maybe the place of these emotions in the culture and heart of my children will slightly be replaced. Maybe they’ll be the ones to change the world. Maybe it’ll be their kids…or their grandkids. I guess all I can hope is that at the end of the day my screwed up emotions, thoughts, and tendencies will guide me in the direction of love and someday those stimuli won’t be necessary for love to abound.

Chapter 4 Happy Birthday, Mr. President:

This morning I had the distinct honor of seeing Tanzania’s President in the flesh. Now that I’ve seen Kikwete in the flesh I’ve now seen 25% of Tanzania’s presidents since independence. Not bad since I haven’t seen one of our many American Presidents. He happened to be passing through our town on business and so he stopped to give a short speech to an anxious crowd of singing students, bishops, drivers, farmers, foreigners, and drunkards. He appeared in an impressive parade of cars—literally more than I see in any given day (perhaps month). He stood in his car with his body sticking out of his sunroof from the belly button up and spoke into a microphone with a spongy yellow cover. His hair had the strange sheen of black with a slight coating of dust from the roads and his tinted glasses created an even greater distance between us than that of the shifting crowd.

He congratulated the recently elected Village Chairman and asked him to give a brief account of the village’s leading issues at this moment in time. As a Peace Corps volunteer I am not allowed to give my opinion about Tanzanian leaders, but I will say it was a very interesting experience. I can’t imagine being “the man” responsible for the development of an entire nation. While cries for access to running water, electricity, and fertilizer may seem reasonable to me, I can’t imagine the volume of such cries when combined with every village in vast Tanzania. Kikwete’s job isn’t easy. I’m not sure I would want to be in his place.

And with that said…maybe a word on our President. Obama is constantly on my mind here in Tanzania. Not necessarily because I have any idea what he’s actually doing (because I don’t) but because Obama-mania is still in full-swing in Tanzania. There’s Obama flashlights, umbrellas, shirts, jean jackets, khangas, bags, posters, calendars, etc. etc. Many of which, I’ll admit, I own myself. I imagined that these items would be accepted at home as valuable keepsakes, but it seems like many of the Americans I talk to see them simply as over-priced garbage. Maybe being away from home is only allowing me to see a certain piece of the American people’s perception of Obama, but the piece I’m seeing is somehow hostile.

Ok…so maybe the reasons given for his reception of the Nobel Peace Prize are weak. Maybe universal health care won’t work. Maybe we’re still in a recession. But are any of these things his fault? With all the Obama-mania that swirled around the election, was the bar set too high? Is our rock star, racial hero, and rhetorical wizard really doing that bad of a job? My goodness….I’m sure everyone would agree that Kikwete has a hard job here facilitating development. Is anyone considering the difficulty of the task facing Obama? He’s supposed to restore our “good” reputation abroad, soothe the fears and the debts of the long-time economic elite, end bipartisanship, fulfill the dream of a non-racist America, and provide a leg-up to America’s often forgotten lower class—all of course while maintaining a perfect home life and preserving the stratification of our country that made it rich, prosperous and stable since 1776. The truth is, despite what I wrote in my President’s notebook with Mrs. Collins in eighth grade, the job of the President is incredibly difficult. They often make decisions to oppress people at home and abroad for the “greater good.” With all the problems in the American economy now, is that what America as a whole is asking for? Are we asking Obama to make the tough decisions that in the end will profit “us.” Is it possible to be a loving, virtuous person in the White House? And really….is that what America wants?

Listen, this is no plea for Obama (even though I have loved him ever since I wrote my senior thesis on the issue of race in his speeches) I’m just saying maybe normal citizens all over the world should stop blaming their hardships on current leaders (or those of recent history, cough Bush cough) and take a look at our messy histories and personal responsibility and see where we can go from here. Easy for me to say from here, I know…I live on less than $7 a day, but maybe my own words will snap me back to responsibility as I bitch about the lack of jobs, health insurance, taxes, etc in a few months.

Chapter 5 Water Water Everywhere?

Well, since we’re nearing the end of the dry season, I thought I’d write a quick reflection about the water situation here. I have a tap near-by my house, but there’s never water in it. When I want water I have to go down (a mountain!) to a nearby spring! It’s kinda a pain the butt. In the beginning of the dry season I made a habit of doing a bucket everyday. As I traveled and got lazy…I got out of the habit. These days if I’m hard pressed I’ll run down, but usually I just conserve until a group of students are sent from the school to fetch me water. Thank Jesus.

So….this whole process has me thinking about conservation. Anyone remember when Kim and Reggie Harris used to come and sing to us at Radez Elementary School? I’m pretty sure they even visited our class since they were friends with Mrs. Petersen! Anyway, I remember these individuals, not just for the color of their skin, their extraordinary dress, and exuberant personality, but for the words they sang. My favorite song (complete with motions) went something like this, “Shut off the water, don’t let it run…leave a little water for everyone. Shut off the water when you are done. Shut off the water.”

Sometimes I catch myself humming this diddy as I’m at Bret’s house (he has running water) washing my hands or brushing my teeth. I even sing it (bitterly) to myself as I watch Tanzanians pour out the bottom of their drinking cup after getting enough to drink (they drink the entire cup at once and dump out the rest). I mean….REALLY! Don’t they remember how much work it was to get down to the spring for that water? But then again…they’re used to the process. Just like when I go to Dar and there’s an unlimited water supply I take a 20 minute shower. When I’m used to the process I use without thinking. Just like I did at home. Just like I do here.

I’m going to be honest with you here. I don’t think my water consumption will change when I get home. I love taking long, scalding hot showers. And when I can do that effortlessly, I’m pretty sure I will. Daily. So what have I learned here? Hard work sucks? I’m spoiled and ok with it? I don’t know. Maybe I won’t be able to give up my exorbitant water consumption, but maybe it’ll be a reminder as I consume other things. Maybe I didn’t have to work hard for my gas or clothes. But SOMEONE did.

Chapter 6 I am Woman, Hear Me Roar?

The word feminism in America is very often a devil term of sorts. We often think of feminist as militant, impractical, cold. While I’m so far away from home now, I think more than ever I’m aware of this stereotype in myself. Tanzania in general has a more “traditional” view of gender. There is an incredible split in the division of labor and people’s distinctions between women’s sexual, spiritual, and social needs and responsibilities are very definite. I often find that these conceptions are frankly, infuriating. While complaining to Bret recently he asked me, “So…why do you strive so hard to fit into the norm here.” He was referring to my outward appearances and gestures. And he’s right…in many ways, I strive to be the ideal Tanzanian woman.

I bend my knee when I greet anyone (man or woman)—men don’t do this. I wear a dress or skirt everyday. I try and prepare food for guests and fuss about the manner in which it’s presented. I sit on the women’s side at church. I eat after the men. I participate in “women’s work” and avoid hang-out areas for men. Why?

Well, first of all, because I’m a guest. I didn’t come to Tanzania just to teach about my culture and history. I came to learn about and appreciate Tanzanian culture. Yes, I piga magota when I greet, but the degree varies on age more than gender (I get right down on the floor for old ladies!) because I deeply respect the reverence Tanzanians have for the elderly. I wear dresses, even though I doubt anyone would mind in the least if I put on a pair of jeans or dress pants. Most of the wazungu here do! But if I dressed like a mzungu maybe I wouldn’t be able to garner mutual respect from the elders here. I wouldn’t be able to get clothes made like the women here. I wouldn’t be able to show them that I think they’re beautiful and stylish too. I strive to be a good hostess not just because it’s what’s expected of me as a woman, but because I want to return the hospitality that has been shown to me on countless occasions in my 17 months here in Tanzania. I sit with the women at church so I can worship without distraction and without being a distraction to others. I try and wait to eat…because, well, “the last shall be first,” right? I participate in “women’s work” to spend time with my friends and learn about their lives and I avoid hang-out areas for men, so I can keep the respect of the community at large. What would you think of the white girl from outta town that gets drunk with your husband?

So that bears the question? What am I doing to help women here? And really, do they need my help? The feminist revolution in the United States took place over an extended period of time and was led by American women. Prophets in their own land. That’s likely what will create change here in Tanzania too. In the meantime, I’m trying to do my part. I show indignation when the female teachers (who are equally educated and equally busy at school) are expected to serve chai. I get angry when men don’t take responsibility for the well-being of their families or speak condescendingly toward their wives. And furious when they are violent or abusive towards their wives or children. But my approach is to talk. To discuss. If men through Bible verses at me about wives submitting to their husbands I ask them in they love their wives like Christ loves the church (he died for it!!! He didn’t beat it). If a friend speaks down to his wife or tells her what to do, I call him on it. Not militantly, but not completely in jest. And I often try to make the female teachers wait with me until a male teacher serves us. I show my students that girls can play soccer. I let Bret show our neighbors that boys can cook and clean. Some of these strategies are direct, some are indirect. My hope is that by being an accepted part of this village (partly by fitting well into my gender roll) I’ll be able to gain a voice about this topic, and maybe inspire the Susan B. Anthony, Sojourner Truth, or the author of the African Feminine Mystic.

That all being said, I don’t completely hate the Tanzanian view of women. They treasure women as wives and mothers. Two things I hope to achieve and excel at some day. I also don’t completely praise the American definitions of gender, nor do I think we have at “gender equality.” Maybe my time here has made me more sensitive to society’s ability to define rolls. And maybe this sense will enable me to be the Sojourner Truth of my generation when I get home.

This is President Kikwete in my village!

This is how my neighbors cook. Fire wood on three stones. The pot is made out of white clay which turns black from the fire.

My village is beautiful this time of year. The grain is ready to harvest and it covers the gorgeous slopping hills with gold. The walk to work is great!


Dar es Salaam is pretty too...

This is how to finish bricks. Those fires burnt all night....I went home at like 1 a.m.

Bret and I...yeah, I'm short.

Some of the ladies in my PLWHAs group splitting up the vegetables from our garden.

My kids dancing in my living room. There's no better way to cheer up after a hard day at the office. :-)

This is the foundation of the choos. The walls are almost done now! They're about up to my chest! Maybe we will get at least the kids choos done before the rain...

The fundi hard at work.

Choos!!!

Hi everyone! Not much time to write today, but I wanted to pass on the great news that after slightly adjusting the budget with my villagers, we have reached our goal. We began buying supplies today! I'll keep you all posted. Thank you so much for your support!

Finally!

Top: Celebrating Philip "The German"'s departure by dancing to "Dar Mpaka Moro"

Next: Some of my 5th graders

Left: Bret (right) helps prepare the goat for our 4th of July feast

Below: My living room

Left: My counterpart after the community theater workshop

Next: My bedroom

Bottom: Part of the Obama shrine in my office

Tooooo Long, Again. :-)

Well, I'm hoping to get some pictures up on here, but they seem to be taking FOR-EV-ER....so I'm not sure if that will happen. Oh well, I'll give it a few more minutes than I'm gonna quit for today. I still have two meetings before I teach at the primary school at 2:40 (and it's 12:30!) Yikes....

I'm already quite busy after just getting back from a bit of a trip. I went to Morogoro for a Community Theater Workshop. It was awesome! We learned to combine drama and BCC (Behavior Change Communication) to teach people about difficult topics. I loved the way we had to break down the problem (it's causes, side effects, etc) and I especially loved getting my acting shoes back on. I got to play a bit of a harlot in our group's play. HAHA...it was fun. I'm a bit worried my counterpart thinks I was type-casted though. The whole thing is recorded, but with the way downloading seems to be happening, I'm not sure it'll be online anytime soon. Can't wait to start a drama group here in village though. Should be lots of fun!

After Moro I went up to Tanga to be a "PCV of the Week." No, it's not a cool award or anything....sorry to disappoint you. I just got to go meet the newbies that arrived in June and help with their training a bit. It was really fun. They're a great group and are gonna do good work here! I had fun answering their questions and it was crazy to see what a difference a year makes!

Now after two weeks plus a little I'm back to work. I'm having a great time teaching again. I love teaching life skills. The last lesson i taught was about the relationship between STDs and HIV/AIDS. Did you know that in Africa you're 350% more likely to contract HIV if you have an STD? The lesson was quite serious, but we had a lot of fun with it. Who knew a basketball hoop and a washbasin could be sample vaginas? Ha....

My PLWHAs group is doing well too. The garden survived the cold and things are starting to come up! It's so exciting! Hopefully this month we'll have a guest speaker come and help us set up our rotating credit group and I am starting to write a grant to get them all started in chicken farming!

There are some other new developments too. We haven't started building the choos because we're waiting on money, but I have just been approached by some elderly women who care for OVCs (Orphans and Vulnerable Children) and we're going to start a group for them! I'm really excited.

I don't have much time but just thought I'd write a few quick notes of things that have made me happy recently (in no particular order):
*The death of Michael Jackson....well, not that he died. Just the amount of sympathy I got from my neighbors. I haven't heard about any news since Obama won the presidency, but Jackson was all over the radio. Don't think I've heard "Thriller" so much in my life! :-)
*Fourth of July....no fireworks or parades....but we did kill 2 goats and 2 chickens and had a big old party!
*Calzones. Homemade. Enough said.
*The US's showing in the Confederation Cup. It was a rough final, but I was still proud and rocking it out in my Obama khanga and American flag headwrap. My host father called me to apologize after the game.
*Emails from home
*Tons of support for the choo grant....Thank you!
*Ice cream cones (I love the city....)
*The cards and pictures that are decorating my living room
*Giving myself a french manicure (and then promptly rubbing it all off doing laundry...oops)
*Running away from Bulongwa during the coldest season
*Reading lots of good books (A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemmingway, Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman, The Bean Trees by Barbara Kingsolver, Love Walked In by Marisa De Los Santos, The Shack by William Paul Young, The Chronicles of Narnia by CS Lewis, The Long Lonliness by Dorothy Day, Blood Memory by Greg Isles, Happy Birthday Wanda June by Kurt Vonnegut, and The Importance of Being Ernest and other plays by Oscar Wilde)
*Mastering the art of carrying water on my head. :-)

Well, I'm giving up on the pictures for today...sorry. Hope this update finds you all well!

Help...

I stand in front of a class of 49. My students sit in pew-like benches with long, skinny desks. Five, maybe six are crammed on a bench that can comfortably hold three. Two others are crowded over their shoulders trying to catch a glimpse at one of the few life skills books possessed by Mahulu Primary School. The pictures are bright and the sections colored and adorned with clipart and Wordart. As one student finishes reading a section, 15 others already have their hands waving violently in the air trying to catch my attention. They want to read next. My heart breaks and I decide we should read together for a time.

As the class trudges on reading about equal rights for the handicapped a little girl slips out of her seat and walks silently in her used sneakers up to the front. Her uniform is very worn. The red sweater is unraveling and her blue skirt has burn holes, probably from tending the fire, cooking, and cleaning at home. The collar of her white shirt is clean, but frayed from washing. Yatima or “orphan,” I think to myself. I don’t know her name. My students quickly lost the name tags I had them make for their desks (and remake, a number of times) when I first started teaching them. I make-do and try to learn a few names a week, but it’s an uphill battle. The names are often unfamiliar and those that look familiar I pronounce incorrectly.

She lowers her eyes to the ground and asks to use the bathroom. I nod my head to the door and excuse her without drawing attention. As my students near the end of a section, I barely have time to think about what I wanted to ask them about to gauge their comprehension of the passage. I try and catch up at the end of their swift Swahili, but it’s too late. I was lost in thought and now, I’m caught. I choose another student to continue reading and go on thinking about the girl who headed to the bathroom. I’m angry at myself for not knowing her name. Or where she lives. Or who her guardian is. I’m wondering what happened to her skirt and if a strict teacher may beat her for her offense. I’m wondering if she’s learning anything from my time in her classroom. But most of all, I’m thinking about where she’s headed.

The latrines initially built when this school was constructed years ago are full. Now students and teachers go out to a shallow hole surrounded by a small cubicle made of sticks and the remnants of logs that remained after some lumber was cut in a nearby wood. These latrines are hard to keep clean and contaminate the ground water that reaches the drinking cups of all my villagers young and old, healthy and strong and those with damaged immune systems. The waste spreads from the school, which is at the top of a hill and reaches the crops of countless villagers. It carries dangerous fecal-oral diseases, such as diarrhea, dysentery, intestinal worms, hepatitis, typhoid, and cholera.

The school choos (latrines) have constantly been on my mind since March when I agreed to write a Peace Corps Partnership Grant to raise the money to help the community build new choos for the school. I remember sitting in Mama Elia’s living room discussing project ideas the day we discovered the school’s choo problem. Her wooden couch has brightly covered cushions, but they’re covered with lace and embroidered doilies. Every time I sit on them I pull off her careful decorations as I fidget over conflicting ideas and strategies. I was distractedly explaining the types of Peace Corps grants to Mama Elia (my counterpart, comrade, advisor, and dear friend) as I attempted to fix the lace on her couch. As I rattled off some examples of grants I knew other Peace Corps volunteers had done her face suddenly set and I realized she had an idea. I had mentioned a friend building choos and Mama Elia quickly began to explain how badly the primary school is currently in need of proper toilet facilities. To be honest, I cringed at the idea. Building projects are hard, expensive, and require the use of a type of grant that relies on the direct contributions of the volunteer’s friends and family. I tried to continue on with our discussion, but it was too late. The idea was already set in her head.

Later that week Mama Elia arrived at my house with the village’s Mwenyekiti or chairperson. She had sold him on the school choo idea and he had already talked to people at the school and numerous parents. I agreed to write the grant and got on the ball. The next grant deadline was less than a week away. I’ll spare you the details of the entire grant-writing process. It was a great learning experience and I now have a completed and approved grant online and awaiting support from, “Wamarekani wa kawaidi, kama familia yangu na rafiki zangu,” normal Americans, my family and friends (as I explain to my villagers).

A part of me cringes as I write this blog, I’ll be honest. I had hoped my days of support letters and asking for money were over. But their came a point one day where I realized I could serve my villagers, their pressing needs and desires, or be a servant to my pride. I chose the former. I know that I made the right decision, and I hope and pray you agree. I wish I could simply write a grant to ask for this money from a corporation or even our government, but PC doesn’t have the budget to complete building projects and PEPFAR (President Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief) funds are only related to activities that are directly HIV/AIDS related. This is the only avenue I have available. I know these people. I know their work, their homes, (some of their names J), their ailments, their heartbreaking histories, their jokes. I know this grant is important. In a way, I wish I could just make it happen on my own. But in some ways that is selfish and it steals an opportunity for us to do work here—together—in Tanzania. I feel some guilt in asking you to do this, but in another part of me I rejoice that my friends and family across the miles can be a part of my work here. I know some of you wish you could come and help too…maybe this is the next best thing. Thank you for helping me as I struggle to help my villagers support themselves. They’re spread thin between government development initiatives and struggling to better than own families. In a way this is my feeble attempt at saying, “I see you. I see your struggle. I want to help.”

I can’t wave a magic wand and skip over the many painful steps necessary in the development process. I can’t provide running water for everyone in the village. Or improve the roads which are nearly impassable during certain parts of the year. I can’t even provide “adequate” toilet facilities as they would be defined in the US, because the necessary infrastructure is simply not there. What I CAN do, is provide them with a few simple things. Latrines (with a septic tank away from the facilities to reduce the fumes inhaled by the students). And beyond that—education. I can teach them why of all the projects I had hoped to do, the first I chose was to build choos. I can teach them about the importance of sanitation. The role of a proper latrine. The diseases that will be prevented. And most importantly, I will give them a model to take home. A goal.

Currently, there are homes in my village without any bathroom facilities at all. The government tries to encourage their construction and use through campaigns and fines, but the poorest of the poor simply lose any savings they have to pay the fines. They never have the money to actually build the facilities. It’s a vicious cycle. This may seem like an expensive teaching tool, but what better place for it to be located than at a school. Who better to teach that progress is attainable than the youth?

If this is a project you’d like to support please see https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=621-205 and donate as soon as possible. It’s really important that construction is finished before the rainy season commences again.
I’m sorry to be asking you for money, that probably wasn’t your expectation when you started reading my blog. I’m sorry and yet I still have faith. I know the hearts of my family and friends. I know the beauty in being surprised by the generosity of a stranger. I believe this will happen. And I believe you will help. For that…I’m thankful. Mama Elia thanks you. My students thank you. My village thanks you.

How To Say Goodbye

Don’t be fooled by the title. I’m in no means ready to say goodbye to Tanzania. I’m actually doing quite well (despite challenges and freeeeeeezing cold weather), but I wanted to talk about a a loved one is no easy task regardless of your longitude and latitude, but it’s in the context of difference between the customs of Tanzanian culture and American culture. Saying goodbye to such a profound and grievous moment that I am overwhelmed both by the connections between people and the walls and ditches between us developed by our cultures.

During training my LCF (Language and Cross-Cultural Facilitator) encouraged us to experience as many “cultural events” as possible. While in our classroom one day, we learned from our neighbor, a leader in the near-by mosque, that there was to be a funeral. We received some quick instructions from our teacher and headed next door to “learn.” I’m a full believer in the open-air classroom, but I was a bit hesitant to enter the house that day. I was wearing my school clothes—nothing special. I didn’t know much language and I didn’t know a soul in the room. I felt like I was using the people who were mourning a loved one. It’s one thing to ask questions in a informal setting—in the market, on the street, by the cooking fire, or while doing chores, but it seemed a bit much to intrude on someone in the moment of their greatest grief to “learn.” Anyway, I tentatively entered the home, said “Pole” (not pole like in English, it rhymes with Ole! like in salsa commercials) and contributed 500 shillings (less than 50 cents). After that we had a lesson about the burial customs of Islamic Tanzanians. It was a good learning experience, I suppose. I learned about making contributions and some of the details, but now…as a villager. I’m beginning to learn how Tanzanians really say goodbye.

Death is a fact of life in all parts of the world, but I feel its looming presence here more than I ever did in the US. Maybe that’s because in the US only violent deaths or the deaths of celebrities made headline news. The rest were hidden in obituaries in the middle of the newspaper or maybe solemnly, swiftly shared among friends. In Tanzania deaths are announced. Formally (with church bells and cries) and informally, as neighbors greet each other on the street. But if there’s one thing death and grief is not in Tanzania, it’s private. Maybe the reason I feel bombarded by death is here is because I do not just mourn the death of my loved ones or even arrive to support a close friend in their moment of grief. As a villager, I am expected to grieve with everyone who is grieving.

There isn’t exactly an exact procedure in Tanzania. It’s not like family can fly home the day they receive news and plan the wake, funeral, and burial (if plans haven’t already been made) quickly. As news reaches family members they flock from their nearby homes or begin the long journey from major cities scattered through the country. Some arrive immediately and begin mourning while others may take days traversing the poor roads that reflect Tanzania’s infrastructure development. Once all the family arrives the official burial takes place. When I catch word of a funeral my first response is, “Tutamzika lini?” Or when will we burry him (or her)? I ask this for my planning pleasure (yes, I still attempt to plan and I carry around a little calendar when I’m working). But this doesn’t mean that the only day I can arrive to pay my respects is the day of the actual funeral. My next question is usually, “Utaenda msibani lini?” Or…when will you go to the funeral. The word msiba can not be directly translation to a funeral as we think of it in America. A funeral here is more an extended period of mourning at the home of the deceased. I like to go with a neighbor 1) to learn where the deceased lived and 2) so I have someone to model through the process as I’m still learning.

For at least a week after someone dies in my village mourning occurs at their home. Mats of straw are put on the floor of the jiko (kitchen) or sebule (living room), depending on whichever is bigger. Mats are borrowed from friends and neighbors and are hodgepodgedly combined to make a patchwork covering on the dung/mud floor. Sometimes they have holes. Sometimes they are brightly covered. If not enough mats can be found cement or flour sacks can be cut and unfolded. The mats provide a clean place for guests to sit on the floor. All furniture is removed from the room so the max amount of people can come in to grieve together.

When you arrive at the funeral you will step over a sea of women (only women—the men are sitting outside. I can’t tell you much about what they do, other than that upon first arrival they may come in and sit by the door to greet or perhaps pray with the women before retreating back outside) and try and find a blank patch of mat to sit in. If there is room you will sit with your legs stretched out in front of you and crossed at the ankles. No one is wearing black and high heels. Everyone is wearing a matching khanga or kitenge and their shoes are in a pile at the door. One piece of bright cloth is wrapped around the waste and the other wrapped around their shoulders like a shawl. The sea of colors and patterns is mesmerizing and the thick, dusty feet of a grandmother who has farmed her whole life demand respect. When you arrive you will be greeted by a few claps and then the singing of hymns will begin. You may understand the words and try to sing along in a soft harmony, but likely they will be using the tribal language so you will just watch and listen. Family members may be crying, but their tears are covered by the music and their stressed bodies warmed by the suffocating presence of their neighbors and a smoldering fire.

Once the singing has momentarily ceased you crawl about on your knees and greet everyone. Depending on their emotional state and age I try and grasp for a single word that seems most appropriate, most bonding. To my neighbor, konyivovu. The tribal greeting. To the daughter of the deceased (ba or ma rehema the father or mother of peace), pole. Sorry, in Kiswahili. To the mother of the deceased, sita. Sorry in the tribal language. To a teenage friend in the corner, I whisper vipi dada? What’s up, sister? I make my way about the room, careful not to forget anyone and careful not to greet anyone twice. If I have to quickly run I may put some shillings in the hand of the closest relative to the deceased and sneak out. If I have time, I stay.

At times I’ve stayed all day. The days are long and my legs and bottom ache, but the there is much to see, hear, and taste. Food is brought in on trays by friends who are caring for their friends as they mourn. Chai, ugali, greens, rice, roasted corn, potatoes, and sometimes soda are served. Friends who come to grieve don’t come empty handed. They carry firewood (kuni), ugali flour, greens, or maybe some sugar or salt. The atmosphere in the room changes throughout the day. As new people arrive the grieving is strong and the singing voices loud. Songs are highly religious, but not cliques. They express anger at God “Umeharibika mpango wetu” (you have ruined our plan) or ask for peace. As emotions and energy run dry the mood lightens. Women lounge and nap. Some talk and joke. The music changes from slow and despairing to fast and almost lively. Sometimes women and children (and a crazy mzungu) will dance around the fire as people sing and beat buckets like drums. I think the variety in emotions rocked and shocked me more than anything. Mourning is not choked or private here. Women sob, beat the ground, scream, cry, wail, even yell at God one minute and sip chai and talk about their children the next. Some people (even Tanzanians) joke about this practice. They seem to scoff at the lack of dignity in their quite noisy mourning. But I’m starting to believe that the genuine expression of emotion is the most dignified way to deal with such loss. Plus the presence of community allows you to always have someone to cry with as well as someone to relax, recover, and reenter regular life with. One thing I was moved by was that the entire grieving process was not hid from children. One of the funerals I spent the most time at was that of my counterpart’s mother-in-law. I ached for her as she grieved, but I could not contain my emotion as I watched her youngest son (a fifth grader, whom I teach life skills to) sob as his aunt arrived at the funeral from Dar wailing and calling for her mother to come back. He didn’t hide. Nor did she. She taught him (as did everyone else) that it was ok to be sad. Ok to say goodbye. And ok to move on. That night his singing and dancing was so lively and beautiful that to this day I ask him to sing for me every time I go to his house.

Once the immediate family members arrive the actual burial takes place. The pastor and the wazee wa kanisa (church elders) preside over the ceremony. The body is preserved with lime by family members of the same sex and community members work together to build a casket. Before the funeral the vijana (young people, usually men) dig the hole for the body. Everyone comes for the burial who can. They file through (women then men) and look at the body in the casket. Then the entire procession goes to church for a service (if there is time and the family so choses) or goes immediately to the cemetery behind the church. Men and women stand on opposite sides of the body but spread out over the entire field. The pastor says a few words and someone reads a brief summary about the person’s life, usually impersonal details about education and a brief mention of his/her family. If there are any government or church officials present they will speak. There are not personal accounts. Very little singing. When that is finished the vijana rush to work and take turns frantically covering the body with the removed earth. Their energy is almost disturbing or disrespectful, but customary. Once the body is covered family members are called up by category to place branches or flowers on the soft earth. Finally all the women go up and fill in the bare patches with flowers.

When the burial is over everyone files away. They may give their condolences to family members who are sitting in a line. Then everyone washes their hands with warm water and makes their way back to the house where a great feast is being served. If you are able it’s customary to make a donation to help alleviate the cost of this food. You won’t feel cheated for doing so, your stomach will be full of delicious rice, greens, cabbage, beans, and even meat. Children will crowd around a bowl and share their portion. Everyone else will try and find a dry spot of ground to eat.

As the food quickly disappears friends dart through the crowd collecting plates and washing hands (eating rice with your hands can be a messy venture) and bringing them to be quickly washed and put back into circulation. As the sun goes down some people will head back to their homes to prepare dinner for the small children, but others will find their way back to the kitchen to lounge on the mats. They will even sleep here at the funeral. Their love and support doesn’t end after the burial or even after dark. I will never forget the time I slept at a funeral. I was amazed by the number of women sleeping on the floor of the kitchen. There were two long lines of women wrapped in their shawls spooning. I stubbornly insisted on staying in the kitchen (despite a nasty runny nose), but after hours of talking I was shooed away to my counterpart’s daughter’s room where there was a bit more space and warm blankets. But before I went to bed I managed to talk with my friend and her relatives (including her husband’s second wife, and two other mothers of his children) about funeral customs in the US and eventually about health related topics and gender equality. They were very interested to learn about the idea of wills and planning for one’s death and I dispelled the popular misconception that all Americans are cremated (as well as giving some reasons for why this is practiced and how it is carried out. Although they still think the idea of keeping someone’s ashes in your house is weird).

After about a week the funeral seems to die out. Relatives from out of town return home and everyone else returns to the farm. Children go back to school. Lives continue. I have to admit that it is here where my reflections start to get muddled. I’m learning the norms of the process. I know how to dress, greet, consol. I grieve and mourn and sing. And while I am overwhelmed by the oneness of the people here (including myself) I realize that I continue to think of home and those I love. And sometimes I get angry that no matter how well I know the customs, I will never belong. As well as I can function in this highly sensitive context, as well as I can blend in, lend a hand, make a donation. I will always be an outsider. I will always thrill the bibis (grandmothers) when I say sita. I will always be confused by the little nuances. I will always attract the eye of those from outside the village. It’s hard to see how quickly I can begin to be a part of the community and yet I am still me under the surface. Still a part of my own culture. Still a part of my own community. Still longing for that context…despite the immense love and passion I have for people and my work here.

"How To"

So many things in my life now are simply part of my routine, and yet as I try and step back and think to what life was like 10 months ago I realize that living in Tanzania is a lot different than people at home might imagine. So here’s a quick “hot to” guide for living in Tanzania…

HOW TO…

--BRUSH YOUR TEETH. Put a pee size amount of Whitedent (the only type of toothpaste easy to find in Tanzania) on your toothbrush. Do not wet. Brush your teeth as you walk around your courtyard and fill up a lemonade pitcher with water from a bucket that’s sitting under the ledge of the roof collecting rainwater. Spit by the hole in the corner of the courtyard where water drains out. Rinse off toothbrush and wash away white gunk before it dries. Do not rinse your mouth unless you have the energy to pour yourself a glass of drinking water.

--GO TO THE BATHROOM. When at home enter the drop choo (pit latrine). Squat down. Most prefer the “heels on the ground method.” I, personally, am unable to do this well, so I just squat and balance on the balls of my feet. Try not to spray on your shoes. Always make sure your bum is over the hole. Cleaning up poo on the edge of the choo is not fun. Wipe…wash your hands. When you’re not at home the process is complicated a bit. On long bus rides the bus may occasionally stop somewhere in the middle of nowhere. You may look around the bus confusedly to see who is getting off and then realize that the answer is everyone. This is a bathroom break. Women go to one side of the bus. Men to the other. You must push your way off the bus. There is no order. You must get back on before the driver is finished and is ready to leave. HURRY. Carry toilet paper in an easy to reach place. On long walking trips a similar method is necessary. You may look for a clearing in the woods or a large tree to pee behind. You should still greet people if they happen to walk past when you are peeing…greeting is very polite. If for some reason you forget toilet paper, you may use leaves, scraps of paper in your purse, or anything else you can find. There is also the option of using the bucket of water that Tanzanians have in all bathrooms for personal hygiene purposes.

--WASH DISHES. Dishes should be washed in the morning. There should be a special basin for dishes only. You can buy fancy sponges and soap in town or use a cut-off from the sack that holds your charcoal and a piece of the long, orange bars of soap that are also used to wash your clothes, body, and hair. If water is readily available you can use another bucket or larger pan to rinse dishes in. Dishes should be placed outside upside-down to try in the sun.

--WASH CLOTHES. (Heat water…optional). Fill one basic a little less than half full. Separate clothes into things that will bleed and things that won’t. Wash the things that won’t first. Put a bunch in the water. Rub a bar of soap all over them and then rub the article against itself until it is clean. Also wash in a vertical direction to prevent clothes from being rung-out. If you actually use deodorant, you will have to pay careful attention to your armpits, although you will likely end up with permanent pit stains from the aluminum in your deodorant (I do). Wring out clothes thoroughly. Place in a bucket of somewhat clean water. Wring out again. Hang on the line. Pray that it won’t rain. In the dry season, it may be necessary to finish the drying process inside. However, if too much drying is done inside it will take too long and your clothes will smell like mildew. This will make you need to do the whole process again. I repeat. Pray that it won’t rain. (Note, you may look at your pile and think, “Yeah, this will take me about 20 minutes.” You will be wrong. It has never, EVER, taken me less than an hour….and it’s usually closer to 2. Although the neighborhood children also usually come and marvel at my clothes line…”14 articles of clothes!” they proclaim. I am rich.

--DRINK WATER. Start the charcoal stove. (This can be a difficult process the first few times). Pile in a lot of charcoal. Find a place that looks deep. Pour kerosene into that hole. DO NOT JUST POUR IT ALL OVER THE TOP. Light the kerosene on fire. Let it sit until the coals are all hot or fan the flames with a bucket lid or plate or anything else you can find. Put a pot of water on the very hot coals. Wait…FOR-EV-ER. Allow to cool. Then pour into your water filter (Expensive water filters can be purchased that are made out of ceramic, but if you’re in the PC, you probably have a homemade water filter. It is two, 10-liter buckets placed on top of each other. In the top bucket is a “candle” that looks like a huge piece of chalk. The water goes through this candle and drips through a small opening at the base into a hole in the top of the bottom bucket. In the bottom bucket is a spicket like the kind you’d attach your garden hose to. Drinkable water comes out of this spicket. Important note…you will be very proud once you have made a functional water filter. A lot of superglue may be necessary to fill gaps that were created when you tried to melt holes in the buckets with a knife, bottle opener, or whatever other awkward metal you could find when you first arrived at site. You also may discover that having the top of the water filter way above your head is precarious to your health. You will likely spill boiling water on yourself at least once and you also will not be able to see when fungus is starting to grow in your top bucket. It is good to have tall friends or a stool nearby.
--BATHE. If you are blessed and live in a warm part of Tanzania heating your water is unnecessary. If you live where I live see how to start the charcoal stove…and heat your water. You will probably heat it too much and have to mix it with cold water. Approximatley 10 liters will be needed if you want to wash your entire body and wash your hair and/or shave. However, during the dry season you will realize most of these things are optional and really only certain body parts MUST be bathed on a regular basis. Take your water into a somewhat private room (here it’s called the bafu—it’s also the place where you can “short call” or urinate. You will learn that awkwardly when slightly tipsy at a party or when a student leaves a puddle next to your shampoo). Remember the lemonade pitcher you used to wash your toothpaste down the drain? Fill it up with water and dump it all over yourself. Quickly shampoo your hair and rinse. Now that your whole body is wet….suds up. And rinse again. You probably will have to scrub the dirt off your feet. And if you are a wuss like me, you’ll probably risk the fumes and bring your charcoal stove in the bathroom with you to keep warm between pitchers of hot water.
--BAKE. The day you discover baking in Africa will be one the best of your life. It may even eclipse the birth of your second child. (Come on….we all know the second child is no big deal….Why do you think there’s only a few pictures of me. I mean, them….most second children) ;-) Anyway, start the charcoal stove like you normally do, but add lots of extra charcoal. When it’s hot, take some coals off and put them on the lid of a large pot. Place the pot on the stove. Put 3 stones in a triangle in the center of the pot. Put another pot holding the bread, brownies, cake, bisquits, etc. on top of these stones. Then put the cover of the large pot with the hot coals, carefully on top. The space between whatever your baking and the top and bottom should be about the same distance so that the food inside cooks evenly. You’ll probably have to change out the coals on top as they burn out. Sticks and wooden spoons work, but they tend to catch on fire or smoke. You will eventually want to buy some metal tongs. If your Tanzanian you can use your fingers. But you are not Tanzanian. Do NOT use your fingers.

--MAKE FRIENDS WITH CHILDREN. See previous session. Brownies are the international language of love.

--GET MONEY FROM THE BANK. First you will need to get up around 5:45….and press snooze until 6. Fumble around your house in the dark and walk about 10 minutes as your watch the sunset on your way to the nearest “town.” Here there will be competing car lines trying to get your to board their car/van. They will pull you, take your bags, sweet talk you, etc. They work for commission. Don’t get angry. If it is the dry season many people will pile into the car. You will likely have someone (or some animal) sitting on your lap, smacking into the back of your head, and just generally encroaching, no…invading, your personal space. This will not change until you arrive. You will all share a similar smell and dusting of reddish earth by the time you arrive. It will be a fast, bumpy ride. If it is the rainy season, you will likely get stuck in the mud several times. Here is the one time you will be happy to be a woman in Tanzanian. The women have to get out and walk ahead to where the road recovers. Sometimes waiting for up to a few hours. Men on the other hand have to push. HA. You will often think you’ll never arrive, but you’ll be wrong. Tanzanians can do anything. Even traverse mud 6 feet deep. You will get there. You’ll likely be sick to your stomach, so you’ll enjoy a tasty breakfast of tea and fried dough or supu (beef broth with one huge chunk of meat). Then you’ll walk up to the bank where you’ll likely wait approximately 2 hours. The power may go out. The network may go down as soon as you reach the front of the line. You will likely spend the two hours in line thinking of ludicrous ways to express your anger. You may start maniacally laughing by yourself. You may curse the folks who come in and “save” their place in line and sit and wait, until you think there’s only one more person before you get to the magical teller window, but then one person becomes three and three seven. You will likely long for the Federal Teachers Credit Union, but you will remind yourself this is the only bank for about 100 km in every direction and so you try and keep your cool. Sometimes you will fail. You will almost always walk away with a lot of money so that you don’t have to come back again for a while.

--CHEER YOURSELF UP. Open your front door. Within 20 minutes there will likely be at least a handful of local children interested in playing with you. A smiling laughing child is hard to resist. If it’s a really bad day, turn on your radio. Now the smiling, laughing children will start dancing. You will start to feel better in no time.

--VISIT FRIENDS. No need to call ahead. No need to make plans. Tanzanian friends always want to see you. If you haven’t seen each other for a few days, they will likely tell you you’ve been lost or ask you where you traveled to. They’re not really angry, they just want you to know you were missed. When you arrive at a friend’s house. Don’t bang on the door. They would think you’re silly. Instead when you reach the courtyard or open door, say “HODI!?” “Hodi,” is like saying, “Hello? Anyone home? Can I come in?” You will ALWAYS receive the response, “Karibu!” or “Welcome!” Visits can be quick and consist of a few greetings or a brief exchange of news, but they are best when a bit extended and food is involved. (NOTE: Some PCVs have mastered “piga hoding” as a method to build relationships and to get yummy food from gracious neighbors).

This is probably the least insightful entry I’ve ever written, but hopefully you enjoyed it. If there’s anything else you’d like to know how to do in Tanzania, let me know!

What is the Peace Corps Experience, Anyway?

I remember when I studied in Uganda our teachers made us spend a lot of time talking about our expectations before we arrived and how those expectations then matched up with our experience in country. I remember thinking….I didn’t really have a lot of expectations for that experience. It was so new and foreign. I expected abject poverty and thus students and a learning environment that somehow revealed the state of the country at large. I was shocked to find a beautiful campus, bright, ambitious students, and an environment beautiful beyond my imagination. Now since I’ve been in Tanzania for just over 9 months (I could have birthed a baby by now!) I think it’s once again time to reflect on how my expectations of this—the Peace Corps experience—instersect with the reality of my day to day life.
Before arriving in TZ when I imagined my PC experience here’s a few thoughts that came to my mind: hippies, loneliness, simplicity, “roughing it,” dangerous, hot, defined, and “eye-opening.” If this sounds about right to you…read on…you’ll likely be quite surprised.
HIPPIES. As I stood behind the bar at Locomotions struggling to explain to the patrons (aka the locals) why I was joining the PC, I got mixed responses. Some were very supportive. Impressed by my compassion. Envious of my bravery. (Those people certainly gave my ego a good stroke). Then there were others who thought I was down right stupid. Finally, there was a last group. These folks didn’t say much, but I could read their thoughts in their glassy eyes and their reluctant smiles. Some even shook their heads. “Ah…to be young and naive,” they seemed to say. Or simply, “Crazy hippy.” Yeah, I’ll admit it. Even I figured every PC volunteer was a crazy hippy before I arrived at staging in Washington, DC (except me of course, but I’m different. Ha, again with the ego). Yup, I thought I’d stumble into a small group of young, radical, tree-hugging psychedelics. I was pretty shocked to walk into a room full of 49 ridiculously diverse individuals. Ages 21-69 were represented. Single folks and a married couple. A mess of different religions (even a few I’ve never heard of) and a few different colors and sexual orientations. But on top of the diversity that I should have expected from a group of Americans our size, I was shocked by the stereotypical personalities as well. Who would have guessed I’d be joined by stillhetto-loving sorority girls, rugged mountain men, educated professionals, world travelers, crazy partiers, and class clowns. I guess I was smart enough to know not everyone would be like me, but I had the completely wrong picture of what they’d be like. And beyond that—I was an absolute failure at guessing who’d “make it” and who’d really be a great volunteer. Some of the people that I read as “class clowns” (aka goof-offs) are amazingly creative and insightful volunteers. Girls that I picked as wussy or prissy turned out to survive siafu (killer ants) attacks and cockroaches as big as my thumb. Ha, so yeah. Lesson learned. We’re a diverse bunch and truly each of us brings a different worldview and a different set of skills to the table in our very different situations. So that being said, in my attempt to describe to you a brief (well, probably not…you know me) picture of the PC Experience, bear in mind this is only a snap shot of my experience.
Ok, Chapter 2. LONELINESS. I remember lying on the bed in my dorm room listening to Switchfoot basically balling like a baby. I had just finished my PC application and I was just really being hit by the fact that I was going to spend the next 2 years of my life living by myself in a village on the other side of the world from all my family and friends. It was an excellent release, I’ll admit….although slightly embarrassing when my roommate walked in. Anyway, I was only half right that day. I am indeed ridiculously far away from my family and closest friends. Some days the separation is killer. I just “want my mommy” or want to go crazy at my friend’s bachelorette party or hold my friend in a rough time, or help my girl move into her new apartment. I long to be there for the people I love—in the good times and the bad, but sometimes I miss the little things too. I just want to talk about the good ol’ days over strawberry daiquiris with the girls or shuck sweet corn and ride in the car with mom or listen to my brother’s band in a stuffy bar in downtown Albany (long live Badgerpants). Yes, it’s hard to be away, but I do my best to let people know I care and so do all of you. The half that I was wrong about was that I’d be alone here. WRONG. First of all, as I mentioned earlier I came here with an awesome group of people (7 have now gone home and their absence is certainly felt). These people serve in various capacities of friendship, enlightenment, encouragement, guidance, and inspiration. They are my family on holidays. My girls as we get ready to go out. My spiritual counselors. And simply friends. I may see a large group at holidays or birthday celebrations, every month or two. But we are linked by, yes, technology. Most of us have cell phones and decent service at site so we can be in contact multiple times a day. This can help us through hard times, but it can occasionally jade us against Tanzanians and their culture too. Even beyond being in phone contact with other volunteers, I was placed within an hour drive of one other American volunteer and an hour walk of another. That means that when I need to “get away” there’s always a mzungu (Foreigner) nearby who will listen to my problems or simply help me escape back to another world. We Makete volunteers are all excellent cooks and thanks to family and friends at home one of us always has a ready supply of chocolate or oreos for a dire circumstance. Is this bad? No, I don’t think so. I’m pretty blessed by the relationships I’ve made with other PCVs. I not only am privy to my own insights and struggles, but theirs as well. However, my expectation of this experience was me—totally and utterly submerged in a community and culture different than mine. Some other volunteers testify that this is indeed the case at their sites, but it’s not true for me and really it’s not true for the country at large. Tanzania is crawling with foreigners—Americans, Europeans, even Latin Americans and Asians. They’re aid workers, like me, tourists, business people, and students. Did I really think I was so special as to be the lone white face here (that is how it is in the movies, after all). No, I’m not alone here. And sometimes I feel guilty for the time I spend with my friends here (a sensation new to me), but then I try to remind myself that all the people here are gifts from God and to be valued. I also try and continue to cultivate friendships with the Tanzanians in my village. Tanzanians are a loving, welcoming, generous people. Everywhere I’ve lived I’ve been adopted by at least one family. My Tanzanian mamas are always proud of me and of their highly esteemed position. They ask if I have told my “real” mom about them. I don’t really know if they want her to feel comforted or jealous. Probably both. Anyway, I’m blessed with dotting daddies, mamas who make sure I’m home at night and that I don’t go to sleep without a full belly, little brothers who provide me with endless laughter and TLC for my precious bicycle, and finally sisters who grant me entry into their lives and bless me with girl-talk and fashion tips. Tanzanians are shocked when I tell them I live alone, but really if I’m ever alone, it’s by choice. There’s always a chair by the fire for me in mama’s kitchen. That being said, I sometimes still struggle with the realization that while I have a family here, “friends” are a bit harder to come by. I think that’s partly because friendship is so based on communication. For my first couple of months here my communication abilities were slim to nil. Eventually, I became fluent in work and everyday discourse, but real friendships aren’t built on “where you from?” and “where ya headed?” It’s tortuous when you know two words for semen and two more for orgasm (comes with the territory when you’re a health teacher), but you can’t ask someone about their relationship with their husband or boyfriend. Even now as my fluency in Kiswahili grows I’m realizing that the language of “girl-talk” here is not Kiswahili, it’s Kikinga or Kimahanji, the tribal languages spoken in my area. So, once again I’m defeated. And that leads to another issue. In TZ women and men aren’t really friends. I guess it’s acceptable in certain contexts—work environments or relatives, but for the most part, the genders are separated—literally. They do different work. They sit on opposite sides of the room at church or at village meetings. They wear very different clothes. So unless I want the rumors flying about my promiscuity, it’s best to stick to girlfriends. Fine with me, mostly. I like Tanzanian women. The mamas are the warmest women you’ll ever meet. Girls my age, on the other hand…they’re a different story. They intimidate the hell out of me. We’re talking strong women. They’re bonded by hardships and experiences I don’t understand. Most women my age are mothers. Most married. Most farmers. They’re tough. They’re proud. I think though in some ways they’re as intimidated by me as I am by them. I’m white—and therefore beautiful ( a point I will fight them on until the day I leave. Seriously. These girls are stunning. They just can’t see it). Plus, I’m educated. A feat most of the women remaining in village can’t claim. So where are we? I’m scared of them and they’re scared of me. Basically, I try and smile and small talk them up—everyday. J It can be tiring and frustrating, but I can see the walls are starting to fall and friendships are starting to really blossom. So…the question remains…am I lonely? And the resounding answer…not in the least (although I’ll be happy to admit that I’m discovering more and more my introverted side).
SIMPLICITY. When I read Foster’s Celebration of Discipline in my sophomore year of college (Thanks Prof Wally), I learned that simplicity is a Christian discipline. When I returned to college my senior year after spending a semester in Africa, it was a discipline I spent a lot of time struggling with. I turned to my Ugandan Studies Program professor for advice as I drowned in guilt and frustration. He comforted me that I can’t feel guilty over the complexity of my life due to my culture. He reminded me that I have to make a ridiculous amount of decisions—many of them small and relatively insignificant, others quite large and monumental—but all of them blessing and curses stemming from my culture. Here I expected to be able to enter the “simple” lives of my Tanzanian neighbors simply because of my locative position (Note: I don’t mean simple as in ignorant, but as in uncluttered). However, I am quickly learning that simplicity doesn’t come from the outside, but from the inside. My Tanzanian friends have basically the same access to food stuffs that I do (although I can go to the city and buy soy sauce and cocoa powder), but while they have a handful of staple meals, I am constantly trying new things. It’s likely my diet is more diverse here than it was in America. Even my house is a testament to my cluttered culture. First of all, my house is probably on the nicer side of PC abodes. It’s definitely the biggest house in my village and I live alone. But beyond that, it’s newly painted and slowly filling with nice furniture, carpets, pictures, matching curtains, and various other clutter. It’s beautiful. And it makes me feel comfortable and at home. The desire for that is no different from my Tanzanian friends. They too decorate their houses. The difference is that my house looks like my idea of a nice home and I’ve spent thousands of shillings doing it. Mix-matched material; clashing colors; cell phone ads and various other newspaper clippings in unknown languages; unframed, faded pictures; large posters of Asian babies, white people eating grapes, or various rappers; mats hung on the wall; and various sayings about hospitality or religion, are not my ideas of decoration. My rooms have color themes. Kids have to take off their shoes before coming in the house (partly because I’m too lazy to clean every day and partly because I like it clean). My house is much larger than I need. It’s excessive really. But I can’t help that. What I’ve done with it on the inside, however, is under my control. And while I don’t really feel guilty for my nesting activities, I can’t say I’m now a shining example of the discipline of simplicity either. And what about money? I often get frustrated trying to explain to people that while I’m white I’m really not all that rich. I explain that I just finished college and had a lot of loans and that now I’m a volunteer. They usually get that message, but that leads to two other complications. First, what “Volunteer” makes more per month than everyone else in town? With the less than $200 I make per month for living expenses, I am still the richest person in town. And even beyond that, if I ever really needed money I could get it from my rich friends and family in America. I get frustrated with that one, but in ways I know they’re right. I try to use my frustration and guilt as a catalyst for good decision making with my finances. Do I really need to use the internet? Do I really need to go to town for shopping or to visit friends? Do I really need a beer? Do I need 4 different kinds of veggies for one week? Do I need to eat meat this week? Do I need to send all these text messages? Can I mend this skirt myself instead of going to a fundi? Do I need electricity? Should I give loans? Should I help orphans with their school fees? Coming here didn’t simplify my rich American lifestyle in the least. If anything it may have complicated it. Not that I have more decisions to make, it’s just that now they all seem a little more drastic and dramatic. The houses made of mud and dung are next door. The 6-year-old on ARVs is smiling with rotting teeth, waiting for me on my doorstep. The reality of the world doesn’t hit me when I see a Christian Children Fund Commercial or at a World Vision plug at a rock concert. No, it hits me some days as the sunrises and I squat on my toilet or start my charcoal stove. No, life is definitely not simpler for me here. Not in the easy way I hoped, at least. I recently got my hands on Foster’s book again to do as a devotion with a friend. Hopefully I’ll get something new from it this time that I couldn’t see before.
Chapter 4. Before I arrived at site, I thought PC was all about “roughing it.” I’ve had friends tell me in personal letters that they think living without running water, electricity, a toilet, a shower, and a computer is beyond their capacity (although I have a pretty sweet pocket camping shower, thanks mom! And I often use Bret’s computer). These are things I don’t even think twice about anymore (and actually while I was staying at a nice motel a few weeks ago I longed to squat to go to the bathroom)! I have nice clothes, delicious food, and a comfortable house. It’s far from “roughing it.” That being said, I don’t farm everyday (I tried it a few days—it was Fing hard, pardon my language) like my Tanzanian neighbors. Now it’s the rainy season so I don’t have to chote water. The only physical demands I have are walking all over creation and doing some house chores. My life isn’t that hard. I could even afford to pay people to do the little amount of work I do actually do. No, I’m not roughing it. Cell phones and Internet are available. During my training in January, our Country Director (the CD or head honcho) and Programming and Training Officer (PTO and #2) were giving us a bit of a lecture about our reliance on cell phones. It kinda had a “in my day we had to walk up hill to school in three feet of snow both ways” kind of ring, but afterwards I was feeling slightly jealous (those women were real PC volunteers, I thought) and also slightly guilty. The CD described lying on her living room floor, sure she was dying, hoping someone would come check on her. These days, I can call the medical officer if my sniffles last an unusually long time. I can relate in detail my most recent bowel movement to all my friends via text. Isolation is not a part of my experience. Am I jealous of these pioneering volunteers? A little, yes. Should I feel guilty thought? No, I really don’t think so. I can’t help it that TZ is progressing. I can’t help it that cell phones and internet are a part of life for a lot of people here. However, I do appreciate the thought. I have now tried to reduce my cell phone use and be more dependent on the Tanzanians close to me, God, and even myself. But am I really “roughing it?” Nope. I talk to my parents on the phone and eat brownies while listening to my ipod on battery powered speakers. I’m not roughing it, but I am learning to live with a foot in each world. A state that while ideally is frustrating and sometimes disconcerting, is part of my job and just an excepted part of my experience now. I fax reports, communicate with my boss via email, and post web blogs. I also chote water, wash my clothes by hand, and walk about an hour to work almost every day. Maybe I am roughing it. You’re free to judge.
DANGER! As I read the literature from PC, I’ll admit I was terrified by the frequency of muggings, attacks, rapes, and even murders among PCVs. I was nervous amount transportation. I was absolutely paranoid about HIV and a slew of other diseases, parasites, and poisonous creepy-crawlies. While granted, these are all real threats in TZ, most days I feel absolutely perfectly safe. My neighbors (and Salome our Safety and Security Officer) watch my back and most icky creepy crawlies don’t like the cold weather of Kitula (although I do now have a rat! Eek! And my grandma is now in the hospital from a poisonous snake bite). However, I’ll admit that I split my money when I travel, never walk alone at night, and say a prayer every time I travel. Accidents happen everywhere. Bad people are in TZ just like they’re in America. So, yeah, maybe life is a bit more dangerous here, but I don’t lose sleep over it.
HOT! Some of you are probably tired of hearing me whine about this so I’ll try and keep this part brief. Basically, I hate winter. I hate being cold. I love flip flops and swimming and strolling in the spring. One of the main selling points of PC TZ was that I thought I’d be escaping the ungodly climate of NY. However, I’ve managed to land myself in one of the coldest parts of TZ. I’ve finally kicked the nasty cold I had for most of February. I’ve started wearing a winter coat (yep, I have a sweet, yellow puff-coat I found at a used clothing market in Iringa town. Best 4,500 shillings I ever spent. More importantly, I’ve stopped being a slave to fashion and comfort. Now, almost everyday, on my feet I am wearing wool socks and rain boots (thanks mom)! Turns out covering my chest and having warm, dry feet does wonders. Whenever I start complaining about the cold my TZ friends remind me of the stories I’ve told them of snow storms, snow shoveling, and snow days. I reluctantly shut up, but I tend to find myself muttering something under my breath about central heating, pants, and cars. Soon the rainy season will be over, but then the cold kicks in (yup, in June when y’all are warming up it’ll start getting cold here) and I’ll have to chote water again. I think I’ll just try and sell myself on the notion that my rain boots are adorable and that I love that it rains everyday (even though I just want to get back in bed and read or snuggle and watch a movie). HA. Expectations. This one probably pisses me off the most… J
Chapter…oh who knows? WELL DEFINED. As I imagined PC, between shifts at my various and in sundry jobs since finishing college, I always imagined it to be a job like any other job I’ve ever had. I didn’t really ponder the idea. It was a simple assumption. I blindly assumed that this job, like every other, would have clearly defined hours, policies, guidelines, responsibilities, etc. I suppose I was right about the policies (PC is a branch of the American bureaucracy, after all), but I think I grossly over estimated my ability to hop right into my responsibilities. I’ve never really had a job that defeated me mentally or physically. I’ve always been able to play the part—or at least for a little while. But here, without a solid foundation of language, I lacked the self confidence I’ve always taken for granted. This can be quite unsettling when speeches and teaching are at the core of your job. And beyond that, I thought PC would more heavily define my role in my community, whereas in reality, it’s me upon who the burden falls to analyze my community’s needs and then work to meet them in anyway I can. WHAT?! Seriously, this aspect of my work here is much more overwhelming that I expected. I’ve never really been so aware of my lack of creativity before I tried to do this job. Honestly, it’s a bit disconcerting (and definitely humbling) to not be able to quickly master my job. But I’m learning to believe in myself once again and more importantly, I’m learning to rely on the creativity, wisdom, and resources of others in a way I never have before. It’s hard and again I’ll say it—humbling, but for all my personal trials and tribulations, I think in the end my community will benefit and so will I. But certainly my job and my performance don’t at all fit my initial expectations.
(Just for the record, I’m writing this by hand, by the light of a kerosene lantern. It’s now around 9:30 and I’ve been working on this since 6. I’ve taken a few breaks to rest my hand and/or to eat straight guacamole or dark chocolate, a bar I’ve been hoarding for months (thanks grandma)! I’m pretty much exhausted now. Don’t know if it’s because it’s so dark and quiet (the only sounds I hear are crickets and the ticking of my wind-up alarm clock in the next room) or because I walked like 6 km today and woke up at 6:15).
Ah…so…one final chapter. Has my PC experience been the “eye-opening” turning point in my life that I expected? Is it the burning bush of my life to tell me which direction to start heading in career-wise? The unfortunate answer is…nope. Unfortunately, at this point I’m just as confused as ever. Which is frustrating, but I guess I should have known. I suppose it’s still fairly early on anyway. Maybe something will suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks…but until that day…I’ll just keep taking it one day at a time…one step at a time.
I don’t know how much this has cleared up the PC experience for you. Probably not much at all, but hopefully you had some fun reading it. I know it’s been helpful for me to look back to those expectations because sometimes I can identify a source of guilt, concern, worry, or frustration that lies within me, not within the Tanzanian culture or even my day to day experiences. I also have a few random stories, updates, and announcements you might be interested in, so if you have the time and stamina…feel free to read on.
For Mrs. Zacchos and Lisa and anyone else who cares what I’ve been reading, here are the few titles I can remember since the last time I wrote:
· After Dachau by Daniel Quinn
· All About Love: New Visions by Bell Hooks (Thanks Jana!)
· Memories of my Melancholy Whores by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
· Wind In the Willows by Kenneth Graham ?
· The Alchemist by Pablo Coehlo ?
· Captivating by John and Staci Eldridge
· The Sex Lives of Cannibals by J. Maarten Troost
· Telling Secrets by Frederick Buechner
· Lamb by Christopher Moore
For those of you are sick of hearing about what I’m reading and where I’m traveling, here’s a summary of what actual work I’m now doing. In the past few weeks I have been verrrry busy! I am proud. J My counterpart and I have finished digging about half of my sizable garden, which will soon be planted with some seasonal vegetables that I will eat and will be able to offer to community members who have little to no food due to HIV/AIDS and other issues. I am now teaching life skills formally at two schools. I teach 5 periods at a secondary school about an hour walk away. The curriculum I am teaching is interesting, important, and a lot of fun. First I will teach about HIV/AIDS and other STDs to make sure my students have a solid factual base to stand on, but then the really important part of the program kicks in. The main body of life skills has to do with teaching communication skills, relationship skills, and decision making skills. The rationale behind the program is that a lack of knowledge is not what is causing HIV/AIDS to spread through Africa and other parts of the world like wildfire. The lack of equality between genders, the lack of ability to negotiate, and the lack foresight to plan for the future, are huge obstacles that need to be tackled to stop the spread of HIV. How do we prevent women from being infected by their husbands? Slap men on the hand when they’re getting drunk or give endless seminars about condoms? No! We teach women that they are equal in intelligence and ability and should have a right to discuss and have an equal say in sexual matters. How do we encourage condom use? Hand out a million condoms? No! We teach women and men how to negotiate condom use. How do we get people to think how their actions will affect their health, their dreams, and their families? Do we show them videos and guilt them into change? No! We teach them about goal setting and encourage responsible decision making. And as I say “them,” over and over again, I am focusing especially on young people. Young people are impressionable, powerful, and bright. They can ask questions. They can change the future.
I also teach a modified life skills program to elementary school students that has a slightly different focus. There are chapters about bullying, disabilities, HIV/AIDS, and decision making. At the primary school I only teach fifth graders, as two teachers already went to a seminar about life skills and are now teaching the curriculum to their sixth and seventh grade classrooms as well. Sometimes I wish I could teach these classes, but I am very happy that these teachers are teaching these students. Not only can they communicate better than I, but they too are getting passionate about my subject matter…so I certainly don’t complain.
I also am a “guest teacher” at another near-by secondary school. At this school I try and give a weekly presentation on a variety of topics, including life skills, HIV/AIDS, and STDs. Also at this school there are already students who have attended a seminar about life skills and are teaching their peers. Sometimes it frustrates me that I cannot teach the classes myself or that the students are confident without my help, but again I am happy that they are taking the initiative and getting a great experience. I also get frustrated because I never really know what to teach about, I don’t have a set plan for this school, but I am beginning to have fun and enjoy the freedom, and I truly enjoy seeing these bright and energetic students once a week.
Now that I have a more set schedule, I am deciding whether I want to extend my teaching to more schools (I really am loving teaching), but I think maybe I should take advantage of the gaps in my schedule (they are necessary for prep as well…it’s definitely not easy to teach in Swahili) but I also think having an opportunity to work on secondary projects is really important. Right now I have Fridays completely free so I am trying to spend some time at the hospital and the adjoining orphanage. I am not sure how my role will play out in these arenas, but I think it’s important to have my presence there as often as possible. Maybe at some point they will see a need where I can truly help them. I also want to have time to begin my PLWHAs group (People Living with HIV/AIDS) and to begin work with the out-of-school youth. My counterpart and I are currently working on long and short term plans for these projects.
Finally, another part of my work is now taking shape. My community asked me to write a grant in order to build bathroom facilities for the primary school where I teach. I was not psyched about the idea, to be honest. First of all, it came up just days before our grant deadline, and ever since junior year of college I haven’t been one for cramming. Next, I was hoping to avoid a building project at all costs, building projects are long, expensive, stressful, and in some cases, unsuccessful. Finally, I really didn’t like the idea of building pit latrines. In my typical American fashion, I was not excited about doing a project that wasn’t “new and improved” or “state of the art.” BUT, as I began writing this grant, I became really excited about the project. First, I began to see the huge health benefits building new toilets would have on the community. I also was excited to do this project because it is actually a really important step in development being pushed in the area, and so what better way for me to show my backing then to support the building of latrines at the school? Finally, I was really excited by the participation I received from my Tanzanian counterparts. This isn’t really just a project that I want to do. It’s something important. It’s something they care about. It’s something they’re taking ownership of. If you are interested in hearing more about my grant or you would like to help contribute please let me know. I should be receiving a link from the PC in the near future, and I truly cannot do this project without the support of people at home.
Ok…another silly thing. Here’s a list of new foods I’ve successfully created (often with the help of friends)
· Pirogues
· Mom’s potato salad
· Homemade baked beans (Thanks Mama Chris!)
· Chocolate Éclair Cake
· Cheeseburgers (with homemade buns and HEINZ Ketshup)!
· Peanut Noodles
· Chili and cornbread
· Spaghetti
· Pizza
· Pasta Primavera (that’s the cheesy kind, right?)
· Bagels
· Perfect Omlettes (yes, I’m bragging)
· Banana Pancakes
· Crepes with melted Hershey Kisses (maybe not a culinary masterpiece…but pretty darn delicious)
· Mango wine
Hungry? Running for some snack food (mmm…Doritos and ice cream and diet soda)? No problem. I’m about to completely change the subject.
It’s very rarely that I do something and then think…man, I should write a blog about that. Obviously, I’m not the best blogger, as you can see from the date of my last entry. But, while I was at my PEPFAR training in Iringa in January, one of the sessions really stood out to me. I immediately thought. Gotta blog about this one. The session was on the topic of Crossing Cultures and identifying different values. When I saw the topic on our schedule I was slightly disappointed. I assumed it would be another boring session complete with endless definitions and truly very little content. What I experienced was quite different. First, they split us American volunteers apart from our Tanzanian counterparts—which surprised me quite a bit to be honest. Then we were each instructed to do one of those “There has been a war. All the people in the world have died with the exception of the following 11. As a result of the war the land is not suitable to live on so the people must find a new location to live. They have managed to find an underground place where they can survive until the land is again ok to live on. There is a problem however: this underground place can only support five people. Your job is to decide which five of the following eleven get to live and which six get to die. You must be able to explain your answers.” I have done this exercise a few times—at leadership conferences or at work trainings. It usually led to some interesting discussion (and typically some guilt), but for the most part, consensus was fairly easily reached. I was always performing the exercise with people of the same culture, who have the same values base and a relatively similar education as me. This day was quite different. I’ll spare you the literal play-by-play, but I’ll give you the highlights. Basically, Americans chose their five based on their education and contribution to the gene pool—we focused on diversifying and thus breaking up families. Tanzanians, however, focused more on the social aspect. Their first choice was the Catholic priest. This made no sense to us Americans, of course. He can’t even help repopulate the earth, for pete’s sake! But the science wasn’t the focus for them. They also chose to keep families intact, thus choosing 3 people of one family—one a baby. Soooo we’re talking about a priest and a baby repopulating the earth…but that didn’t matter to them. It was about keeping the family units intact. Having spiritually healthy, productive people. One of the most interesting characters in the bunch was Miss White. Miss White was sexually abused as a child, divorced her husband due to physical abuse, and worked two jobs (including bartending at night). In the eyes of an American, Miss White is strong. She’s a fighter. She’s also young and fertile. We love her. The Tanzanians were whole-heartedly against her. She must have been a temptress when she was young. She must have been a bad wife. What could she have done to bother her husband so much? And really, only prostitutes are bartenders! Gender also played an interesting role, although a slightly more subtle role. The Americans chose three women and two men, because fewer men are biologically needed to repopulate the earth. The Tanzanians in my group chose three men and two women, one of them being an infant. While we kept arguing that the baby was a dumb choice, some Tanzanians (people who know the hard, farming life) pointed out that we chose an older, educated man. Who would do the work? This made me literally laugh out loud (I kept pretty quiet or tried to play the peacemaker during the whole session), because if you walk down the road in Tanzanian, 80% of the people that you see working in the fields are not men—they’re women. Young and old. Strong lean arms and white hair peaking out the bottom of their colorful headwraps. Backs flat and strong with a sleeping baby bound securely. Backs hunched with age and hard work. Who will do they work? Miss White. Miss White will! BAH. As I talked with my site mate Bret before his PEPFAR training in March, I told him the best session by far at my conference was the cross-cultural session, and so when that day arrived at his conference I received numerous text messages from him. I was not shocked to hear that his group had chosen very similar people to mine and they were equally as shocked by the Tanzanians seemingly crazy and illogical choices as we were. It was crazy how one hour taught me so much about a culture I’ve spent the last 9 months in and even more frighteningly a culture I’ve spent the last 24 years in. I’ve always considered myself compassionate and relational…not rationally or scientifically, driven. And yet I too chose survivors based on intelligence, education, and their contribution to the gene pool. Young man with questionable character? Yup, we need him for his sperm. Compassionate, old priest who opened an orphanage for HIV/AIDS orphans. Heck no! What can he give to the gene pool? I mean, maybe Miss White can seduce him, but then he’ll probably lose his faith and what good will a whiny, defeated, guilty old man do? Mentally handicapped child? GONE. Baby? GONE. Well educated, middle aged woman who’s got an impressive resume of gifts to society, but is potentially infertile…? GONE. Most of the PCVs I did this exercise with were shocked by the differences in the Tanzanian and American approach, but I’m not sure how many thought to look critically at who we had chosen. I know there’s no good or right answer for this kind of thing, but can we judge the values behind the choices? Can we judge or own love affair with science and rationality? Where has the compassion and commitment to family and faith and the higher things gone in our culture?
Hmm…I’d love to keep telling you stories, but it’s probably time to shut up. I’ll try and be a bit more timely with my next entry and then I won’t have to write a book again. Thanks to all who plowed through this beast of a blog. Hope you enjoyed. Take care! Happy Easter!