August 2010

Goodbye Image

Jessica, my village nurse who turned away for the picture

Dancing

Jen surprised me by coming from her new village.

Speech time

Accepting gifts Are you kidding... more fabric. Children staring at me, nothing new. The only way to smash peanuts... in high heels.

Primary School Choir performance

I like to move it, move it...

Women's choir performance

Anna doesn't understand what is going on.

Primary School Teacher's performance

Ewwww

It isn't that good of a look when you are white...

Mama John- wrapping me in more fabric

Village women dancing

Primary school student drumming during part of the dancing

Primary school girls dance in leaf costumes

The chalkboard in the meeting room that we ate dinner Felix, my village chairman, and Sodike, my head teacher, and Anna, feeliing very protective over me Some Dancing

"If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with success unexpected in common hours."Henry David Thoreau July 26, 2010 I am on the bus. I have refrained from speaking much about the long cross-country bus trips that must be taken from Njombe to Dar, mostly because I didn’t want to scare my mom. I have seen many disturbing things in this country, things I am not sure that I will ever be able to talk about, most of those were on Tanzanian highways. According to Peace Corps, Tanzania has more fatality accidents than any other country in Africa, but maybe this is the only country that keeps track of anything like that, I can’t be sure. Our main road from Njombe up to Dar is paved, windy, with many of it climbing mountains with steep drop offs on either side. Cars and buses in Tanzania are very poorly maintained leading to many malfunctions. There are no hard and fast rules for driving. Basically go as fast as your car will take you is the main rule. This bus rides terrify my friends and I. We choose what we believe will be the safest area of the bus, put in our iPods, emotional eat, and attempt to distract each other for 11+ hours. The ride to Tanga and back, I have to do alone. It is eleven hours from Njombe to Dar and then another six from Dar to Tanga town. I have been chosen as Peace Corps Volunteer of the week, which means I go up to Tanga (the training site) to teach 45 fresh, newly arrived PCVs about my service and life in Tanzania. I am excited about this opportunity to share my service. I am not excited about the ride. On the way, I reflect on how did I really come to accept this culture as normal? A man carrying logs on the back of his bicycle has encountered a problem, in the middle of the road the have become unattached and now are laying on the roadway. He attempts to gather them up, not get hit by a car and move his bicycle to the side of the road. The bus stops and about five men jump off and help him resituate until he can go on. I knew this would happen. I don’t question if this added time onto our trip, because even though I am still an American, Tanzania has also done its best job to rub off on me, so what is good for one person is good for us all. I snack on fresh cashews, which I offer to my neighbors like a good Tanzanian. It is not rude to eat in front of others as long as you offer what you are eating. I wonder if anyone in America offers and accepts food when they don’t know each other? No, Americans are too worried about poison, about annoying ones neighbors, about making a connection… I am squeezed between two young guys one in a shirt with a huge bald eagle that proclaims in big letters “Proud to be an American,” and I am sure he would be if he were. The other one is in a pink Old Navy shirt that could have only once been placed in the women’s section. Pinky asks me if I am married and I tell both he and “the American” an elaborate story of love, intrigue and heartbreak between my husband and I. This eats up some of the bus time. Eventually the woman behind me taps me and throws her, maybe two-year-old, child forward. The little girl casually looks at me, as I pass her to Pinky (he is closest to the exit) he asks the driver to stop, gets off with the girl and pulls her pants down. She squats on the side of the road; he pulls up her pants and carries her back onto the bus where she is passed back to her mother. Pinky and this girl are not related. If fact, they have never seen each other until that moment. This happens all over this country because this child is everyone’s child. This is a collectivist society. “All for one, one for all.” In Tanga, I have to convey this cultural message. The new PCVs must adapt to a life like this instead of the individualistic attitude that we have always known and valued. I meet the new PCVs, eager and clean, cute in their new “Africa clothes”, they look of people who have recently eaten sour cream, blueberries, sweet and sour tofu. Dust has not entered every crease of their bodies. They talk about music, movies and TV shows that I have never heard of. They miss America… Have I forgotten? Instead of missing America though, I miss my friends. Other people that have never held an iphone, do not know what music is in, are only able to wash their feet every few days. The people I belong with- Kate, Sarah, Katalina, Margaret, Greta- the Njombe girls. On a very conceited level it is sort of enjoyable to be in the process of finishing something that 45 people are on the precipice of beginning. I have just done what is these people’s dream to do. They ask me cute, concerned questions and I so remember being there. Was it really two years ago?

Baby Gare Bear, an hour old

"Each contact with a human being is so rare, so precious, one should preserve it."

-Anais Nin

I am dozing on my couch when at 10.15 pm my phone rings, it is William. He says, "you have to go to my house right now, my wife is having a baby. I am in Njombe and the car is broken." I sleepily answer, "why didn't you call Jessica (our village nurse)?" He did, but she is traveling. uh no.

Some background: William is one of my closest friends in my village, he is 29 and married. He grew up in Image and we mainly became good friends because he was my old village executive officer's motorcycle driver. Then it turned out that his primary school level education makes his kiswahili perfect for me to understand. Plus he is just a generally nice guy. He lives way far into one of my sub-villages, so I have actually never visited him at his house. I am sure that I have greeted his wife very nicely at various times, but I have no idea which village woman she is, mostly because Tanzanian men generally only spend time with their wives in private and no one has ever pointed her out to me in the context of her being his wife. I know that they have one physically handicapped child and that she has carried two more babies to full term to have them arrive already dead. I also know how badly they want children, all in all, I am pretty freaked out. Especially that he has so much faith in my ability to make sure that this child arrives alive. So I do the only thing that I can do... I throw on a pair of jeans and go running like a mad woman to William's mother's house.

Luckily, Tanzanians almost never sleep, so I am able to get her out the door in a matter of minutes. She and I, at a quick, let's say, gallop fly over the rutted dirt road in the dark. It takes us about half an hour to arrive. The scene that I am met with leaves me shaking. The house is a one room, dirt floor, thatched roof number that is so typical of Tanzanian homes. There is one candle burning and through the flicker I see a woman curled up in the corner moaning quietly. When I reach her I can see that her eyes are as big as saucers, she is sweaty, but freezing cold. Is she in shock? Is she going to die? I feel like Prissy in Gone With The Wind as I think to myself, "Aw Miz Scarlett, I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' babies." I have been at many many Tanzanian births, but never one that I felt was so high risk or that I felt so alone for. Mama William ran out to get a neighbor woman who brought some warm water, some of her fire, and some fabric. I figured coordinating help was all that I could really do, so I began to make an exit. William's wife looked terrified at me and asked in Swahili "your leaving?!? but I need you. You are my husband's best friend and you are good luck." What was I supposed to do? I would feel horrible if the baby died and they believed that it was because I wasn't there, but what if it died and I was there? That thought terrified me.

It was a long night. One of my longest ever. I mostly just held her hand and kept talking, trying to calm her (and honestly, myself). At some point, before light, she gave birth in a squatting position, she sort of half caught the baby herself, and then it lay there on the compacted dirt. I quickly wiped it and looked at it and miraculously, it cried. I cried. Mama William squealed with delight. His wife smiled, satisfied, tired. I quickly looked over the tiny visitor. All limbs- perfect. Face- beautiful. A head of soft black hair. A strong, beautiful baby boy, which, culturally, is the best thing that can happen to any Tanzanian family. I looked up through the thatched roof to the fading stars and thanked the universe.

After cooking chai with Mama William and bathing the new baby, I set off toward my home to get some much needed sleep. Feeling a warmth in my heart and missing the small weight in my arms of the child a few moments old.

That afternoon, William returned absolutely thrilled. It is customary in Tanzania for the father to name the baby, when I asked why he said because the mother gives birth to it. Especially if it is a boy the father always gets to name it. This seems a little unjust which, of course, I pointed out. Also in Tanzanian villages, children in the womb are not talked about until they are born. There is no baby shower, designing the nursery, buying baby clothes, picking out names, talking about that a baby is coming at all. When I asked why, the answer was because the baby could die. Can you imagine living in an environment when the chance of a baby dying was so great that you didn't plan for it at all? Anyways, I walked back to the house to visit the family that afternoon. William demanded to know what my father's name was. "Gary", I said. He and his wife looked at each other and smiled. William then tells me, "That is this baby's name. Gary." "What?" I ask. He says, "Well it really is too short of a name (Tanzanians hate short names, they always have long names which they shorten.) His real name will be Garrion, but he is called Gary." This is somewhat hilarious because Tanzanians can barely say the r sound and constantly switch it with an l sound. I tell them that they really don't need to name the baby after my dad and should name it what they want. But they are both insistent. I walk home laughing. In a small village in East Africa there is a child named after my father, I am not sure what could be funnier.

"She's got everything she needs, she's an artist and she don't look back." -Dylan

July 1, 2010

After spending months in denial it is time to face the fact that my days on the African continent are limited. I have successfully procrastinated in knowing this for quite sometime. Only on occassion does that knowledge creep up on me, when I get infected with what I call the "last- syndrome", ex- this is the last time I'll go to Iringa, this is the last time I will hear a bush baby scream in the night, this is the last time that I will see you... The thought of no return ticket to Tanzania is unbelievably depressing to me. The sense of loss I feel is overwhelming.

I am nervous about moving back to a country where stories don't start with, "The last time I was on Zanzibar..." or "Today we only got stuck in the mud twice and ran out of gas four times..." Outfits don't always include a slip under a below the knee skirt, and on a long bus ride no one sits down next to you and wants to hear your life story... in Swahili. It is funny, there are so many downright annoying things about being an mzungu in TZ, but once you get used to it, it becomes a pretty fun life.

I will be on an airplane in August. Leaving a country filled with smiling faces, rolling hills, bright fabric, rough roads, white beaches, a snow capped mountain- adventure.

Christmas came in July today as it rained and was freezing at the same time- something is it generally not supposed to do here. I curled up in front of my fire, roasted peanuts from the farm and read a Tom Robbins book. As I sit next to the fire, in my little house in East Africa it occurs to my that the number one lesson that I have learned in my time here is that everything is about attitude. I am moving back to America- I need an attitude adjustment. All things come to an end, whether good or bad and whether I ignore it or not PC is ending. Change is the only constant, best to embrace it. I've decided to make a list about all the things I am excited about to return to in America- friends and family obviously, but what else? Who knows, maybe you will find something that you take advantage of?

I am excited for:

-hot showers

-the cheese isle of the grocery store

-driving a car on paved roads

-tofu

-when calling a meeting at noon, people showing up at noon, maybe even a little before. Not coming any time between 3 and 6 pm.

-ice cubes

-gyms and yoga classes

-red wine that is not from South Africa

-drinkable water

-a house with minimal spiders, not the maximum amount that can cram in.

-Hollywood Video and movie theatres

-people who understand the concept of standing in line without cutting

-swimming in a lake and not wondering whether or not you have shisto

-not having to follow up everything you say with "Are you understanding me?"

-American efficiency and customer service

-concerts, theatre, dance, art- culture that is not African

-not having to bargain for the price of everything

-not having every negative event attributed to witchcraft

-when ordering something at a restaurant, knowing just what is coming

-sickness that you know is not something crazy/weird

-machines- laundry, dishwasher, mop, vacuum, fridge, freezer...

-being anonymous- not having everyone talk about me constantly

-the absence of the near daily funeral

-a library with books that haven't just been discarded by PCVs

-unlimited internet and TV access

-things that make sense (to me)

-fat cats and dogs and the absence of rats

-not being alone unless desired

-western toilets and provided toilet paper

-Trader Joes

-Having clean, stylish, hole-less clothing

-Oregon seasons

-Implementing PC's third goal (Teaching Americans about Tanzanians)

-New challenges, new experiences, new dreams---

I feel better already...

PC says that the hardest time in a volunteer's service is the re-adjustment to America. This is probably true, but it certainly doesn't have to be. I choose to focus on what I am going toward, not what I am giving up. Life goes on and Peace Corps is only part of the adventure. On to the next one!

"Adventure is worthwhile in itself." -Amelia Earhart

"The full life is filled with vulnerability, not defense... You face whatever feeling there is." -Virginia Satir

End of June

My village is crazy right now. So a lot of people in my friend, Osmond's family have died recently. Turns out that my villagers have decided that his uncle is dabbling in witchcraft. This has caused Osmond's baby to die, his mother to die, one of his uncles and two of his siblings, all in not very much time. By the time I got back to the village from some travels, they had already searched his house and found some "witching devices". When I pressed what exactly these were, I didn't get a real answer but I have an idea because when William and Nicki were at my house recently William accused me of witchcraft jokingly because I have shells laying around and Crystal Light in a water bottle. (So knick-knacks and colored water=witchcraft). Anyways, then they called some creepy people who took Osmond's old uncle out into the bush and killed him. Or Image villagers think that they killed him, we cannot be sure, but I have been told ominously, "that we will not hear from him again." My villagers seem very okay with this. It will be odd to live in a country very soon that does not explain everything by the occult. When Jane, my house girl, started working for me, multiple people told me to clean out my hair brush. In response to my question of why, I was told because she could steal my hair and give it to someone who could curse me. Really?

About the time of all this Osmond's-uncle-witch-business, I get really sick. I woke up with a fever, weak, and then threw up for four days straight. What I called the stomach flu, they call witchcraft, poison...blah, blah, blah. Many Tanzanians open drinks in front of who is going to drink it, so they can be assured that it does not contain poison. This week I have taken up my own self-taught Rwanda course, where I have read together "We wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed with our families," about the genocide, and "Gorillas in the Mist" of course, by Dian Fossey. (I figured that it was time for me to expand upon my obsession of young women who live alone in Africa with great apes. I would like to say that I relate to them, but Kimulimuli is a pretty pathetic ape.) I highly, highly recommend both of these fascinating books, however, read at the same time "Me Talk Pretty One Day," by David Sedaris, not because it has anything to do with Rwanda but because when you are tired of balling your eyes out, this will crack you up. I had nightmares for a week straight about decapitated gorillas and people. Anyways, my point is these books both really seemed to illustrate the concept of fear.

Fear makes people do funny things. I can laugh all I want about witchcraft in my village but there are examples from all over the world, America included, of people acting in weird and rash ways out of fear. I read somewhere once that fear gets in the way of love, or something to that extent, and I wonder about that statement. I am pretty sure that every problem in the world goes back to someone's, or a group's fear, whether real or imagined. When I think about the genocide in Rwanda, what is going on now in Sudan, in Iraq, in many places... isn't that about someone's fear of someone else? What happened during the holocaust, to Black Americans, Native Americans, gay Americans... was that not related to someone's own trepidation? How much more effective would we be as a world population if fear was not a driving force in most people's lives? Would there be a lot more love? I think probably yes.

Anyways, I did recover from "my curse", but the interesting thing about being sick in your African Village is how much love there is. From the first moment that I was sick, someone was always at my house, I didn't ask for this but to Tanzanians sickness equals death and it was important to them that I was not alone. Someone spent the night on my couch every night, water was constantly being heated for me to bathe, wood added to the fire, lemon ginger tea made... One evening everyone was busy. I was feeling better but my village guys insisted on putting a mattress in the front of the TV in my village bar because my Mama had to work so that we could all watch the world cup together. (Side note: Next to South Africa, my village must be the next best place to watch the World Cup.) So I curled up with dusty, ring-wormy kids, while my mama cooked dinner, my friends gathered round, and felt loved.

"It is precisely the possibility of realizing a dream that makes life interesting." -Paulo Coeh

Beginning of May

A few months before Peace Corps service officially ends, they have what remains of the group that you came in with go to a conference. The purpose is a last time together, information about how to leave your village, medical issues, etc. and how to adapt back to America. I had greatly anticipated the fun part of Close of Service (COS), being at a resort outside of Dar with all my friends, but not really thought about that it actually means that my time in Peace Corps is coming to an end. It is safe to say that I had a bit of a panic attack when they began to talk about resumes, health insurance, saying goodbye to your village, interview skills, how many stool samples they need, buying your plane ticket to your home of record, that Michael Jackson died this year, that nothing in your life as you know it is going to be the same in a few months...

Without realizing it, I had succeeded in completely becoming wrapped up in being a Peace Corps Volunteer in East Africa, my foresight being where I should get water or charcoal, how to say "such and such" in Swahili, when I should go to Njombe next... Suddenly, everything seems to be crashing down. For the passed two years, I have had the identity of "The American", "An Image Villager", "A PCV"... who am I if I am no longer different because of those things? How do I go through the day without texts from Kate, Sarah, Mags, Greta and Kat? Did two years really go that quickly? Furthermore, I actually LOVE Tanzania. How does one say goodbye to a country? A Village?

There is also an overwhelming sense of pride. It probably looks small to anyone reading this, but in 26 years, finishing the Peace Corps was the most challenging, most rewarding, coolest thing that I have ever done. It is my biggest accomplishment, which makes it hard to let go of. I really lived for two years in an African Village. But it is over. Wow.

The MV Liemba- The German World War One Ship that I spent three days living on. My own African Queen!

Looking off the edge of the ship where the Tanzanians are loading and unloading cargo.

Me, taking an opportunity to go for a swim... off the side of the ship.

"And the trouble is, if you don't risk anything than you risk even more." -Erica Jung

From Kigoma we boarded the M.V. Liemba... Taken from Wikipedia.com:

"The MV Liemba, formerly the Graf von Götzen, is a passenger cargo ferry that runs along the eastern shore of Lake Tanganyika. The ship was built in 1913 in Germany, and was one of three vessels operated by the Germans to control Lake Tanganyika during the early part of World War I. It was scuttled by its captain on 26 July 1916 off the mouth of the Malagarasi river, during the German retreat from the town of Kigoma. In 1924 the ship was salvaged by a British Royal Navy salvage team and recommissioned in 1927 as the Liemba. The vessel is now owned by the Tanzania Railways Corporation and runs between the ports of Bujumbura, Burundi, Kigoma, Tanzania and Mpulungu, Zambia with numerous stops to pick up and set down passengers in between. The ship was the inspiration for the German gunboat Luisa in C.S. Forester's 1935 novel The African Queen, and the subsequent film version."

So we had a cozy first class cabin on that boat for two nights and three days. Honestly, there was not a lot to do during that time except read, look at the DRC on one side and Tanzania on the other, and talk to the other passengers. In true Peace Corps form, we enjoyed conversations in Swahili with Africans from all over the place, we made friends with everyone including the cooks in the kitchen, the bartender, and an old man we called Baba Boat. There were also a few backpackers from various European countries on board. We were interested in hearing about their travels and exchanged stories for awhile, until one evening they all got on a bit of a high horse. Where a major debate went on where many of them were convinced that the entire problem with African society is American volunteers. We defended the PC to no end, not because we think that we are saving the world, but for sure because we are not doing any damage to it. They felt like what they were doing, back packing through and putting in a lot of money to Tanzania was more beneficial than what we were doing. They didn't even just think that we were useless, but that we were actually damaging to Tanzania. So let's just say that these people were never going to be our close friends. However, it was interesting that in our final time on the boat, it seemed that these Europeans, who were so much better than us destructive volunteers, seemed to be leaning on us a lot when anything involved any Swahili, since they couldn't understand a word of it.

The ship would stop often and wait for smaller wooden boats to motor in to us from distant shoreline villages. Men would climb up the side of the boat from these smaller dinghys loading and unloading cargo but in their ripped clothes and acrobatic skills they definitely gave the appearance of pirates commandeering our ship. At one of these points, I decided that it was absolutely necessary that I jump off the top of the ship, despite the fact that I am afraid of heights. It was just one of those things that I knew I would always regret if I didn't have the experience of jumping into the clear depths of Lake Tanganyika. Estimated to be about thirty feet above the water, I jumped. What a rush! And in one of the clearest lakes in the world, my shirt and bra ended up around my neck with who knows how many Tanzanian men all right there, think some of them might have gotten more of a show then they bargained for on a normal days work. Once I made sure that I was re-clothed and had both contacts in, I floated on my back and contemplated the blue of the sky, the blue of the water and how, in the last two years, I have done so many things that terrify me, yet also, in my opinion, make my life infinitely more fun. Eventually, I swam to one of the small boats, where I resembled a beached whale as Tanzanian men pulled me in, and then resembling a drowned rat, scurried over piles of cargo until I could climb the stairs, beaming, back to first class.

When we finally docked at the last stop before getting to Zambia, we got out. Cargo trucks waited to load people and things into the back, and one man yelled in Swahili, "Hey White People, I have space in the cab!" Kate and I looked and each other, knowing perfectly well that we are the only two white people that could understand such a declaration and because those Europeans were apparently so much better than we were, we took the guy up on the offer and had a cozy, sunless, cushioned ride. Five hours later we reached Sumbawanga, which must be one of the weirdest towns that I have ever been to. In the middle of nowhere, but oddly nice, we felt like we were in some secret drug town. We didn't like it in the least. Our guest house felt haunted because the light turned on and off all night, and while I was in the shower I looked in the mirror and saw someone's eyes watching me through the high up window, which left me naked and shrieking in our room. We rigged a towel over the window for Kate. Ewww... Peeping toms.

The next morning we boarded a bus to Mbeya- almost home. The road was incredibly rough and the ride would be long, however, we were in good spirits and eager to see our friends. Tanzanians generally do not travel very much, so they tend to get motion sickness, anyways, the bus was packed with people standing in the aisle, when I felt something wet splash on my arm and Kate let out a little yelp. Someone in the aisle had puked on her head which then splashed onto me. We tried to keep our own gag reflexes under control, as we decided that the ride could not get any worse. And then... the wheels fell off the bus. I don't mean that we got a flat tire. I mean that the back wheels literally fell off the back axle and while the bus fishtailed and drug in the gravel the wheels kept going until they passed the dragging bus and ended up in a ditch somewhere. Meanwhile, we were in the middle of nowhere. The Tanzanians told us that another bus would surely come in 6 hours or so.... right. So while the other Tanzanians walked toward our destination, we figured that if we walked the other way, we would be more likely to find room on any vehicle going our direction then waiting with sixty or so Tanzanians. We refused to lose hope that some land rover or something wouldn't pass by and see some oddly out of place American ladies in need of a lift... and sure enough... the ride came. It took us to some hole in the wall town near the southern boarder, where we got on another small bus thing and eventually, through our intelligence, beauty and wit... actually our positive attitude, made it to Mbeya. Where we bedded down at our friend Katie's house, with the Mbeya crowd- Katie, Meesh, Teri and Monkey Baby- ate an obscene amount of homemade ravioli, guac, tortillas, garlic bread, popcorn, blondies, salad, etc. in front of Sex and the City. Oh, life as a Peace Corps lady.

Lookin' good in Gombe Stream

Gombe Hills

Looking down at the lake from the park

Jessi, Brie and Kate- Foreground. Chimps- Background.

Thinking deep thoughts...

Fleas, again.

Boat Taxi to Gombe

Baby Chimp

Baby Chimp checking us out

"It's a long long road, it's a big big world, we are wise wise women, we are giggling girls, we both carry a smile to show when we're pleased. We both carry a switchblade in our sleeves." -Ani DiFranco

March 28- April 11, 2010

The night before my birthday and the day before we had planned to head up to Dar, was spent in the company of friends at the one and only Njombe Standi Bar (Standi- meaning it is literally inside the bus stand.) The next day Kate and I boarded a bus for the 10-12 hour ride to the Port of Peace. We decided that my official birthday would start at sundown because no one wants to spend their real birthday doing the Njombe to Dar bus ride. So Kate told me that my birthday would start at sundown and continue for as long as I wanted. That is what real friends are for. :-) My birthday involved trivia, a swimming pool, the stars, fajitas, some of my favorite people in TZ, a giant inflatable octopus... There were even Masai there! Great day to turn 26.

The reason why we were in Dar to begin with was to attempt to buy plane tickets from Dar to Kigoma (look at a map- It is all the way on the West side of the country on Lake Tanganyika). Our friend, Jessi, who is a first year education volunteer, was supposed to be going to Zambia but when she got to the border she realized that her passport had been stolen. So we invited her to Kigoma with us. The plane tickets proved to be a huge problem. Everything is possible in Tanzania but there always has to be big problems before anything can happen. We were told everything from that there were no tickets, to that there were no flights, to expensive prices... Kate was ready to give up. I was not. I have wanted to go to Kigoma and Gombe Stream for most of my life. This trip was going to happen. I was even willing to take a bus for days across the country to get there. Luckily, Kate was not and talked some sense into me. So with perseverance and patience we finally got three tickets booked over the phone. However, when we went in to pay for them, they had three tickets booked on the wrong day to Tabora, not Kigoma. UGH! Suddenly, magically, three seats appeared on the Kigoma flight on the right day at the right price. Wonders never cease. Sometimes I just shake my head and wonder how anything ever happens in this country at all.

Flight: It is a plane that holds about 50 people. We actually know the pilot, who is white Tanzanian and we have talked to him at the Irish Pub in Dar. The flight was three hours and then suddenly sparkling in the distance appeared the world's longest, second clearest and one of the oldest lakes: Lake Tanganyika. We landed on a mud runway. Mud spattered the windows until I couldn't even see the actual landing, but it was smooth and somewhat exciting, just because it was my first ever no runway landing. Out into Kigoma!

Kigoma is hot! It is green and tropical. There are beautiful green hill covered in palms, banana, and other tropical trees that roll into the lake. The hills of the Congo rise up tall on the other side of the lake and give the feeling of really being in the heart of Africa. Kigoma town is fairly quaint. There is electricity and cell service. Almost all the cars are aid vehicles- all landrovers marked with: UNDP, UNHCR, UNICEF, Pride Africa, Catholic relief services, International Crisis Relief, Refugee this and that....Kigoma town itself feels safe. I was talking to a Tanzanian guy yesterday who was telling me that the town is Tanzanians but the outskirts are the camps are are not as safe because the people from Burundi, Rwanda, DR Congo, and Uganda live there. But Tanzanians like to think of themselves as better than other Africans because their country is at peace, so I am not sure that the camps are really that dangerous. Kigoma town does have the most beggars that I have ever seen in Tanzania though. I can't really figure out why this is, they don't really seem poorer than people in Njombe. I loved Kigoma though. It is beautiful and people are very friendly and helpful. There are a few tribes that live here and they are very beautiful people.

There was one huge expensive resort on the lake, we went there right before sundown, and had a glass of wine on a bar that was floating on the lake. The Tanzanian staff were so pleased that we could talk with them in Swahili they said nothing as we went swimming in the resort's pool that looked on to the lake and the blue hills of the Congo as the sun set over them. I felt for minute that I was living the life of luxury until we got out of the pool and went back to our 4 dollar a night guest house... hehe.

We were trying to take the ferry from Kigoma all the way to the last stop before Zambia. But we wanted to book tickets before we left for Gombe. People keep telling us it might not go, it is full, etc. etc. lies... We thought we might be stuck in Kigoma for the rest of our lives. I asked a random guy on the street where the ferry dock is for ticket buying. He said- oh, I work there. We don't work today because of Easter, but let me give you the manager's number. Kate called him and he booked us for first class tickets leaving Kigoma on Wednesday... sweet. First class sounds really fancy probably to you Americans, but the other classes are the equivalent of steerage on a slave ship. And we thought we might die in the depths of the boat packed in with Africans. And we wanted a bed because the trip lasts for about three days.

One night we went out in Kigoma looking for some night life. We found none. We sat outside at a bar eating chipsi and drinking Safari and talking loudly in English. Then we walked home and went to bed. The next morning we got ready to head to Gombe. The only way to get there is by boat. It is about a three hour boat ride. We were warned that food at the hostel in the park is out of our price range so we stocked up on essentials: peanut butter, bananas, bread, popcorn, avocados... And we headed to the port.

The port was busy and bustling. We met three Norwegians at the port who are studying abroad in Dar. So the six of us together boarded the wooden boat. About this time we realized how much harder it would have been to do this trip without Swahili and how much more money we would have had to pay. The boat gradually began to fill up with Tanzanians and their goods/supplies as they headed from Kigoma back to their respective villages. The guys who worked on the boat were heavily using us for marketing yelling out to the Tanzanians on the shore, "Hey, the white people use this boat! You should too!" Eventually we were underway. There was a lot of people crammed onto that boat with a lot of stuff. It was hot, someone threw up, a small child fell asleep on my backpack, a few chickens were on board... making it basically normal Tanzanian transportation. The villages we passed on the shore line were beautiful. So remote, with no road access. When the boat would pull up to the shore of a village a bunch of little boys would run toward the water, strip down naked and wade out selling chapatti to those aboard the boat. I tried to picture what it would have been like to grow up in one of those villages. What a different life. It was interesting to see how the livelihoods in the west are so tied to the lake. Tanzanians, resourceful as ever.

Finally we stopped at a beach without a village and only a sign that it was Gombe. Lush green hills towered over the lake and like Corcovado National Park in Costa Rica, it felt to me like somewhere special. For some reason, I think because of my parents, I have always been attracted to the remote. The harder to get to, the less visitors, the farther into the bush equals in my mind the bigger adventure. Kate was convinced that I absolutely could not live in Kigoma because there was nothing to do. I was thinking it would be kinda nice for a bit, as long as I had one companion with me. That is probably why Image village and I get along so well. It doesn't really bother me that it is further away from everything than everyone else's villages. Anyways, Gombe fit the bill for me. I have wanted to visit Gombe since I was a child. Always fascinated with Jane Goodall, a young woman able to live alone and research chimpanzees in the wild, I wanted to see her research site and her chimps. As a senior in high school, I was lucky enough to meet her in person. But going to Gombe was always a distant dream until I was placed in Peace Corps Tanzania and it became more of a possibility. Out of the boat and into the hostel which was right on the banks of the lake. We were told immediately by the Tanzanian staff to keep the door of the hostel closed because the baboons like to steal. Shortly after our arrival this had been forgotten and a large male baboon ran into the hotel and stole part of a pineapple out of the trash. The Tanzanians scared him out where he was met by another younger baboon and a mama baboon with a baby in tow. They waited patiently for the alpha baboon's handouts.

We sat at a picnic table in front of the hostel by the lake and played cards with the Norwegians. They taught us a game called, "The American" fittingly enough. The American is basically about making and breaking alliances, we now call it "The Norwegian." Then a Tanzanian guy came up and said in perfect English, "Oh, good you guys made it." We replied with "What? Do we know you." Turns out when we were at the bar speaking loud English about Kigoma's lack of nightlife and our plans to go to Gombe the next day, Gombe's Park Warden was sitting right behind us. He said , "Yeah I thought about offering you guys a ride on my boat, but I didn't. I can give you a ride back to Kigoma though." As much as an adventure as the boat ride was to the park and we were glad for the experience we were eager to take up the Park Warden for a speedy return trip. A mama came over who introduced herself as the Park Manager and asked where we were from. She is Mbena so we greeted her in Kibena which thrilled her to no end. We had discovered meals in the park were 20,000 shillings or about $18... whoa! So there was some talk in Swahili until both them agreed that we could pay only 5,000 shillings for the meals. The poor Norwegians, however, were not aware of this since they had no Swahili, so the discount and the boat ride were only extended to us.

The next morning we woke up to start hiking around Gombe in search of the chimps. There is only ever 36 visitors in the park at any given time and it was the low season, so it was actually just us and the Norwegians visiting. Our guide stated us climbing up a steep trail through the woods. It was like Oregon-green, damp, mossy... beautiful. Everyday there are researchers with the chimps. They record what they eat, where they go, what they do, etc. It is nice because then the researchers can walkie-talkie to the guides and tell them where a chimp family is located for the tourists to see. However, some days the researchers can't even find the chimps, or the chimps are too far into the forest for visitors to find them. So there is no guarantee that a sighting will even happen. Our guide suggested that we climb up to Jane's Peak, where Jane Goodall used to hike up to be able to find the chimps in the valleys below. Sometimes she would camp up there all alone so that she could be with them when they would rise early in the morning. After the steep climb we could see Lake Tanganyika glittering below and misty green hills with trees reaching for the blue sky. But most excitingly, we were able to hear the chimps, who were making calls that are called pant-hoots, which they use to locate other families. Our walkie-talkie buzzed to life and we heard a researcher tell our guide in Swahili that the chimps were just a bit further down the trail. We were actually going to see them!

We just came around a corner and there they were. Just like that. We were told to crouch down and basically act like chimps. We weren't supposed to make eye contact or fast movements as they see it as threatening. If a chimp came toward us we were supposed to grab onto a near by tree to keep them from dragging us away. There were four adults present- the alpha male of the family group, two other males and a female. The female had a baby in tow which we were told was about five months old. The alpha male had apparently been violent toward people in the past, so we were told to exercise caution. The adults mainly sat and groomed each other. The baby did what all children do and you could almost hear him yelling "Watch this, guys!" As he swung on branches, climbed on the grown-ups and was all-around annoyingly adorable. And we were so so close to them. You are not allowed to enter the park if you are sick because they share so much of our genetic code that it is easy for them to catch our illnesses. They were so human-like. Their expressions and behavior was very easy to relate to, you knew exactly what they were feeling. They were not fully interested in us besides the baby who enjoyed an audience. We just squatted down a few feet from them and tried to blend in with the group. At one point the alpha male made a quite movement toward us, we had been told never to run and just get out of his way while holding tight to a tree. Surprisingly, when a large chimpanzee is headed toward you, all you want to do is get away quick! We all immediately started backing up at a fast pace when our guide reminded us to stay calm. Turns out he was just switching positions to groom a different friend, so all in all it was a false alarm, but even me who loves wild animals, had my heart pounding after all the warnings. One is only allowed to spend an hour with the chimps before they have to move on, but our hour was spent in the beauty of the park watching an endangered species in the wild. It was certainly one of the most memorable hours of my life. We hiked back down, ate dinner and played cards. The next morning we got the Norwegians in on our free boat ride with the park warden and sped back to Kigoma.

March 31- April10, 2010

I don’t have time to write about the trip today, but thought that I would post some pictures as a teaser. It was a phenomenal trip. Now back safely and headed to the village. Xoxo- Brie

Entrance to Gombe Stream National Park

Chimp Baby

Gombe Waterfall

Chimp Family

Me in Gombe. Notice the chimps right behind me.

Me on Jane's Peak

In Gombe

Gombe Stream- Jane Goodall's Chimpanzee research place

Looking out from Jane's Peak

Baboon Family

Beach at Gombe Stream National Park

Village on the way to Gombe

Looking down into the boat at the littboy who fell asleep on my backpack

Boats How very Jackie O. of me

Kate and I

Port in Kigoma

Boy fetching water

Inside the boat before it was packed with people

Kigoma at sunset Sunset over the Democratic Republic of Congo Kate hoping to pay our taxi driver with Crystal Light Jessi and Kate Lake T Swimming pool overlooking Lake Tanganyika Looking out toward the Congo Kate and Jessi in Kigoma Town Kigoma Lake Tanganyika and Kigoma Arriving at the Kigoma airport

"I found God in myself and I loved her. I loved her fiercely." -Ntozake Shange

March 2010

Teaching

Mama Glad at her shop

Mama Samweli and Sam

Mzee Ngoda and Titu playing a game

Puce

My Mama- Mama Max

Asha and Suze

My little Sis, Maxillia

My little bro, Maxsensius

Franchesca and Catherine

Asha cooking in our disgusting bar kitchen

Asha

Suze, Asha's Daughter, eating Chipsi (fried potatoes)

Kimulimuli cooking crepes

It's raining, it's pouring...

My water system... Kimulimuli- trying to become Tanzanian by coloring his face with charcoal

Me- getting married with a bouquet of mushrooms

Kiddos

Anna getting jealous because I am playing with other kids

Playing ball Osmonda, age one and a half Titu's Daughters and Anna. Starting left- Maria age: 9, Baby Os, Anna age: 3, Suze age: 5

At the Shop The Inspiration Room. I can't believe that I could explain to a Tanzanian how to build an easel. My tree in the inspiration room Looking out of Image Village Image's Main Road

View out of Image- Nothing for as far as the eye can see.

I love Anna!

Anna, age 3 Playing With Live Doll

Hope

Primary School Girls Dish Washing Girls Mopping My House

"I am not afriad of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship." -Louisa May Alcott

March 17, 2010

I am wandering through a cornfield. It is dusk. On my wrist hangs a bag of raw meat that I am trying not to think about. That hand grasps the hand of a child. My cell phone is in my other hand where a Tanzanian man is telling me about the evil spirit that is living under the hood of his car. I pause a minute in my brain, like so many times here, I think- "What?!? How did I possibly end up here?"

It is no wonder cornfeilds are in so many horror movies. I am coming back from one of my subvillages, they have butchered a pig. Meat is a rare luxury in Image village which completely agrees with my diet. Mama Glad has been working hard at her shop and has asked me to bring back a kilo of pig guts (guts is my word) for her family. Ewwww... Really? Toughen up, Brie, you are not the one going to eat it. Incidently, on the way back through a cornfeild I find Mama Glad's three year old daughter. Is she lost in the corn? I have no idea. I offer her my hand which she accepts. My phone rings- it is William. By some miracle I have phone service in a cornfield...

William: Brie, Vipi? (slang: how? as in "how is it going?") I took the car to the mechanic but he can't fix it.

Me: Why? He doesn't have the right parts?

William: No, a bad spirit is in there.

Me: (calmly, because nothing surprises me anymore) Really? You think this or this is what the mechanic has told you?

William: That is what he told me.

Me: (In English) wow, how lovely to be a mechanic in Tanzania.

William: Why are you speaking English?

Me: Never mind. So what do we do about evil car spirits?

William: I have never seen one before, maybe Mzee Ngoda can get rid of it.

Me: Right. But don't you think we should just take it to another mechanic? I mean the car is junk, a spirit really isn't the problem.

William: Brie, spirits can be everywhere.

Me: What does a spirit want with a piece of junk?

William: (laughing) There must just be more spirits here than in America, because you don't really understand. We have to draw the evil out, then the car can work again.

Me: Okay. Just don't forget to come and get me before we draw it out.

A voodoo car ceremony is something that I have gotta see. Then I will recommend taking it to another mechanic.

My best text of the week came from my friend, Kate, at about 6.30 pm. "Well, I don't have a book that I feel like reading, so I am just going to stare into space until it is an acceptable hour to get into bed." (For PCVs this is about 8 pm)

The best book I have read in a long time is: The Glass Castle By Jeannette Walls.

I read somewhere that the Chinese symbol for "crisis" is the same as the symbol for "opportunity". I wonder if we lived our lives like they were one in the same, what opportunities we could create for ourselves.

My life has suddenly gotten immensely better with the addition of a 23 year old village girl named Jane. It is common knowledge among my friends and family, that I am an incredibly messy and disorganized person. I was once told my a friend that it is amazing that I come off so put together when I come from that (gesture toward my room). In Tanzania, I was doing all my own housework. Only feeling vaguely jealous when my PCV friends would complain, "My house girl stretches out my clothes when she washes them." or "I called my house girl and told her to start heating water for bathing." Eventually- I caved. My house just got messier and messier until I realized that this is probably the only time in my life where I will be able to afford house help. I actually like washing my clothes by hand, but now Jane does everything else. And let me tell you, Tanzanians can clean! I wish that I could import Jane to America so she can clean up my messes for the rest of my life. Jane dish-washes, floor-mops, bed-makes, table-wipes, spider-removes, trash-gathers, window-washes, etc. I don't know how I ever lived without her. Plus she washed my sheets. I should not admit this, but the last time I remember washing my sheets was 5.5 months ago. (You try fitting them into a bucket, scrubbing them, and then getting them to air dry.) Anyways, she might be the love of my life. I pay her about nine dollars a month. All of my villagers claim that I am grossly overpaying her. Even she told me that it was too much. So they think that I am an idiot, but little do they know I would pay her three times that for the same work- she is just that valuable to my survival. I came home from a meeting the other day and she had cooked lunch- I almost proposed right there.

"I wish that I was born a man, so I could learn how to stand up for myself, like those guys with guitars, I've been watchin' in bars, who are stampin' their feet to a different beat, to a different beat. I will not pretend, I will not put on a smile, I will not say I'm alright for you. When all I wanted was to be good, to do everything in true, to do everything in true." - Martha Wainwright

March 14, 2010

Morning. A knock at my door. I open it to find one of my standard seven girls standing there alone. She is terrified and visably shaking. I invite her in and she comes to sit tenitively on my couch. I wait only a minute for her to speak when she blurts out, "Brie, I am pregnant." I try unsuccessfully to hide my shock. So I say, "What?" Maybe I am not understanding her. She says the exact same sentince again... nope not a mistake. Her big brown eyes search mine for answers, then she eyes the crayons left over from Catherine yesterday. I look at her small hands, her child's body, her ripped primary school uniform and I offer her the crayons because I have no idea what to say. Come on, Brienne. Finally, I say, "Umm... do you know how far along you are?" "I think about four months."I can't believe that she is coloring. "Do you have parents?" She lives with her mother and grandmother, her father lives in Makambako with his other wife. "Do they know?" No. "Does the head teacher know?" No. "Does anyone know?" Just the father. "Where is the father now?" When I told him, he said that I was a liar and it wasn't his. Then he ran away to another village. Of course he did, I think. I am about to ask her if she has thought about her choices when I realize that she doesn't have any choices. She is an African child. So I promise to try to help her, but explain that this does not mean that I will take her baby. I ask her what her name and age are- Loveness, about 13.

Turns out, she will be kicked out of primary school in about 2 months. Jessica does a priliminary exam, things look fine health wise. Felix is aware of who the father is and is prepared to have some sort of plan to find him. Loveness' mother and grandmother have minimal reaction. I am surprised, until I think about my village and how many young women have children with no fathers. I realize how how many female friends I have with babies on their backs, but where have all the babas gone? So in another informal "Brie-vey" I start asking that very question.

First stop is Felix and his wife, Mama Glad. They run the shop across the street from my house. Felix is my new village chairman, making him Image's Barak Obama. He is almost as cool. I love talking about issues with he and Mama Glad. Even though Felix is a 36 year old man, he is really open with me. We discuss gender roles, sex, AIDS, domestic abuse, etc. and he is honest with me, even if he know that I will not like the result. Mama Glad is tough and will say exactly what she thinks even in front of her husband. They are both incredibly good natured, even compared to other Tanzanians who are good natured as a rule. In the shop, after greeting, I say"What is up with all the single mothers here?" Felix gives me his smile that says he is going to answer my question, but that I am not going to like the answer.

Felix: Well, a lot of women are trying to find a husband and they think that if they get pregnant that the man might marry them. Or they just feel so lonely that they want to have a kid.

Me: Okay, but don't you think that they are lonely because their husband and lovers are never home, they are always at the bar with their friends?

Felix (laughing): Maybe. Sometimes, women are just foolish and they believe that a man will stay with them.

Mama Glad (in full tongue-clicking dismay): Ah! You know that is not true! Brie, they lie to us! They tell us that they love us that they will marry us if we give them a good child. But then they just run away! Or they are already married with another family- they are cowards and liars!

Felix (laughing at her outburst): She is right, but women must be tougher.

(We go on like this for awhile...)

In Tanzania, it is not rude to ask people personal questions. So I ask Mama Jonas, Mama Poli, Mama Samweli, Mama Umi, Mama Johnson, Mama Aggy.... and more... I get varying answers: he already had another family, he raped me, he told me he would marry me, he ran away... I ask some guys too (all are married and deny ever getting a woman pregnant and leaving): Os, Nicky, Fredrick, Puce, Stan, Bon, Titu, even Mzee Ngoda. Their main response is: The women lie, they want to have a lover then they get pregnant and expect the guy to stay. They all want kids and we don't have to have just one wife. Then I ask Mwalango, one of my young male primary school teachers. Shortly after I got to Image, he got one of my village ladies, Tao, pregnant. Today they are married and have a beautiful son named Ima. Mwalango tells me, "I love her. I told her I did. When she was pregnant I stayed by her. I did what I said I would do." Wow- It is just that easy.

Then there is Asha. I love Asha. She is from Songea (town to the south), we are the same age and she is my village barmaid. She is not married and has a daughter, Suze, who is five. As a rule, Tanzanian barmaids almost always double as prostitutes. The going village price is about two dollars, (it is less if the girl insists on using a condom). When Asha first came to Image, I watched how she dealt with the men- with humor, with toughness, as an equal. One day I came in to buy eggs, before she saw me, I saw one of the village guys hitting on her- then I heard her use one of my lines! She laughed and said strongly, "Ha! Why would I do anything with you? Don't you have a wife? I am too good to be part of that." That is my line! I taught the women to respond like that! I came up, glared the guy down and smiled at Asha. Since that moment, when Asha picked up my female empowerment teaching we have been close. I watch her strongly and sweetly reject money and guy after guy. Finally, I convinced Mama Max that Asha should get paid more, so that she never feels the pressure to accept. Mama Max, being as awesome as she is, sees the benefit for all women and agrees to the raise. Once when I was teaching about AIDS testing at the bar, Asha excitedly ran to her room and came back proudly brandishing her testing card which indicated that she had been tested three times- all negative. The guys all start in with questions about her testing and she said, "There is no way that I can let myself get AIDS because who would take care of Suze?" As I mentioned, I LOVE Asha. So I ask her: Where is Baba Suze?

Asha: He told me that he loved me, but when I got pregnant he chose another lover and ran away from me. Suze has never met him. He hurt me, I will not let Suze be hurt. I reminded her to teach her daughter to be strong too.

It is odd, but because I am so close with Felix and Romanus (my top government people), I am sort of an honorary village government person. We were hanging out for office hours listening to peoples complaints- so and so stole some of my corn or I want to open a bar here but need some money to start off. Blah blah. Eventually thirteen people come in all fired up. X is sleeping with Y but they should be sleeping with Z but he is with A. I never could get it all straight, especially because it was always three plus people talking at once. Felix and Romanus both listen carefully in Tanzanian style- not rushing, going around and around in circles, enjoying the drama of it all. After about two hours of this, I interrupt, "Hey, I have a thought. How about we all think to ourselves for a minute: Am I married? If we are than maybe we should think about just sleeping with that person. If we aren't we should pick just one person that we want to sleep with, see if they want to sleep with us tooand go to Brie's house to pick up some condoms." Romanus and Felix smile at me. Everyone else stares like I have just turned water to Safari Lager. An hour later, all thirteen people are at my house collecting condoms. Can these little pieces of rubber solve all of Tanzania's problems?

Recently

Ahh, fungus on my arms, a constant sore throat, ringworm, fleas... yep, you guessed it... I am spending a lot of time with Image Village's children. And believe me there is no shortage of them. I think probably 75% of women at child bearing age will have or already have had a child while I have lived there. Mama Lau is pregnant, William's wife is pregnant, Osmond's wife is pregnant, Stan's wife is pregnant... The list goes on. Anyways, I play with kids that are already born. I hold their grubby hands, they sneeze on me, they wipe their noses on my shirt... and I take it all. I ignore that clothes smell like pee and don't think about what I might be catching. I pick up kids who are crying, spin kids by their arms, have huge coloring parties, have skipping races down our main street. Since I am the only adult that gives any child an iota of positive attention, I have gotten pretty popular in Image. Shouts of "Brieeeee!" follow me everywhere.

Kimulimuli seems to being doing better. He is now subsisting on a diet composed of avocados (his wishes, not mine.) We had a huge party because Puce butchered a pig. Image villagers get meat so rarely that it calls for a party. Anyways, I brought Muli some of it and he wanted none of it. Probably making him the most spoiled cat in Africa. I can't believe that I was even able to turn my cat into being a vegetarian!!!!

A noise in the night... not animal, not just the house shifting, distinct footsteps.... Really? Again? I reach the bedside table and curl my fingers around my huge Tanzanian machete. I am prepared this time. The footfalls in the grass pass under my window, from the sound of the crickets and where the moon is I would guess that it is about two am. The footsteps continue on. I begin to breathe again. I giggle a little bit at myself. What is a girl like me doing prepared to use a machete? Would I actually be able to use it on a person? I maybe have changed more than I thought in Tanzania. Still, because I am a wimp, I take the machete and a blanket to my living room couch where I sleep for the next week. Almost two years in and I still let myself be afraid here, I hate that I am not tougher. I try to do the math of the hundreds of nights I have spent in my village and the fact that I have only had an incident once. What is the probability it will ever happen again? I don't know because I have never been good at math. :-) I admit to William that I am scared again. Has he heard anyone talk about breaking in? He assures me, "Brie you are safe here. Everyone is respecting you. If something happens we will just do what we did before. You scare him away and call me." Which is true, everyone is "respecting" me. I tell Felix, my village chairperson who I LOVE, that I am scared again. He says, "Hamnashida, Brie, Usijali." Literally: Not a problem, Brie, don't mind. Felix calls a meeting with my guards and asks them to be extra vigilant. Turns out one of my guards went on a pee break on that side of my house and just took the back way to walk around. I was afraid of my own guards. I am an idiot.

I spent a good part of one day watching a soap opera with half my village on our tv. It was originally in Spanish and then dubbed in English. Then I translated where need be into Swahili. It was maybe the stupidest show I have ever seen, however, I love watching tv with my villagers. They are so shocked and surprised by anything that happens. They find the wrong things hilarious and because Tanzanians have a verbal sound for every reaction, tv watching is never a quiet or individual type thing.

I read one of the best books that I have ever read this week (actually it all took place from Friday evening to Saturday evening). It is called "Twenty Chickens for a Saddle: Story of an African Childhood" by Robyn Scott. It is about a family from New Zealand, where the parents decide to move to Botswana. The oldest child writes the story of her family's adventures. It was brilliant. Read it and let me know if you do! I actually cried at the end, not because it was sad, but because I didn't want it to end. On a side note, if you know my parents you are bound to see similarities between her parents and my own. They are vegetarian. The dad is always giving his kids little pieces of wisdom, trying to get them interested in whatever project he is working on, and the part where he is dissecting a puff adder, I couldn't help but think about my Dad and the koi. The mom is a jack of all trades type, with knowledge about everything. She home schools her kids and sees everything as a learning experience. She is very into natural medicine and healing. (Mom- she even uses Rescue Remedy on all their pets like you do!) At the end of the book, I missed my family more than ever. If you know my family than give my parents, sisters and brothers all a big huge from me!

“Learn from yesterday. Live for today. Hope for tomorrow.” –Albert Einstein

February 17, 2010

My primary school has asked me to teach five days a week there this year. The dispensary wants me to be there two days a week. I am supposed to teach two nights a week at the bar and do infinite other things- at that schedule I have no idea how I would ever bathe, wash any clothes or eat anything. Suddenly, it has occurred to my villagers that August 2010 is practically right on top of us and Brie is leaving soon. I am literally begged to stay here. I have no idea what I have done that was so dramatic where the need me to live here forever more, but I must admit that sometimes it is a tempting offer.

Life here in Image is often splendid. I have my little dirty house, my village friends, reading in the evening and playing during the day. Who knew that I would ever view Image as an easy place to be? As opposed to reintegrating into fast-paced, materialistic America, Tanzania seems blissful. The Njombe girls and I often joke about how we dress, our habits (particularly in personal hygiene), the way that we talk… etc. would never fly in American culture. Yet it is so easy when you have four different outfits to wear and all of your friends do too so there is never any judgment. I try to picture living completely in America and mostly it seems really boring. I can’t wait to see my family- extended and immediate, but beyond that- America for years and years and years… Going to an office, watching television, cooking Trader Joe’s pasta over an electric stove, a warm shower at the turn of a faucet- where is the unknown? The adventure? It still amazes me that I was ever able to get used to no running water, lighting a fire if I want something to eat, and living with a million spiders- but I guess people are very good at adapting. About the spiders (this part is dedicated to you, Shanny), They are on everything that I pick up, so therefore, they are constantly on me. I can now ignore them. Although there are huge (I really mean huge), brightly colored ones that build their webs into tunnels under the eaves of my house. As long as they stay in their tunnels, I can ignore that they are there, it is when they come out of their tunnels that my skin crawls. This is basically my (and most of my girlfriends) rule of living in Tanzania- if you can’t see it than it doesn’t exist. So all those noises in my ceiling boards? I can’t see anything, so nothing is actually there. This works until you are my friend, Kate, and a rat runs through your hair while you are trying to sleep…

However, all that said, I will always be an American, some values and beliefs just run too deep. For instance, Tanzanians pay a lot of attention to skin color. In my opinion, way too much attention. The lighter you are, than the more beautiful you are. Every shop sells a million lightening products, which I don’t think could possibly work. Anyways, a man came to Image village to visit some extended family, and naturally was interested in what I was doing there. Of course, he had to start the conversation off with Obama. For some reason Tanzanians taking credit for Obama really pisses me off. They can be proud of him, but he is a full-fledged American product. This guy starts to insist that America has a Kenyan as president. I tell him, like I have to let all Tanzanians know, that he has barely been to Kenya, he doesn’t speak Swahili, he was born in America and even has a law degree- all of this adding up to someone who is definitely not an East African. Mama Max even adds, “His mom looks like Brie, so he is an American.” (All white people look the same to Tanzanians- don’t even get me started on this.) In Tanzania, tribal lines get passed down paternally- so you are automatically the tribe that your father is. By this reasoning, I understand the Tanzanian confusion, but this is not this guy’s reasoning. Instead he goes on to say, “No, he is black, so he will never be an American.” This makes me incredibly angry for some reason, but I try to stay calm because this is a stupid argument to have with someone who has next to no schooling and probably cannot find America on a map. Although, I am thinking take credit for Bush if you must, Obama is ours. So I take a deep breath and explain that a lot of black people live in America, they are either born there or marry an American citizen, both of which, make them an American. Color doesn’t have anything to do with it. The villagers who have gathered around to listen, look skeptical. So I go on with that I could still be white and a Tanzanian, if I had been born here. This just floors them, and the man says, “There is absolutely no way a white person could ever be a Tanzanian.”

For a white girl growing up in the suburbs of Portland, Oregon, I have never been a minority. In fact, you were probably the child of a professional basketball player if you went to high school anywhere in my district and were black. Today, I feel like that I can argue that I know what it feels like to be a minority. Now that I am used to living in Africa, it is generally really easy to ignore and sometimes even to forget about altogether. But sometimes being a minority is on the forefront of everything. I think that I could even argue that I have experience some racism and some reverse-racism or being favored because I am an American. Certainly, I could argue that my mugging over a year ago had everything to do with me being white. Probably also whatever village guy tried to come through my bedroom window had everything to do with my skin color. My PC friends and I are cheated on everything if we are not careful- we get offered bad prices on everything, fake bus tickets, broken cell phones, etc. because apparently dollar signs swirl around us like smoke. I hate being called a Mzungu (white person), I would never yell “black person!” at some person across the street in America. I hate being told that I am pretty because of how white my skin is. I hate that it takes a really long time to know if a Tanzanian is your friend or just using you. I hate that I am talked about like I am not there or too stupid to understand what is going on. That is why Image Village is usually my saving grace, because these days no one dares do any of that to me. I certainly believe that African Americans have a long way to go until they are perceived as equal in America- it was never more obvious than in the last election. (“Is America ready to have a black president?” I can’t even count the number of times in the media I heard that question and I still cannot believe how the average American thinks black and white people are any different. I have spent almost two years surrounded by black people- they themselves are not any different, Tanzanian culture is.) Tanzanians need to learn that white people are people too, not just a walking dollar sign. People are just people. It angers me that we have spent centuries trying to define and confine what is different and fear what we perceive is unknown.

Watching Kimulimuli attempt to die is one of the hardest moments of my time so far in Tanzania. When he came home, it only took me about a day to realize that he had ticks all over his body (13 in total). The idea of removing fully engorged ticks fully grosses me out, so it is lucky that I live in a Tanzanian village because not much grosses them out. So I go to get Juster, but unfortunately she is just a bit too “Brie” and she is afraid to remove them also. So my besti, Mary, can always be relied upon, she is a teacher too but still able to be a tick-remover. Kimulimuli fights us for all he is worth and end up scratching both of us and running away before we can even remove one. I despair. I can’t remove them alone and still be Brienne, but I also can’t let a cat suffer and still be me either. So it occurs to be to ask Swela. I mentioned him in an earlier blog- he is our agricultural extension officer from Mbeya. He is doing his fieldwork in Image for his college degree. He is living here for nine months with his wife and child (he looks about 12, but of course, being Tanzanian he needs a wife and child.) Unfortunately, I cannot find him until the next day. By this time Kimulimuli is having what can only be described as explosive diarrhea, that he seems not to be able to control. He is lethargic and his eyes look weird. I don’t know much about anything, but I do know that explosive diarrhea is not a good sign in Africa. It is the number one killer in Tanzanian children under five.

Swela comes over and I explain the situation and that Kimulimuli is a good fighter. Swela leaves and comes back with a de-worming shot that he uses on the Image livestock and two more Tanzanians to help me hold Muli down. My firefly cat fights but eventually gives up as Swela methodically removes all the ticks and administers the shot. Now, days later, Kimulimuli is just as bad. He still eats and drinks, but he has diarrhea everywhere, he cries constantly and rubs on my legs nonstop. It makes me feel a bit better that he is still affectionate, but then I remember that the cat I grew up with, Bodhi, purred and rubbed until his final moment of life. It hurts me to watch him. I feel like a horrible person, but I have no idea what is wrong with him. My mom, is usually my go to person on all issues I don’t know about, but she is with my dad in Mexico. There is nothing that I can think to do, it is not like there is a vet around the corner. We live in the middle of the bush. So I have to do what all Tanzanian do- wait, hope and pray that death is not coming to my family. I have been so close to death here, holding a dying baby for her last breath, going to burial after burial, witnessing the ends of so many lives. I have watched death here in Image and it makes its rounds and seems to be busier than anywhere else that I have ever been.

“In this life one cannot do great things. One can do small things with great love.” –Mother Teresa

February 14, 2010

In Tanzania, it is difficult to know the date, or even the month. None of that really matters. What is important is- is it the dry or rainy season? What do we plant now? But a few days ago, I realized that it was almost Valentine’s Day. I thought about Valentine’s Day in America: how when I was little my Dad used to bring me home a box of chocolates, about nice dinners at fancy restaurants, about jewelry and flowers and Hallmark cards, about single women who prepare themselves to eat a carton of Ben and Jerry’s and feel bad for themselves. I thought about that latter group and how that is what socially I should fit into, but because in a Tanzanian village there is no Ben and Jerry’s and because I have decided that 2010 is my year of strength and overall awesomeness- I thought forget that! This is going to be my best Valentine’s Day ever!

What to do? What is Valentine’s Day really about? Well, love for sure, usually romantic love, but I think it could be a more fulfilling holiday if instead of waiting for someone to make you feel that way, you make yourself an instrument of love. To do this, I think, one must first love themselves and then spread it to others, and not just those that one is romantically interested in. Oscar Wilde said “ To love oneself is the beginning of a life long romance.” I decided on this Valentine’s Day to be gentle and loving toward myself and then seep it outward to a few hundred Tanzanians that are my neighbors and family. First things first, this is all about attitude. No feeling bad for myself, no feeling lonely, my life is full. I woke up to the rain. I was happy instead of sad. Our corn is getting watered, I can bathe today, it feels like Oregon… I accepted the rain, because I cannot change it, only how I feel about it. I did yoga and appreciated what my body could do, and was pleased that I could not do everything, because a challenge is good. I lit a fire and made a fabulous breakfast- full pot of black coffee and an egg scramble with every veggie and spice I could find. I tried to appreciate instead of regret the calories that were going in. I got dressed in nice Tanzanian clothes, I fixed my hair and made myself look nice, after all this was my day, no reason to sit around in my pjs. Plus being told that you are beautiful by a Tanzanian village feels good.

The day was special. I told and showed people in a million ways how much I loved them. I gave gifts, I was physically affectionate, I completed acts of service for those I love, I used words to tell them what they meant. I showed love to all ages and genders. I did not discriminate between people I knew or didn’t know, or whether they were dirty, poor, sick or not. Everyone I came into contact with received some form of love. And the funniest thing happened… I received it back! I guess I should have predicted that by loving myself and giving that love to others they would want to send it right back, but I received it ten fold! I am usually given gifts and told nice things by Image villagers, but today was deeper, more intense, and bigger than ever before.

I had a coloring party with about 30 primary school students. We drew on my porch on the subject “Love begins with me”. Suddenly, I had a ton of cards that were better than any Hallmark card I have ever received.

That afternoon I cooked kande with a bunch of mamas. Kande is one of my favorite Tanzanian foods it is beans and maize cooked together with a bit of salt and ginger. Then we gathered around in a circle and ate out of the big pot with our hands. We joked and told stories and played with the little kids.

At the bar that evening, I explained the concept of Valentine’s Day to the guys and told them that they should do something nice for their wives. I told them what American men do: cook dinner, help out more with chores, bring home a gift… etc. They laughed a bit, Tanzanian men think American men are totally whipped, but I try to show them that isn’t a bad thing. That night there was a knock on my door. I opened it to find about a dozen of my young guy friends with a hand picked bouquet of flowers (straight from our primary school flower bed- oops!). I almost cried because I was so in shock. “For you,” they told me, “because it is your country’s holiday and you are alone.” I laughed and thanked them, but then said, “You know, I am not really alone.” There is a lot of love in this world. If one cares to put some love out there, it will find you right back.

Late that night I heard meow-ing in the distance. I flung open the door and Kimulimuli ran right in. I have no idea where he had been and Giza is still gone, but a little piece of my heart was put back into place.

Something horrible has happened. Kimulimuli and Giza are both missing. I left them at the teachers’ houses like I normally do when I go to town, and when I returned no one had seen them in over a day. Now back in my village a week, still no sign of either of them. I tried to not get attached to them, knowing that things happen to pets here, but I am crushed. I didn’t realize how I relied on them. I also feel guilty and horrible that something happened to them and it was my fault. To make matters worse, I woke up to a rat asleep on my windowsill; they run through my roof at night and have taken over. Those cats served a purpose, and the rats just remind me of what I have lost. My villagers don’t seem to get it, because cats are just cats and are interchangeable. Get another one, they tell me. Not really understanding that I only want those ones. I need one though, but to get one means accepting that my feline family is gone. I will never forget how much they loved me and how they made my life here full. I have offered a reward to anyone finding either of them, but that has just led to villagers showing up with random orange cats that vaguely resemble Kimulimuli. Juster seems to get my attachment to them and is trying to help me, but she doesn’t really live here anymore. The loss of them was a blow that I really didn’t need now.

Village life continues…

Imelda successfully finished her first year of secondary school thanks to my money and her brains. A new school year has started… Lau is now in standard one and Anna is attending a preschool type thing at the primary school. My third group of standard 7 students have begun classes on health and life skills- how is it possible I have been here that long?

Mario, my drunken village executive officer, somehow scraped together the money to buy a car. Unfortunately, he bought some little Toyota type car and not a big four-wheel drive land rover, so while it works in Image, during the rainy season there is no way that it can leave the village. Since Mario prefers to remain drunk, William has always been his motorcycle driver, and while no one rivals William’s skill on the motorcycle, a car is an entirely different thing. He had never driven one. So while I watched him struggle to start the car while in drive instead of park, I figured that this guy could use some help. Teaching William how to drive has been somewhat hilarious. For one thing, everyone is so excited about the car, there is always about six guys crammed into the backseat just to go along for the lesson. Teaching is funny because everything is one the wrong side. They have to move the gearshift with their left hand instead of their right like Americans. I wonder how they feel about this since Tanzanians do next to nothing with their left hands (it is the “unclean” one). Pretty much no one can drive in my village, so they are all stunned that I know how to and have been for about a decade. The women are thrilled because the men have the idea that no woman can handle driving, so I really want to teach a woman how to drive the car next.

Maybe an even funnier story has been teaching Puce how to play Cribbage. He is horrible. I am not sure that Tanzanians are very good at planning ahead or strategizing in a Cribbage type way. Puce has a million questions. He is good at many things, but it doesn’t look like Cribbage will be one of them.

On an embarrassing Brie moment: I had a huge intellectual conversation about African countries during colonization, while I was at the village bar peeling potatoes, and talking to many of Image’s men. I kept talking about South Africa and apartied. Of course the conversation was in Swahili, and I noticed every time I said the “South” , in South Africa, the guys made eye contact. Finally, when I was done going on and on, William tells me casually, “Brie, just so you know, you weren’t saying South. You were saying the verb for illicit sex.” All the guys are trying not to laugh, I probably turned bright red, but laughed and said, “All right already, why did you all wait to correct me!?!” Then they all just cracked up. Oh Geez.

I watched the “African Queen” for the first time since living in Africa. What a brilliant movie. I was so lucky to have parents that showed us weird movies for kids to love at young ages. I didn’t realize that it took place in Tanzania and Bogart even speaks a bit of Swahili in it! I remember watching it as a child and dreaming about this amazing continent. I thought my romance with Tanzania would end. It should after what I have been through here. My friend Matt told me, “People are always attached to places where they have great trials and come out on top.” Maybe that is it. Why I still love Africa. A place that is wild, beautiful, violent, but free. Tanzania has been a journey that challenged what I didn’t even know I had.

December 24-25, 2009

Image village's first Baby Brie has been born. I didn't even have to have her myself or be conceited enough to name a child after me. I feel a little bad for her because she inherited a name from some white person she will never really know and it is a difficult name for Tanzanians to say. She is the fourth daughter of Kipambe and this third wife. He has six wives in total and 21 kids that he knows of, he told me once proudly- I said the only thing that I could say- "Ummm, Wow." So now there is a Brie in the family- she is small and pretty with engaging eyes. We look nothing alike. (Haha)

The exam score have come back and I was very pleased that Rebecca (Catherine's older sister) was successful and will be going to the best secondary school in our area. Msanga, her uncle, has already put money aside for tuition for his brilliant orphaned niece. Rebecca proudly came to my house to tell me. Smiling, she said, "Brie, maybe I really will get to be a doctor!" I reminded her that she can be whatever she wants.

Christmas eve. I sit with a bottle of South African wine and a pot of popcorn that my cats are sharing with me. Nothing in this scene feels like Christmas. So I pretend that it is not. Sometimes it is just easier that way. I think about all the guys at the bar who I asked earlier when they were going home to be with their wives and children. They looked confused, like they didn't know what they were supposed to do at home with their families on Christmas. What should they really be doing? Making a fire in the big stone fireplace, watching their kids open their flannel pjs, eating the pie their wife cooked, making sure that all of the Christmas lights are working, reading "Mortimer the Moose" or singing "You're a Mean One Mister Grinch", thinking about how they will make boot prints on the hearth and tell their children that they heard sleigh bells and hooves landing on the thatched roof? I realize that I don't know what they should do. All my ideas embody my own father and are silly in a African context.

The next morning, I wake up and go to church. It is actually very beautiful. They have decorated and the dancing and singing is the best that I have seen in Tanzania. After church it is like an enormous block party, everybody is cooking, eating, singing, dancing, playing all over our village. That night, while I am squatting behind a pig sty (literally) watching my villagers dance around the bonfire, their shadows moving in the dark, I think about how surreal it is hat I would ever be peeing behind a pig sty on Christmas in a village in the heart of East Africa. This wasn't like a Christmas I had ever had before, but it was one that I will never forget. And I feel happy that the adventure continues, that every morning I wake up somewhere that feeds my adventurous side, where everyday you never know what is going to happen or where you'll end up, so you just go with it...

December 17, 2009

It has recently occurred to me that life is a series of leaving or being left. Sometimes it is intentional, sometimes it just can't be helped and sometimes it is an accident all together. It has made me realize how precious the moments we have with someone really are. There are so many types of connections to be made with people. When I got on the airplane a second time, I ignored it. It was too hard to picture being thousands of miles away from Oregon and all the people I love. I have two pockets of important people that reside on opposite sides of the world- Portland, Oregon and Njombe, Tanzania. Who knew that an invisible red thread would be stretched between these oh so different places? I know what it feels like to be left too. I know what it sounds like- footsteps down the deck, waterfall drops into a ponds, a Jeep starting. I know what leaving feels like- my family all asleep in their beds, except the gaping hole where my dad should have been, but instead is at the hospital miles away. I know what it looks like- the back of someone I love, the empty phone call from someone who is already gone. It looks like me with a backpack on, ignoring the fact that I want to turn around. A tear and a kiss and a dance that is over.

Osmond's mother just died unexpectedly. It was even unexpected for Africa. He and I are the same age but his mother was about 15 years younger than my parents. I am squatting in an overheated courtyard with my village women. I am comtemplating all the different types of leaving and being left while the women wail, for this death they are all crying for real. I sit quietly, holding the corner of Mama Max's skirt like a child, tears roll down my cheek, for some reason I am afraid. After three hours of this, William shows up and I feel relieved. He has been in Njombe, but since he is Osmond's cousin and best friend, I feel grateful that he is there. I shouldn't have... He grabs my wrist and says, "Osmond wants you in the room." I am not sure what the room is all about but suddenly I know that I would rather say with the sobbing women. But instead I am lead through the wailing masses of women to "the room". A dirt floor, a thatched roof, Osmond and Nicky (also their cousin) next to the dead body laying on a piece of cloth on the dusty floor. I am seated between Osmond and Williamlike I am a member of their family. Osmond is dry eyed and stares straight ahead. He breaks my heart. His mother lived across the street and I wonder if he has ever gone a day in his life without seeing her. He takes my hand immediatly. I don't really want to be there. It is hot, it smells bad, the wailing scares me, but I can't just run away. We sit for hours as is the custom. We don't talk, he doesn't let go of my hand, eventually I try to escape my body and go somewhere else in my mind. This way I can ignore the sweat pooling in my bra, my clammy palm in his, the flies playing "red rover, red rover, dead body come over" between the cuts on my feet and legs, Osmond's mother's body and the cuts and sores on William, Nicky and Osmond. When dusk finally arrives we go to a cornfield to bury her. Osmond's sister throws her body on the crude wooden coffin begging God to take her also. I cry. Why did she leave?

The dance together is so short in Africa. It reminds me that you can sorround yourself with as many people and distractions as you want, but in the end all you really have is yourself. I am pleased with the Peace Corps experience for challenging each of us to cultivate that realationship with ourselves. When you are alone in an African village, you really have to be okay with who you are. As Osmond grips my hand like a lifeline, I wonder if there will ever be a point that I don't feel like leaving? That I don't get left? I wonder if there will ever be a time that I am not haunted by foorsteps on the deck, a hole in the bedroom upstairs, the weight of my backpack, women wailing, sweat gathering, flies landing? Then I know that is impossible. All I can do is continue to dance, everything might come and go, but I am my life's constant.

"Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all." -Helen Keller

November 28- December 4, 2009

I finally had some American visitors! I worked with Karrla at Mercy Corps, she is their IT genius, so of course being technologically handicapped I got to know her really well! Example conversation:

Me: (hurriedly arriving to work and trying to switch on my computer... to no avail. So I call IT.) Karrla? Yep, it is Brie. I neeeeeed you....

(Minutes later Karrla is at my desk)

Karrla: What is the problem?

Me: When I press the on button the computer doesn't turn on.

Karrla: (Walks near my desk grabs the cord and plugs in it, presses the button, the computer turns on.) There that should do it. Usually computers need to be plugged in to work.

So, as you can see, Karrla saved my Mercy Corps life multiple times a week. Naturally, I was thrilled when she told me she and her friend, Ann wanted to come to Tanzania for a vacation and visit my village. They arrived down in Njombe after the long bus ride from Dar. They were both pretty hard core getting on a bus after such a long plane flight. After one night in Njombe we hired my friend, Azim to drive us in his taxi over the rough roads to Image. It was really fun to have Karrla and Ann there. Despite the fact that they could not really communicate with my villagers, I think a good time was had by all.

The highlight for me of their village visit was the soccer game. Ann works for Nike and brought with them many nice, expensive, colorful soccer balls as gifts. The young men in my village have some teams but only a few balls. They came to the soccer field to meet us and put on some uniforms and accepted the gift of the balls. My village chairperson, Felix, was there and they all gave speeches which I translated to Ann and Karrla. Then they played. They were awesome, even the guys that went barefoot, the amount of athleticism was so amazing to watch. I felt like I should have paid good money for a game where the guys playing were so skilled. It was a great experience to watch my friends do something they love and I think Ann and Karrla enjoyed the village time too.

After Image, we went up to Iringa and spent one night there before heading out to Ruaha National Park for a three day safari. This was an entirely amazing three days! (Thank you Mom and Dad!) We stayed at the beautiful Fox Farms River Lodge right in the park. (See pictures below.) We were the only people staying there, so they had set up two of the bandas for us and lucky lucky me- I got my own. I pretty much wanted to live in the shower... Since Karrla, Ann and I are all vegetarian, there was great food every night that we could all eat. The dining area looked over the river and we would go down on the beach and sit around the bonfire and watch the full moon rise. Of course, one of my favorite parts was chatting it up in Swahili with the Masai guards (guards against animals, not people). They would walk us back to our huts at the end of the night, carrying their large sticks and Masai knives. There is something very comforting about the Masai and because, like all Tanzanians, they have a great sense of humor and are very friendly, they tend to be a favorite tribe.

Everyday we went out with our guides in a private land rover. A list of what we saw: giraffes, elephants, lions, zebra, antelope, gazelle, baboons, dik-diks, greater kudu, ostrich, vervet monkeys, water bucks, hippos, crocodiles, jackels, mongoose, turtles and many birds. It was so awesome.

My first lions were an experience. If you know me very well, you know that I have always loved cats and a dream of mine has always been seeing the big cats in the wild. It was pretty amazing to finally get that experience. The lions tended to be hot, hungry and tired when we saw different groups of them, but they really did not disappoint. It is almost impossible to describe what it feels like to have a lion in the Tanzanian bush look at you. Even from a car, it is terrifying, beautiful and hypnotic all at once. I knew when one would close his eyes, I wanted him to look at me again, but when moving to get a better picture, the eyes would open back up. And that gaze was enough to freeze you. It was like when you watch your house cat see something move and it will flash open it's eyes at whatever caught it's interest. But it was an entirely different thing to know that it was you that caught the lions interest. The look they give you feels like it pierces right into your soul and it was odd to want more of it but want it to stop at the same moment. To want to get further away and get out of the car... (Don't worry, Mom, the guide wouldn't let me.) They brought tears to my eyes and an overwhelming sense of awe at the beautiful world we live in. I felt immediately grateful that I was able to live in Tanzania, to see Africa's animals in the wild, the snow of Kilimanjaro, the rural village life of beautiful people... Sometimes I wish that I was born fifty years earlier so that I could have seen more unspoiled beauty around the world. I could have been a pioneer or an explorer. Then I realize that in my own way, in my own life, I sort of am.

Night in Ruaha was loud! There was just screen connecting the thatched roof of our huts to the foundation to protect us from bugs. Thus making it possible for me to hear every night time noise, and sense I am a light sleeper with a big imagination, I did hear everything! Hippos make the loudest and oddest noises, bugs of all kinds can make every sound imaginable, one early morning we could hear lions off in the distance, then there was just the unknown noises... Luckily, after all my time in a village I have learned that it is better to just pretend like those noises are not happening. At 3 AM on our last night in the park, there was a noise I could not ignore. Mostly because it was right outside my screen and was incredibly loud and crashing through the bushes. Since I have a totally wild imagination, I decided that whatever it was was big and it might want to eat me. So I thought about trying to pretend like it wasn't there, but then I figured that if this was it, I wanted to see what it was first and since the moon was full there would be a good chance that I would be able to. So I took a deep breath and pulled open the curtain to the undoubtable smell of elephant. They were right there... seriously, without the screen I could have touched them. A heard crashing through the under bush, pulling the trees apart and noisily stuffing the contents into their mouths. I got scared for a moment again when I realized the small movement on the ground that I hadn't noticed before was the smallest elephant I have ever seen. Elephants are so protective of their children, earlier in the day one had tried to stampede our safari car because it felt we were too close to it's child. I wondered if it would stampede my hut. The baby came up to his mother's knee and stood in her shadow. They stamped through the bush until they got to the front of my hut and stood bathed in moonlight on the banks of the river. A hippo was also down there, obese on the bank and giggled his creepy old molester laugh. I peaked out at the congregation of animals in the middle of the wild, in the heart of Tanzania, East Africa, and I smiled to myself because this moment makes up part of my life.

Hippo Pool

Beautiful Ruaha

Keeping a look out

Relaxing on the front porch as night falls in the park

A mad daddy elephant attempting to stampede our safari jeep. We got away fast.

Someone loves a safari...

Evening sky

Awww....

This is my life... YES!

A lazy lion

An Oregonian in Africa... might be a baobab instead of a fir but I am still loving it.

I tired multiple times to convince the driver that he should let me out of the car here, but he wouldn't listen... too bad.

The beautiful Ruaha River

Ohhh, Tanzania... I am so lucky to live here.

Checking me out.

Ann and Karrla, through our jeep roof.

Little pretty lizard guy...

Spent all my free time in this shower...

A western toilet? I must be dreaming...

View from my hut's porch

Porch to the Ruaha River where I was able to watch giraffe, elephants, hippos, crocodiles, gazelle, water bucks, turtles and many birds. Also heard lions at night!

The most beautiful place I have ever been. Had this hut all to myself! Fox Farms Ruaha River Lodge- amazing!

Me on Christmas

Giza attempting to nurse on Kimulimuli. She just doesn't get it.

My AIDS Testing Day

Giza, doing what she does best: shoulder riding and meowing

Kimulimuli, asleep on my "spice rack"

First AIDS testing day in Image. Here, men getting ready to drum.

Some Image Villagers waiting to test for AIDS

My women's choir singing the song they wrote about AIDS prevention for me

Kiddos chilling at the testing day

Part of the testing line

Clevel and I, chatting at Image AIDS Day

A rat's last moments, attempting to enter my living room window into the cat house... big mistake.

Exhaustion from campaigning in my village every second of everyday the week leading up to my testing day.

Signs announcing a meeting for Image villagers to learn more about AIDS prevention.

Don't worry, Mom, it's fake. My henna tattoo, artwork courtesy of Margaret.

Some of my friends.

Teaching English at the primary school

Girls digging at the primary school farm

Girls hauling water for the primary school's tree farm. Notice the boy in the foreground with his shredded school uniform sweater. Most kids wear hand-me-down uniforms until they are unwearable.

Primary school tree planting. Timber is the main income generating crop for Image villagers.

Two boys tree planting

Fire Building

At Home.

One of my bibis (grandmothers)

A bibi teaching me how to cook pombe (home brewed alcohol made from corn) over the fire.

Giza's first family. She is the little dark one.

Mary, after Msanga's wedding. Our primary school is in the background.

Mama Lau braiding Jen's hair before she left.

Clevel, balloon blowing

Catherine

Mwalango's new baby, Ima.

"Hello Darkness, my old friend, I've come to talk with you again because a vision softly creeping left it's seeds while I was sleeping and the vision that was planted in my brain still remains, within the sound of silence." -Simon and Garfunkel

November 20, 2009

A cow watched me pee today- it's head stuck through my outhouse window. I only felt slightly violated, it is "My Cow" after all.

One of God's worst creations is enjoying entering my house these days- no it is not the siyafu, those were a bad idea too. It is like a cochroach, but smaller and lighter colored and great! (sarcasm here) it can fly! Now all it need to do is transmit AIDS and it becomes my worst nightmare. They make a horrible clicking/buzzing sound when they fly, not like a bee, like something gross. For someone who is outdoorsy, lives in Africa and likes animals- I still hate bugs. Luckily, my cats have decided that this bugs extinction is up to them. They make flying leaps into the air knocking them stunned to the ground and then crunch, crunch crunch... gone. Yuck.

Is your life pathetic if you dream about food every night? What is you dream about silly foods? Last night it was Toby's Tofu Pate. I could see the container, I opened it, salivated and then woke up. I could almost taste it. Lately, every morning the second before I am completely conscious, I think I am in America. This is weird because I have slept in this room for over a year. The worst was the morning that I thought I could hear my Dad making breakfast and I jumped up to go eat with him, before realizing where I was.

I can barely move today. Yesterday I dug with a hoe for five straight hours. I told Mama Max that i would help her on the farm, but when my alarm went off at 5.30 am and I awoke to drizzle and gray skies, all I wanted to do was crawl back into bed. But can Mama Max do that? Can any Tanzanian woman just sleep in? No, this is about what we are going to eat. With that I got up and braved the elements and physical labor. I actually enjoyed being on the farm. What a great female bonding experience. Every women slightly related to Mama Max was there with their hoe. We lined up shoulder to sholder like a small female army and truged forward, turning the soil. My hands were bleeding almost immediately but I forced them on, even thought the women tried to make me stop. However, since I am Image's full idea of what an American is, I force myself often through painful or uncomfortable situations just to prove what Americans are made of. I might be a woman who is used to a dishwasher, washing machine, shower and sitting at a desk in front of a computer, but i refuse to let them believe that I am weak or can't. Sometimes i wonder what would happen if I always lived like this- with a "can-do" attitude- "I can do it," "I am not afraid," "I am not hurt," "I can eat it," " I can wear it," "I can sit in the dirt," "I can... I can... I can..." What could I possibly accomplished that I previously thought I couldn't? What if we all lived like this? What if we all always tried our hardest and didn't complain because we were representing an entire country and culture? What would the world be like?

Anyways, it pours rain off and on but I laugh with the women as the rain runs down our faces and makes my hair stick out at every angle possible. I pretend I am going to take a hot shower when this is all over. My favorite part is being with the little girls- they are care-free and lugh, but are hard workers, they will have to work like this for the rest of their lives. Maxillia, Mama Max's second child who is 11 years old, tells me story after story. Grace, a five year old distant cousin, hoes and hoes, until I am pretty sure that she is stronger than I am. My whole body hurts and my hands are raw, but there is some satisfaction there, sometimes it feels good to serve others and be part of something.

"If these are life's lessons she'll take this test. She needs wide open spaces, room to make a big mistake, she needs new faces, she knows the high stakes, she knows the high stakes..." - Dixie Chicks

Novemeber 18, 2009

Now that Image is used to me, my appearence at village things hardly surprises them. So I do things to "up my profile"- this is my chance to be famous after all, for once in my life no one looks like me. I do things that people will least expect. For example: I learned how to cook pombe (home brewed alcohol that looks and tastes like vomit) with a bunch of bibis (grandmothers). I learned how to play some game that all the babus (grandfathers) play that makes no sense and people told me that only old people can play it... well, Brie now can too. I kiss little dirty village kids, hold their hands and tell them that I love them. At the meeting with all the vijana (young men) about how they are supposed to stay away from my house, I tell them that if any of them come through my window again, I will go "Lorena Bobitt" on them. They laugh but they believe me. It was a good threat. I find jobs at two mgahawas (cafes/beer shacks) and one duka (shop) where i surprise people by working when I feel like it (I work for free after all!) I take the guys to visit my owl and crack up when they are terrified. The fuuny thing is these stories follow me around, I even get to hear the third or fourth hand. "I heard you threw 200 condoms ar the guys in the bar today and then walked out." Yep- true story.

Anyways, my antics keep me interesting and while I am interesting, people want my ideas, adivce and company. Today I decide I am going to paint the checker board at Mama Max's Mgahawa, because the red squares are entirely impossible to see from too much use. I take my red acrylic paint and go to work. Then I write around the edge "Use Condoms" in swahili, surrounded my hearts. This makes all the guys laugh. Osmond shows up and I ask him what he is going to do today. "We are going to work." "Work?" I say, like I have never heard the word, which from village men, I pretty much never do. He has just bought the worst Land Rover in human history. It is a Flintstone car, you can see the ground as you go because there is no floor. None of the doors fully close and only the windsheild still has gas. You have to push it to get it to start. So when he invites me to come along, the prospect of riding in it is fully awesome! "Great!'" I respond. The guys are out of money for beer, so we need to cut some trees. This is not really like deforestation- timber is our main livlihood, so we are constantly replanting pines.

Unfortunately for this little outting, I am Tanzanian woman dressed, complete with a long tight skirt and heels. I get into the front seat (if you can call it that) and hold my feet up so they don't drag. Puce, Joeseph and Stanly all effortlessly sit on nothing or stand on the back bumper. Nicky rides on the roof. We go complete bush four-bying over old cornfeilds, between banana trees and into the forest. What cracks me up about the whole event is how suddenly my rough, rural TZ guys are all super concerned about me. Osmond asks me, "Are you scared? You can get out if you want," as we plow over a ridge. "No", I reply, smiling. I am not sure how to translate, "Hell no! This is my African Indiana Jones adventure!" (He wouldn't get the reference anyways.) I ditch the heels when we park, so everyone offers to carry me, I refuse that, so then everyone's shoes are offered, which I also refuse, preferring like always to go barefoot. Tanzanians and their hospitality though, geez. I lay on my back in the grass surrounded by wildflowers. Puce comes over with the equivillant of "bush grapes" and another "fruit" I have never seen before. I'll question Tanzanians about a lot of things but what is safe to eat in the bush is not one of them. After an hour, they declare that is enough. We load back into (or out of) the "car" but all the guys have to jump in when it is actually moving, because first they have to push us out of the ravine.

Back in the village, my bush story arrives before I do- was I afraid? How did Osmond drive? Why would I go into the woods ? The guys brag- she even went barefoot, she wasn't scared at all. My villagers look surprised, Americans sure are weird people.

* So I am about a month behind in blog entries. Don't freak out they are all hand written, but it is going to take me a while to catch this thing up. And since I am a person who likes to tell stories from the beginning, I will not jump ahead, so bear with me.

"...The Eskimos had fifty-two names for snow because it was important to them; there ought to be as many for love." - Margaret Atwood

11/13- 11/15

I have a weird affliction. Everyone in my group of PCVs are sick of their villages, they are tired of being here, and feeling like they cannot make enough changes. My affliction is- I am not. Sure I get frustrated a few moments, but my villagers? They could not be any better. Next to the state of Oregon, this is my favorite place in the world. This small area in Africa houses people I love immensely, beauty I have found no where else. If anything, Image Village has only assisted in my romance with Africa- which is interesting because my love of this country has been tested and tried but somehow remains. I hate leaving Image, even for the day. I have this anxious feeling- what is happening there? I wonder if he is sick? If she is better? What did Mama Max cook? Did Felix open his shop on time? Did puce get in another (!) motorcycle accident? Who is holding Anna? Did Mama Suze have her baby yet? Are Giza and Kimulimuli still being fed? Did anyone remember to bathe Lau? You get the idea- as minor as these things may seem they now make up my life and not knowing the answers is weird.

I love Jen though. She calls me daily- lonely and missing Image (I understand) she begs me to visit the village she has been relocated to, so I finally agree to step out of Image. I am actually nervous about spending so much time non-stop with a Tanzanian, even one who is my best friend. I have always been allowed private space from them, a door to close. Jen meets me in Njombe- she is thrilled. Her village is near Makambako, a town north of Njombe.

The good thing about the whole visit is it reminds me of how far I have come in Image. Her village has never had a volunteer. Everyone yells, "mzungu", no one would day call me that today in Image. People talk about me in front of me like I am not there and do not understand. everyone stares non-stop, today in Image, I have to do crazy things to get people to even look twice at me. I get pestered with questions about Americans that people in my own village have known the answer to for over a year. Her teachers try to tell me, "Wouldn't you rather live here? We have regular bus service, water pumps and cell service. We are 'developed'." I think to myself- sure that would be easier. Then I look around at the lack of my people, my friends, the Image villagers who have given me everything especially their hearts. I look around at the lack of tall pine trees, deep ravines and pristine Image air. The missing rustic, rural, Tanzanian, bush- no roads, no other villages, nothing for as far as the eye can see. This is not Image. "Nope", I respond confidently. Easier is not necessarily better. In fact, one could argue that it is worse, it is certainly less exciting. So just like my heart resides on five acres outside of Oregon City, it also stay bush-bound, which to me means Image.

My days with Jen are unfortunately non-stop eating, the primary way of showing love to a guest is to cook good food, and Jen knows all the food I like. So I eat my body weight in food everyday. It is like home stay and once again I become some one's Barbie. She braids my hair, tells me what to wear, sprays me with perfume, tells me when it is time to bathe, and tucks me in at night.

However, I like it. I think there is such a thing as being on your own so long, looking out for yourself so much that it is nice to have someone care for you. Nice to have someone hold your hand and love you, nice to feel dependant. Jen cries when I leave, but secretly Image calls- I have to go home.

"She's out on the highway She's got a homemade sign it says Go ahead try to figure out What my future looks like I don't want to live my life like a story Always thinkin I could've been something Don't run along side and control me Just film away and let me be At ease I, I feel fine I'll go on, I move on There's something so divided Don't worry about me I'll be fine Don't live your life for me or for anyone Live your life as if you're one Live your life as if you're one And find quiet, it's awful quiet " -Tegan and Sara

November 9, 2009

My loneliness led me into the trap that is Giza. I love my villagers but in many ways they are a poor replacement for who I used to be. I used to be the oldest sibling of a big American family with amazing parents. Beautiful is a word that often gets thrown in with my name. "Beautiful Brie", people don't care if it is factual as long as they like the alliteration. I have been teaching William English and even he has picked up putting the two words together, although to be fair Juster has always done it, so he probably just picked it up from her. We have a sad conversation though (in Swahili, his english sucks), "What will happen when you leave?" He asks. "Someone else will come." I say. "But they will not be you." "No, they won't be." I agree. "What am I supposed to do?" "The same thing you always did." I answer. "Africa will call you back." He confidently says. "I know." I say equally as confidently. (I think Africa has it's own way of making phone calls to those who feel it within themselves.) "But you cannot leave, because we love you." "I know." I say (I can't say anything else.) But I wonder if Peace Corps really brings cultures together or rips them apart. I wonder about who I used to be, who I will never be again. I remember the beautiful, charismatic, funny, elite group of six people that somehow I got randomly added to. That I get the privilege to call my family, how I have no idea, but I got extremely lucky. I remember that I used to have best friends I spoke English with. I used to look forward to the acadamy awards and a hot shower. For the last decade, I used to have some sort of boyfriend. I used to think I was scholarly, I loved Art History and Shakespeare. I used to be a Kappa Kappa Gamma sorority sister and wear black high heels and red lipstick, I used to revise grants to provide aid to Sudan, I drove a car, I drank wine, I used to sit in Powell's Books and dream about all the places I might go... I used to have a million terms to define myself. I am not sure that there are any anymore.

I thought I liked the company of myself, which I guess I have grown tired of- turns out I am no as cool/interesting/fun as I thought. That is where Kimulimuli comes in and I get a bit insane believing that he is fluent in both Kiswahili and English (which funnily enough he sort of is). In Tanzania, he is my family and like all animals he loves me unconditionally. I guess that is why I fell for Giza. I needed to feel a bit more love in my life.

I was visiting my Bibi (grandmother) whose cat has just had kittens. "Five!" I exclaimed. "Yes, but that one will die." She said matter of factly pointing to the little mostly black one with one orange toe and and orange stripe down her nose. "Why?" I asked looking at the healthy kitten. She looked at me like this was a stupid question, "Because everybody knows that black cats are inhabited by witches." Oh yeah, right. I forgot. I beg her to keep the little black one for me, but first Mzee Ngoda must come and do some sort of exorcism on it, so we are sure that it is safe. (Now that she lives with my I am not sure that the exorcism was entirely effective...) But she is allowed to go live with me. If there is an animal more pathetic than Kimulimuli, it has to be Giza. Unlike Muli, she is beautiful, but she drives us both crazy. She is too eager, constantly meowing, and much to both Muli and my dismay is afraid of thunderstorms. She takes turns following one of us around like we are both gods. Muli has zero patience for her and as I trip over her for the 28th time that day I have minimal patience. But some how as I cuddle her and she mews so pathetically, I love her. My Buddhist principle reminds me you must have the darkness to have the light. Kimulimuli literally means firefly, but also to light up or illuminate. Giza means darkness, obscurity or gloom. Now I am stuck with them- my African cat family. At least Kimulimuli earns his keep with his exceptional hunting skills. We shall see if Giz ever amounts to anything besides being small and obsessed with me. Muli and Giz try to make me feel less alone, but what can you really expect from two scrawny African cats?

"The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware." -Henry Miller

November 7, 2009

I have kept pretty quiet about this but we ran out of water here in Image Village. Our ravines dried up- the students went down with shovels to dig for water but found minimal supplies. So the men got on their motorcycles and hauled back water from other villages, women walked for miles in search of our most precious resource. It turned out that cooking and drinking were the only things we still did with water. No one bathed, no one washed clothes- let's just say everyone smelled great... Brie is not someone who enjoys being dirty and likes to smell good. My parents love to tell the story of when I was little and would fall down, then waddle over to them and say "dirty" as I held out my hand for it to be cleaned. I would like to think that I am a little less "princess-y" now, but I have perfected the art of bathing all the "stinky parts" in about an inch of water. A dry season is normal in Tanzania. It hasn't rained since April or May and usually this is fine. I am not sure what the problem was this year but it was a problem.

In the Southern Highlands, the rain comes like nothing you have ever seen before. It was a sunny morning and around 3 pm it got so dark it was like night. Clouds rolled in black and menacing. First I heard thunder that rocked the hills then off over the rolling landscape, I saw the jagged lightning reach it's fingers down for the earth. I love lightning, I always have, I get some sort of high from it. Apparently Kimulimuli, my little firefly cat, was aptly named because he ran around house looking like an owl. I stood outside and watched it come. Suddenly the sky opened up- RAIN. Maybe because I am an Oregonian, maybe because I am a fire sign and need something to balance me out, but I need the rain. I let it wash over me, watched it trail through the dust, leaving white snail trails on my skin. I bathed in it, I opened my mouth and drank it, I danced in it. I put my dishes outside that have not been washed in forever but i just keep using. I brushed my teeth. I did everything you can possibly do with unlimited water. I could only focus on the rain and the deafening sound of it on my tin roof- nothing else could be heard until the thunder would unleash it's anger from above. Kimulimuli took advantage of the storm to go on a killing spree. Anything escaping into the house was fair game to him- including two huge rats, a lizard, many spiders, centipedes and other unknown bugs. I just twirled around finally clean- and thanked nature for its beauty, for providing for us, for its unknowable plan, for its magic.

October 31, 2009

Halloween- the end of the Pagan year. So much to let go of, so much to be thankful for. This was one of my weirdest ones yet and there wasn't even any costumes involved.

Jen came to visit Image for the weekend and I could not have been more happy to see her. It has only been a little more than a month since she left but her presence is like a breath of fresh air. She is so easy to love. Almost everyone in Image is sick right now, I don't know how I have escaped the plague. Margaret has aptly called it "The season of death." So because mama Latifah (Mwalimu Monika) is sick right now, Jen and I ended up walk hours to her farm to burn it for her. The corn has all dies, so all Tanzanians burn their farms around this time- they do it at dusk. It is sort of unreal being in a burning cornfield, under an almost full moon in Africa on Halloween.

Eventually we realize that it is very dark and we are nearer to a "neighboring" village than we are to our own. We walk the mile or so there in the dark, William is there drinking beer with some guys and is surprised to see us stumble out of the bush in the dark. I am just relieved I did not see any snakes. Jen and William both think that we should haggle for a ride to get back to Image. The ride negotiations commence and I decide that I am worthless in this negotiation process and I am exhausted, so lie down in the grass. I piss William off because he tells me to get up but I pretend I don't understand him (This is like day one Kiswahili training), so he ignores me and I actually drift into snooze mode. (Geez, I must trust these two.) Luckily, I wake up for the funniest part of the whole conversation. They are debating about price.

Potential Driver: You can pay it. She is white. Tell her it is more and we can split her money later.

William: She is fluent in Swahili, so she understands you. Plus she is not white.

Driver: Yes, she is. She is white! We can make some money.

William: You have made a big mistake. She is my best friend and she is not white.

Driver: You're her best friend?

William: Yeah, Jen and I. (Adamantly) She is not white!

Driver: Okay, okay.

I am cracking up. My whiteness is the last thing I thought that could be debated. I finally get home. Mjemah shows up at my house with Anna in his arms (flanked by my two guards...geez). It is turning into a huge problem because Anna prefers to sleep at my house and won't go to sleep at home anymore. She is asleep within minutes of entering my arms. I make a fire in the fireplace, pop popcorn, drink pumpkin spice tea, and start "Twilight", the vampire series that all the Njombe girls are addicted to. There are no pumpkins, no trick-or-treaters, no candy, no orange lights, no big harvest celebration. But I am here and I celebrate alone which I have learned is the way that some things should be celebrated.

I crawl into bed next to Anna, who awakes at 2 am crying. I somehow remember how to ask her in Swahili if she had a bad dream. She nods and I hold her against me and tell her that "her Brie" is here and sing her the words that I can remember from the songs my parents sang to me when I was little. Soon she is back asleep, using my chest as a pillow- probably the cushiest part- one of her arms grips around me, and the other reaches up, fingers intertwined in my hair- I can only miss my mom, and the way I used to sleep. The weight of her body is strangely comforting. And i hold her small dark body against my large white one- so different, but so the same.

November's Book is :

"Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close" By Jonathan Safran Foer (He's the one who wrote "Everything is Illuminated" which was also a great book.)

Through the eyes of an incredibly precocious and extremely funny nine-year-old narrator, Jonathan Safran Foer tells a story of the effects of death on Oskar Schell and his family. Oskar's father was killed in the Twin Towers terrorist attack. Oskar's grandparents witnessed similar terrorists' attacks during World War II. The consequences of these horrid deaths have marked the psyches of the main characters in Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close in different, but equally painful ways.

Totally uniquely and beautifully written. Don't let the 9/11 stuff fool you, this book has a lot more substance to it. I loved loved it. It is eye opening and not depressing like it sounds.

Dad- You have to read this book. It talks about the things we always think about...

Other books I really liked this month:

"Eyes, Breathe, Memory" By Eldwidge Danticat. Super intense, but detailed novel about the lives of Haitian women.

"My Sister's Keeper" By Jodi Picoult. Think a lot of people have probably read this, but I had not. Tear-jerker. Made me realize that I would give any part of my body if it meant saving either of my sisters' lives, and hopefully will never have to.

“It’s four-thirty on a Tuesday, doesn’t get much worse than this, and beds in little rooms in buildings in these lives which are completely meaningless… I’m tryin’ to keep myself away from myself and me.” –Counting Crows

October 18-24, 2009

I listen to some old CD that some long gone PCV left behind, we don’t get a lot of music choices here and it takes me back to about seventh grade when Sugar Ray sings, “I just want to fly, put your arms around me, baby”. I put my arms around myself because I am cold but also because I have no one to put their arms around me, I am alone.

It is commonly believed in my village now that my attempted break-in was most likely going to be an attempted rape, I was jus in the wrong (or right) bedroom. There are a million reasons my villagers and government have come to this conclusion, and in the middle of it all is me trying to live here. I watch all the guys who used to be my friends and I don’t trust and I am fearful. I am sure it wasn’t someone I know, or one of my friends but I still let the ocean between us grow. I feel their eyes on me, and it scares me. Mary tells me when the village first found out they were getting a female volunteer the men were happy and hopeful, I guess I can understand that, and maybe now they are hoping I will settle down there, but I don’t like their eyes on me. It occurs to me that it is no wonder that women have children here. Their husbands pay no attention to them; they want something that belongs to them, something of their own. I wish their husbands paid no attention to me either.

I don’t sleep at night anymore. I doze a bit, but I move from room to room with my knife, usually starting on the living room couch, then to the inspiration room, and then in the wee hours of the morning to my bedroom. I fall asleep asleep around 5am when the village starts to stir, otherwise I wait. I read or stare at the ceiling. I am physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted. The other night I woke up around 7.30 pm, which I still think is an acceptable time to sleep even though it is already dark here on the equator, to hear William and Mary bickering outside my door. (Since it is dark William is not allowed without Mary.) Mary is telling him, “I try to make her eat and rest.” To which William replies, “You can, you just don’t know how to deal with her, you don’t leave her alone.” I open the door at this point because I am sure Mary is pissed off, as these are the two people who consider themselves my best friends. They stand there with a pot of beans and ugali. I stare at my two best friends, their dark faces illuminated by the candle light to show off their flawless chocolate skin, their beautiful bone structures, their full lips, their dark worried eyes, and I wonder how I got here. How are these two people part of my immediate life? But I breathe in the smell that is uniquely theirs, Mary: perfume, hair oil, and wood smoke from cooking. William: motor oil, sweat, and wind. Somehow, these familiar smells put me at peace.

I think I have hidden my fear pretty well. It is really only Mary and William who detect it, but I let it out to Mama Max. In front of my village, though, this time, I don’t break down. I am still Image’s golden girl (the permanent hair dye I used in America didn’t stick) I smile, I laugh, I teach, I greet people, I hold Anna, I feed my cat- I appear put together, so I believe. I stay away from the guys, but I still go to the bar to teach. While I wait fro the guys to arrive, I go back to the brick building with a fire pit that is called a kitchen in Tanzania, where Mama Max is slaving away. She hugs me, “I have missed you, you don’t come here very often anymore.” “I know,” I say, and then because I cannot help it, I cannot hide it from my Mama, I say, “I am so afraid.” Instead of reacting like everyone else- “There is nothing to be afraid of.” She says, “I know.” I tell her, motioning to the main bar room, “I am afraid of them now.” She replies, “They miss you, they talk about you almost every night and not in a bad way.” “I miss them too,” I tell her. Out of nowhere she says, “Your mom is a very lucky woman.” “Why?” I ask. “Not every woman can have such a special daughter,” she tells me. Then I rudely say, “In America, I am not special for being white.” “Is that what you think we see?” She asks, “That is what we saw at first but no one sees that now. You still think the village thinks your special because you are an American?” She laughs a little here. “Image sees a woman who is beautiful on the outside, who smiles and greets everyone like she cares, who tries hard to fit in as a Tanzanian, who is willing to try anything. But mostly we see a woman who gives herself and her love with total freedom. And love without expectation is a rare and beautiful thing to find in another person- you are our blessing.” She holds my hand as we walk out of the kitchen toward the main bar, where I am about to come face to face with my fear. “You are brave, Brie, go in there and give them another chance. They love you, truly.” So I take a deep breath and walk into a crowed room of about 40 guys my age, ready to make amends.

My site visit from PC happened recently and my Tanzanian boss came to see how things were going in Image. I told him I should be replaced after I leave, but to make sure that it is someone really hard core, because this village is tough, which he said that he knew he had put me in a really hard village and thanked me for staying. “Why me?” I asked. “You are hard core,” he said. “No,” I said, “I mean replace me with someone who can do this.” Then he said, “Brie, you are doing this.” It dawned on me: I am, aren’t I?

I need to introduce some new characters- Felix is 35, he has one wife and three children. He just opened up a shop right next to my house. Right now he is campaigning to be our next village chairman, which it appears is a role that he will win. He is so awesome it is difficult to describe. He is so not creepy and wants to help me succeed here in everyway he possibly can. He speaks to me patiently and listens like I am important. After the break-in he upped my guards to two that are both older than 45 years. Felix has become one of my best friends and confidante, as he actually understands what I want to do here. Then there is Titu, upon first glace Titu looks fierce, plus his name sounds like an Italian mobster, however, I totally love him. He is also about 35, has two wives with five children among them. I didn’t really know Titu until I passed one of our village bars and he called me in to buy me a beer a few weeks ago. Since there were many people there, I turned the conversation towards AIDS education, like I have become an expert at turning conversations in this way. The weird thing is, I thought I was teaching but Titu was agreeing or adding even more detail to what I was saying. Finally, I was like, “Dude, who are you!?!” Surprise, surprise, he is a doctor! Unfortunately, he works in another village (the government determines who works where), but he technically lives in Image. He has helped infinitely this passed week. He is respected, he respects me, he does condom demos with me, we role-play for our village, and he has been amazing. Plus his youngest wife is an added benefit, as one of my new good friends. Mama Maria is 22 and had three little girls, Maria, Suze, and Osmonda. I love playing with them and there is something about their games that just reminds me of Shannon, Raeme and I.

So I have literally been n the campaign trail this week. As our village government gear up for voting new chair people and committees, I go along and teach about AIDS, condoms and testing. Each morning at 8 am we are in a new sub-village, we have six; the meetings take most of the day. At the meetings, I glance down at my “Fearless” bracelet, then I stand up and address crowds of Image villagers in the hundreds. I shake, I stumble, but I can feel my villagers holding out the net to catch me, tossing me a life saver- I feel the hundreds of eyes on me, but eyes who want me to succeed- when I falter, I find a villager to look to, usually, Felix, Titu, Mama Max, William, Mzee Ngoda… Someone who will silently nod me on, grab my hand before I drown. In a village so fearful of AIDS, I try to be confident as I talk about sex, semen, and demonstrate putting a condom on a soda bottle; I talk about things that are totally taboo to say out loud. But the weird thing is that they want to hear it. I get a million questions. They clap and cheer at the end and thank me for coming- I always close with, “I have now finished a year living here. Image is my home in Africa, you are all my family, I want you to be healthy because I love you.” I get cries back of love.

On the fourth day of campaigning, I am totally shocked when our village mama choir that has been traveling with us, comes out with a brand new song all about AIDS, almost word for word what I have been teaching. One of the mamas shyly tells me they wrote it for me, as a surprise. I invite them to come and sing and dance on the testing day. They are more than excited and tell me they are in the process of writing more songs for me. I can’t believe that they did this on their own, just for me.

Having no idea how many people will really show up to test, I call in for back up, in case I have to spend the night crying over my failure. Margaret and Tally come to hold my hand through it. I should not have worried. When we get to the health center in the morning, the line is out the door. I can’t believe it. All day the line is constant. People of all sorts crowd to get tested. The mama’s choir sings and dance. But I sit watching the line. This sounds stupid, but for some reason, I had only thought about getting that far. I watch people I know, my people, nervously standing in line, and suddenly I understand their fear to know. In one second your life can change. I am afraid. Two hundred and seventy-five people get tested that day before there are no more testing supplies. The line is still out the door. (I have agreed to get another one going in a few weeks.) Thirty-three people are positive. I find this encouraging, seems like a small number to me. However, Image is a village of 3,000 (a thousand are enrolled in primary school and then there are still the kids under 6), so 275 are really a very small portion. Plus the organization testing tells me this is probably not a very accurate picture of the village overall because people are more likely to get tested if they think they are negative. Also apparently this is a high number according to them.

But still I have done something. I have put something into motion here. I have started a dialogue, I have started a movement. It might be a small one, a huge planet, a giant continent filled with problems, a big country with many illnesses, a region plagued by AIDS, a small village in the middle of nowhere- but in that tiny corner of this planet the spark is trying to ignite. I did what I was afraid I could not do.

“You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop and look fear in the face. You must do the thing which you think you cannot do.” –Eleanor Roosevelt and my personal PC motto because each day I do what I think I cannot do.

*Somewhat graphic entry

“They call me crazy if I fail, all the chance that I am in, one in a million they could call me brilliant if I succeed. Gravity is nothing to me moving at the speed of sound, just going to get my feet wet until I drown… ‘Cause I don’t care if they eat me alive, I’ve got better things to do than survive.” – Ani DiFranco

“I’m livin’ in an empty room though the window’s smashed, and I’ve got so little left to lose that it feels just like I’m walkin’ on broken glass.” –Annie Lennox

October 11, 2009- until today

I find myself on my back again with my teachers crowded around me with needles- and again the question, "Brie, How could you not know until now?" I am busy trying to keep my skirt down while still keeping one leg in the air to show off the dime-sized egg sack protrouding from the arch of my foot. Mary says, "This is going to hurt." Great, like the other times it was comfortable. Mjemah says, "Maybe this time we should use the Konyagi (TZ hard alcohol) it is a bad one." He pours me a glassful to drink straight. I take it in two gagging gulps. Then I am approached by Mary, Simon, Mwalongo, Mama Lau and Mama Max, each armed with their own needle. Yeah.. it hurt. Mjemah had another shot ready for me after my village surgury. My foot throbs as they rub Kerosene into it- This method seems weird to me but i am not about to question Tanzanians when it comes to egg sacks. I am proclaimed cured, even though every step I take hurts, but I walk anyways, because that's the kind of person I am. (On a side note: I am convinced that it has become gangrine and that my foot needs to be amputated with a machete. Margaret, who is a bit more realistic than I am, is convinced that it is just infected and I need neosporin, so maybe I will wait a bit for the amputation...

I spent 24 hours alone with Anna. I was convinced that this would rid me of any desire to ever have kids and I was shocked when it did the exact opposite. I was wary to take on two year old Anna when Mjemah had to travel for a night, but we had a blast. It was different than any babysitting I have ever done before. It was weird with no TV, no toys, no video games, we only had eachother to play with, and I learned a lot of swahili. It was weird but enjoyable to be the soul caretaker of a child, have her entirly dependant on me, call me mama and run to me when she was hurt of afraid. When you don't have anything to play with, you play with each other. We patted eatother, she played with my hair, my jewelry and nuzzled in my neck. We dance to Madonna, we napped together in the inspiration room, I painted her nails, I bathed her, I fed her... She sang until we fell asleep in some unknown Anna language, which sounded sort of like kiswahili or Kibena but was sort of something of her own. I awoke a million times in the night, Is she too hot? Is she cold? Can I feel her still breathing? I am going to be a crazy mom, but this is Africa and kids die suddenly every day, plus i am a worrier and that's just the kind of person I am. It did make me realize that this is the type of parent I want to be. One that doesn't just distract their child with TV and candy, but who is actually there to give their child what they really want a treasured adults attention and love.

The more I understand here, the less I wish I knew. I wish I was still in that blissful state of ignorance. There are hundreds of words that I understand but never use, mostly because I can't remember them until they are said. I overheard a conversation between Mary and a village woman that was spoken in quick Swahili- I think they were hoping I wouldn't catch it, I wish I hadn't. A six year old girl in my village was raped my a grown man who then inserted a knife into her vagina. She is still alive in the hopsital. The man is in Njombe in jail. I can't write anymore about this because it hurts too much, because that is the kind of person I am. So I will just use the words of Hilary Clinton, "Violence against women and child shreads the fabric that holds us together as human beings."

Each morning, as I awake to the heavy depression that weighs me down, the total helplessness, I choose to reject it. For what seems like the millionth time in Tanzania, i pick myself up. I don't give in to the urge to let it overtake me, because that is the kind of person I am. I have to fight. So I put on some upbeat music and slap on my silver "Fearless" bracelet and get ready to go kick some ass, because that is the kind of person I am. I have entirely re-vamped my AIDS training to be focused at a small group of men between the ages of 18-30 and be primarily focused on condoms. Since it is next to impossible to get them to all come to a meeting i hoof it to every hole in the wall beer shack and I teach. I follow them around, I join in their stupid gambling card games (In which I actually won all their money until they all had to drop out, they were shocked that a woman could play and then win...haha, I will get you guys.) and I teach and I teach and I teach.... Every fourth word out of my mouth is condom. I learn as much sex slang and dirty words, which cracks them up. With the testing days coming so soon, I refuse to let these guys win. I will win, because that is the kind of person I am. Maybe they won't get tested but at least they will know what options are out there. They have not beaten me yet. The sweet Brie of the first year in Image is gone, and this Brie means business.

Today I was in top form. I adressed about 30 Tanzanian guys at Mama Max's bar about AIDS and condoms. Only Mama Max knew I was coming and they were just there to drink...opps. For some unknown reason they are terrified of condoms. So i stood in front of guys my age and casually talked about sex. I hoped they could not see my hands shaking, luckily my Swahili did not fail me and after i had demonstrated puttng condom after condom on soda bottles, eventually some guys were willing to touch one. Once they saw that i would not judge them, the condoms went like a wildfire. Questions were asked an jokes made, most of them dirty so Mama Max put a lid on it. I love my Mama Max. All of the guys said they learned something, but now the most amazing part is every night there is a line outside my house... Guys waiting to collect condoms. The only rule is they have to see a demonstration again on how to correctly use one. So now everyday, I spend most of my time demonstrating correct useage, but somehow this is a small success. My hands permanently smell like latex, but now, I guess, that is the kind of person I am.

"What doesn't bend brakes, we are made to bleed and scab and heal and bleed again and turn every scar into a joke. We are made to fight and fuck and talk and fight again and sit around and laugh until we choke. I don't know who you were expecting, probably some bitch who does not budge wit eyes the size of snow. Well, I might get pissed off sometimes, but you seem like the type to hold a grudge and in the end I just let it go, in the end I just let it go.." -Ani DiFranco

"What doesn't kill you, only makes you stronger." -I have no idea

October 4, 2009

Last night my worst childhood nightmare actually occurred. When I was in about fifth grade I had a dream so real that I would still almost say that it actually took place. I dreamed that I was in bed and a man's shadow appeared at my window. I could hear the window rattling as he tried to get in. I screamed so loudly that it brought both of my parents running into my room and landed me a spot in their bed.

I am an extremely light sleeper, my Dad jokes that I sleep with one eye open. Last night I awoke to a sound at one of my bedroom windows that I was willing to credit to rats. When I saw an arm reach up and grab on of the security bars that protect all my windows. I actually couldn't believe it when I heard the window rattling and the glass breaking. I didn't scream. Instead I grabbed my flashlight and aimed it at the window, I could only briefly see a man about my age as he jumped down and nimbly ran away. I lay frozen for a moment- did that really happen? Then I got up, got my largest kitchen knife and found cell service. I text the only person who I knew of who might be awake at 1.30 am and who I would trust with my life. It said (In Swahili)- "William, Are you awake? Someone just tried to come in through my bedroom window. I am afraid." I received a phone call immediately. Where I had not cried until I explained to him in broken sobbing Swahili. Then I said, "Please come." He does not live close to me, but is my best male friend, and drives a motorcycle, so he could get there in a matter of minutes and I was too afraid to go outside and run to the teachers or Mzee Ngoda in case the man was still out there. William spoke assuring words, that the man would not come back, but that there was no way he could visit me in the middle of the night. What would the villagers think? It is totally improper. I hate this country sometimes- I said "I don't give a damn what they think, or what is proper!" But I thought morbidly to myself at least if I am murdered tonight someone will know what happened to me. He told me he would come as soon as it got light, around 5.30. That is a long time to sit in ones living room wide-awake, white-knuckling a kitchen knife.

Luckily, I didn't have to wait until 5.30. William showed up at 3 and announced himself outside my door, he has a super recognizable voice, but I still answered the door prepared with the knife, but dropped it when I saw William and instead threw myself on him a sobbing mess. He obviously had no idea what to do with this woman/child, especially because men and women do not touch in Tanzania. But he patted my hair uncertainly, and lead me with his rough black hand into my living room, which I was shocked by even that amount of affection. I felt like I did after I was mugged, after the man tried to get into my car in Portland- like someone has taken my power away from me. I hate this feeling. It angers me when someone can make me feel afraid. I don't lack feeling weak and not in control. William asks if I would really use the knife on someone, and the weird thing is, I think I would. So there's a turn around from the sweet non-violent little Oregon girl. He sits across the room from me (we have to be proper) and tells me to sleep and he will keep watch. I do doze a bit and wake up at one point where he is adding wood to the fire, I feel nothing but love for him in that moment. A feeling of complete protection. I have no idea why he cares deeply about what happens to me, but I am glad he does. He leaves at 6 am to tell the village government the situation.

I am supposed to do an AIDS workshop that day. No one comes. That is one of the freaky things about the break-in is there are signs all over the village that I am doing it. I am believing that the man did not know I was home and was just hoping to steal things. Or I sleep in what a Tanzanian would consider the "backroom", so maybe he thought I was in the other one. William shatters these beliefs and says "Or maybe he knew you were there and was hoping to get in before you woke up." "Don't ever suggest that again," I firmly tell him. That is an option I refuse to think about. Anyways, no one comes, I am hurt, I am discouraged, I don't understand why I am here. They are happy if I just eat ugali with them, drink beer and shoot the shit. I could be doing that in America! (Minus the ugali). For the first time in over a year, I really want to throw in the towel and go home. I call my friend, Kate (PCV), sobbing, "I want to go home. I am failing." I picture my parents disappointment in their daughter who struggles to succeed at everything. I cry to Kate, who tells me all the things a best friend going through the same things can- you are brave, your village loves you, you are making a difference to some people.

I get off the phone with her to find out that the Mwalimu Mkuu's youngest child, one year old Isa, has died. He had a fever this morning and this evening he is dead. I cry silent tears, as I have cried all day. I imagine their little family, their joy over their young son, and it is unbelievable to me that this child no longer exists. I feel Anna's small breaths on my back and I curse myself that I have come love these people too much, too deeply. I cry for my mistake of coming here. I actually tell my villagers that I want to go home. They are deeply upset by this, and call a meeting. A guard is now positioned outside my house. No one is allowed to come near it after 6 pm unless they are with the Mary or Juster, (my two best female friends). I appreciate they care so much but it infuriates me that I am 25 and living like I am 15. I want freedom, I want safety, but apparently can't have both. My guard is supposed to check on me at 10 pm and again at 7 am, which is sort of ridiculous because if he is there the whole time what is there to check? I have been assured that nothing creepy will happen to me again here. But Image village was my "safe place", my love, my joy in Tanzania, now I see it as a place of insecurity, of death, of poverty, of no effort to make any changes... and I am lost between my love for it and my fear of it. The two things that made me happy today. Anna, who kissed tears off my cheek and laughed. And Kimulimuli, who rubbed and climbed all over me until he was exhausted, then he found and killed that rat that was living in my clothing wardrobe, I was a proud mom. But mostly, I try, I trip, I fall, I fail, I am drowning...

"The world is ruled by letting things take their course." - Lao-Tzu

"There is only one of you for all time. Fearlessly be yourself." -Anthony Rapp

September 30, 2009

We had a village wide discussion about how I am different than when I came. According to Stan, "I walk like if you touch me, I will kill you. But still somehow come off as friendly." Basically, according to my villagers I am pretty tough, which is good, because appearing fearless is something I work hard at.

I know I am not fearless at night. I have a re-occurring dream of loss. Usually I don't know who I am losing or how, but the few times I have known, it has been one of my parents and once a little white cat, known as Angel Baby. I wake up with a weight on my chest and unable to breath, a few times my own crying has woken me up. The sense of loss is so real and debilitating that I wonder how I will go on- the depression so crushing. And I wonder what is wrong with me that a grown woman wakes up crying in the night about nothing but an illusive dream. It occurs so often that I wonder what I am actually losing. The loneliness leaves an empty zone inside me that is there all the time now. And I wonder as I go fearlessly through my village life, what will fill it?

When I am not numbed by depression and my complete lack of ability to do anything to change the lives of people in Tanzania, I feel angry. Not at anyone in particular, just in general. I think of that bumper sticker in America that says, "If you are not outraged than you are not paying attention." I feel too greatly. I inherited this from my mom, who makes big changes in the world with small acts of love. We can't watch violence, we hurt for people and animals- probably the main reason why my whole family is vegetarian. But I thought that unlike my mom, I had learned like the Holocaust Museum says "Thou Shall Bear Witness", I felt like I was getting pretty good at that. That is more my Dad's approach, who is sensitive but able to detach himself. In Tanzania, I thought I had achieved this. It sounds stupid, but the first time I separated myself from the chickens and realized this is a different life- it was a big deal. (I still don't eat them or watch them get slaughtered, but I understand that they will be.) Now I realize that most of the time without realizing it there is a weight on my shoulders. If you know me well, you know I am sort of addicted to news radio, NPR was part of my daily life in America and BBC is here. I listen every morning to how many bombs have gone off, how many people have AIDS/Malaria and other weird tropical ailments, who is fighting who, which dictator is killing their country, how many people died... and I think about those people. Not as numbers or strangers, but people with eyes and voices, their own thoughts and ideas, their own dreams uncompleted.

Yesterday a baby died. It came too soon. I held her. She lived for a few moments, eyelids like tissue paper and a small mouth. Then she left this world. I pictured her using her tiny shoulder blades, like a baby bird's wings, to fly away from us. I named her Lark as I felt her spirit soar away. And I cried over her, until Jessica (my village nurse) finally asked me if I had lost a child because I was crying like a woman who had. No, I tell her. Why can't they understand me!?! Finally I pick myself up off the ground and say in English, which no one there understands, "I want my mom." Lark has already flown, and I think, like her, I might also be too afraid, too fragile for this world.

Did anyone read September's? Is this a lame idea? I just read a lot.

October's book is written so uniquely, it is like poetry with beautiful descriptions and I loved it. It is "The God of Small Things" By Arundhati Roy.

Brief Plot Description:

The God of Small Things (1997) is a politically charged novel by Indian author Arundhati Roy. It is a story about the childhood experiences of a pair of fraternal twins who become victims of circumstance. The book is a description of how the small things in life build up, translate into people's behavior and affect their lives. The book won the Booker Prize in 1997.

September 26, 2009

"Just like a butterfly, I too, will awaken in my own time." -Deborah Chaskin

After Mid-Service Conference it is hard to believe that I will probably not be in Tanzania a year from now. Surprisingly, that scares me. When I return to America, I will have nothing, no money, no job, no house, no car and a few possessions... When I tell this to my Dad and say, "What should I do?" He says, "Play it by ear, some opportunity will present itself." This is one of the things I love about my parents- There are no "shoulds", "you have tos", or really direction of any kind besides, do what makes you happy. I remember fretting over my major in college and looking for my parents to direct me. There wasn't any direction besides pick something you are interested in and finish it. So my Humanities/Art History major with an ancient Greek life and culture emphasis, was not met with "What kind of job is that going to get you?" When I decided to go live in Africa for two years, there was no "Why would you do that?" When I was home and said that I was thinking about documentary film-making- they said, "That sounds interesting." It is not that my parents are uninterested in my choices, maybe it is that they know me so well that I can never surprise them. I just hope to become a parent like they are, where it is okay to let your child trip, stumble and sometimes fall, but to be their own person.

I have a million goals in this life, but none of them really lead to anything besides making my life more interesting. I found my "Life To Do List" in one of my old journals. I have added to it a bit, but thought I would post it to give me some direction. If you want to help or embark on any of these adventures then Karibu! (You are welcome to).

Brie's Life List:

-Visit every continent

-Hike the Pacific Crest Trail

-Join the Peace Corps (Joining was not the difficult part- 2 years in Tanzania is...)

-Get a Master's Degree

-Complete a Triathlon

-Write a book

-Learn how to rock climb

-Have a garden

-Sail around the Greek Islands

-Learn another language- Check. Not that my Kiswahili is entirely amazing, but it is as good as it is gonna get...

-Write family history/family tree

-Buy and use a kayak

-Learn how to knit and actually finish something

-Learn how to play the guitar

-Go on a long horseback adventure

-Have a child

-Learn about herbal medicine

-Live in the middle of nowhere/ live in the middle of somewhere (Former- check)

-Advocate for women/children and animal's rights

-Drive the East Coast- Canada to Florida

-Go on a yoga/health retreat

-Learn how to scuba dive

-Boat trip down the Amazon River

-Learn how to meditate

-Be less cluttered and messy (Yeah, right... Sorry, Mom.)

-Learn how to drive a motorcycle

-Make a Documentary Film

-Learn how to read Tarot Cards better

-Live as self-sufficiently as possible- grow own food, use minimal water/electricity, make soap and candles...

-Learn how to find happiness and contentment within myself no matter where I am or what I am doing.

-Tell people "I Love them" (Nawapenda) more often.

Does this add up to a job? I think not. Does this add up to a good life for me? I think so.

*This entry may be offensive to some people. I am sorry, but not that sorry, because it is my blog and you don't have to read it...

"For a long time it seemed to me that life was about to begin... But there was always some obstacle in the way, something to be gotten through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served, a debt to be paid. Then life would begin. At last it dawned on me that these obstacles were my life." -Alfred D. Souza

September 19-22, 2009

I spend 90% of this weekend pouting in my house, like a child. I had scheduled meetings with my village executive officer (VEO) and my village chairman (VC), so that we could arrange a schedule where I could talk to each of my six sub-villages about AIDS- What is it? How we can protect ourselves and why we are going to get tested. I am on some ridiculous sleep pattern where I can only sleep for about three hours then am awake for about six and then sleep for three again, so I spend a lot of "dark time" awake. So I spend these nights meticulously planning what I will teach in Swahili. Saturday morning is with my own sub-village- no one comes, not even late like usual, just no one comes. Juster says maybe it is the weather, cloudy and cold, but I am still annoyed. Sunday morning is with my furthest out sub-village. Juster doesn't even want to go because maybe no one will be there and then we will just be out in the middle of nowhere. I insist that we go- maybe this time will be different? We run into a woman from there while on our way. She tells us that no one is there for a meeting. I go home- I make a "depression bed" on my couch, prepare myself to only receive Katherine and Anna, because I am pissed at my entire village. I sit there and contemplate why in two days my entire village has decided that they hate me.

Finally, around two pm, I hear the motorcycle brigade pull up. I hear, Justice, William, Puce, and Osmond all yell "Hodi"- I yell at them to go away- as four of my best friends, and young men all my age who I have made my target audience for this presentation, their disloyalty hurts more than anything. William, the one who is always willing to put me in my place, yells "Open the door, Brie, you are being stupid." That pushes me over the edge so I fling the door opened prepared with my best glare. It turns into a half smile. You can't help but smile if you know these guys. Today they look like a Goodwill Store, meets the 1980s, meets Africa, as they fix me with goofy grins.

William: You wanna know what happened?

Me (Pissed): Yeah, what happened?

William: You met with the VEO and VC at the bar like usual right?

Me: Yeah, you know that is where all the government meetings are.

William: Who wrote down when you would go where, and I know you did, but which Tanzanian did?

Me: No one.

William: How much had you all had to drink?

Me: I didn't drink anything, no idea about them.

William: Brie, sorry. Wish I had been there to remember what they had told you. (William is the VEO's motorcycle driver because he is usually drunk, and apparently also his personal assistant if he has to keep track of all of his meetings.)

Puce: Everyone is at the bar, let's go, you can go yell at them then.

I do go but I walk into a huge conversation about feeling grateful to God because we were not handicapped this year, we have enough to eat, some money, we did not die like so many people, etc. This is proof of God's love and existence. Because I am still in a bad mood and feel like playing the devil's advocate (literally), I tell them that I think that this is proof of God's non-existence. If he loves us so much then why are some people hungry? Why was I born in America where you think life is perfect and you were left to struggle here? Why are there "haves" and "have-nots"? Clearly, no one in this bar has ever thought of that before. My PCV friend, Kate, once asked me on a long bus ride, "Don't you wonder what Tanzanians think about when they are just walking down the street?" The answer is clearly not what Brie thinks about. Eventually the bar conversation turns to Los Angeles, because they know that this is where Michael Jackson died. "Where in America is this place? You have been there! What is it like?" So I go to work explaining L.A. and say that the name is coming from Spanish. "Wait, but it is Canada that is below America?" No, Canada is above. "But Mexicans and Canadians are the same, right?" I find it surprisingly difficult to explain in Swahili their differences. Finally, Justice says, "But they are mostly the same." I am tired and it doesn't really matter, so I agree and laugh to myself.

My meeting is rescheduled for Tuesday after a chai meeting. This is good because a lot of people are there. This is bad because most of them are old men. However, they are really active in asking questions and interested. Juster, who is helping me, says it is good that they are there because they are wise and will spread the knowledge. Juster is a big help, until I get around to not being faithful to your wife or husband, then you need to be using condoms which you can get from me or the health center. Then Juster tells them that they should be faithful because the Pope is against condom use and it is not Christian to use them. Then she says to me in English, "Brie, you can't tell them to use condoms then everyone will just start having sex." I look at her like I want to kill her along with every missionary who brought their own religions into this country. And I wonder where this right-wing republican came from and how George W. Bush came to inhabit Juster's body. I tell her in English, "They are all already having sex! Open your eyes!" Luckily, before anyone can say anything, Mzee Ngoda stands up (Keeping his position as my favorite wizard along with Harry Potter,) and says, "But we are not really Catholic or Christian. We are Tanzanian. The Pope and the bible are against a lot of things we do. (Like beating your wife, I chime in.) I think that if we are to believe in God then we need to believe in a fair God, who understands our struggles and knows we need to protect ourselves and who we love." Finally, someone with some sense, an old man open to change- I could have kissed him. So I wonder to myself how many AIDS deaths the bible, the Pope, missionaries have been responsible for. How much brainwashing they have done, how many orphans and overpopulation they have caused by not opening their eyes to what Tanzanians really need. I feel ashamed for them. This "ever-loving God" that we should be so grateful to, I am sure would pity the stupidity of people who let a disease run rampant when we have a tool to stop it. You cannot change a culture, but you can slowly modify their behaviors.

Mama Johnson, over a week after being beaten

Jen

Jen- she is always wearing red or pink and usually together...

"when I was four years old, they tried to test my I.Q. they showed me a picture of 3 oranges and a pear they said, which one is different? it does not belong they taught me different is wrong but when I was 13 years old I woke up one morning thighs covered in blood like a war like a warning that I live in a breakable takeable body an ever-increasingly valuable body that a woman had come in the night to replace me deface me see, my body is borrowed yeah, I got it on loan for the time in between my mom and some maggots I don't need anyone to hold me I can hold my own I got highways for stretchmarks see where I've grown I sing sometimes like my life is at stake 'cause you're only as loud

as the noises you make I'm learning to laugh as hard as I can listen 'cause silence is violence in women and poor people if more people were screaming then I could relax but a good brain ain't diddley if you don't have the facts we live in a breakable takeable world an ever available possible world and we can make music like we can make do genius is in a back beat backseat to nothing if you're dancing especially something stupid like I.Q. for every lie I unlearn I learn something new I sing sometimes for the war that I fight 'cause every tool is a weapon - if you hold it right." -Ani DiFranco

September 12, 2009

"Life is full of suffering- and overcoming it." -Helen Keller

I have often said that I feel like I live in the middle ages. I walk around at night with a candle, I cook over a fire, I bathe rarely, I wear skirts, men run the world... It took an ugly turn this week when news got to me that Mama Johnson's face had been broken open. I was not sure what this exactly meant, but I finally got to see Mama Johnson and get the entire story. It should be said that I am an expert now at controlling my cringe/gag reflex. I am offered and shake filthy hands, or sometimes missing limbs, I watch facial sores full of pus, people who smell as if they are already half-way dead. I watch teeth rotting in people's heads, black or missing with breath like death. And I look sweetly back with big blue eyes, and smile understandingly with my straight, white American teeth. But I cringe when I see Mama Johnson's once beautiful face. The story goes that a drunk kijana (man between 18-30) came to her Cafe and was speaking offensively, when she asked him to leave he punched her hard enough that she hit the ground, so one side of the face is bruised, while the other side is broken open in three places from hitting the ground. Once she was on the ground he kicked her and it hurts her when she breaths. Finally some other village men saved her. The guy who did it then ran off into the bush. "What will happen to him when he gets back?" I ask. She tells me that because he is not her husband that he could be stoned. (That's right, stoned as in a public stoning...) Everyone who hears the story responds with how bad this is because he is not her husband. Finally, I ask the inevitable question, "What if he was her husband?" Every one looks at me like I am stupid and replies that then that is there business. So my new question to all the men I meet is, "Do you beat your wife?" I have asked about 50 men outright in my informal Brie-vey, and had not one yes answer. So I follow it up with, "Do a lot of men in Image beat their wives?" 100% of those questioned respond with yes... so clearly I am not getting the full picture. I did the only thing I could do for Mama Johnson- put antibiotic ointment on her wounds and told her I loved her.

Then I am greeted with more disturbing news. Both Jen and Juster are leaving Image. They are being transferred to other primary schools, Jen is going at the end of this month and Juster in December. I am not sure that I can convey this feeling of loss into words. No two women have been more impactful on my life outside of my family. No two women have loved me so unconditionally for no reason. They are my best friends. They are my family. They are the people who tell me everyday that I am a good person, that I am beautiful, that they love me. (When one is so far away and alone, this type of reinforcement cannot be underestimated.) They are the people who come in the morning to make sure that I am ok, who feed me when I am hungry, hold my hand when I am sick, who smooth my hair and speak English to me when I need a Kiswahili break... When they tell me, I cry. I can't help it. I can tell they feel horrible as they wipe tears from my face and tell me that they would never leave me but their fathers have requested transfers for them. Why? There is no opportunities in Image. I should know, but I ask anyways, "Opportunities for what?" Marriage. Juster says, "We are getting old, Brie, we must be married off soon." (She is 28) Jen sweetly says, "You are getting old too, isn't your father worried about your lack of opportunities here?" I laugh through my tears and try to picture my Dad calling Peace Corps and asking me to be relocated to a bigger village because of no marriage opportunities. But I tell them, "No, Americans believe in other opportunities. My Dad thinks that just living in Image is an opportunity." So I watch them prepare to sell their possessions, to pack up the sitting rooms that I have spent so much time in and I can't help but feel abandoned. Fathers attempting to marry off my Tanzanian sisters... I don't like it one bit.

If that didn't cap off a horrible Saturday than the four funerals I went to that day did. I paid respect to four bodies, their dark faces sleeping in make-shift coffins. I watched four villagers be lowered into the ground. Four times I listened to the women wail, men quietly singing hymns, someone drumming. Four times today I watched death. I still don't understand it. First an old man, his face lined with knowledge, next a baby in a casket barely larger than a shoebox, his face innocent to the harsh world. Then a small girl maybe eight years old with her black "protection" string still around her neck and dirt under her fingernails and I held it together. For the last funeral dusk was settling in. It was a mother who left behind five orphaned children. The oldest (maybe 12) had the youngest tied to her back. We trudged to the closest "cemetery" through a cornfield. I watched the five orphans drop a handful of dirt onto their mothers grave and i lost it. I retreated to the back of the cornfield and sat in the dirt, Anna, asleep on my back oblivious of the tears that I cried into my skirt. I cried for the orphaned children in my village. For orphans everywhere. I cried because people die, get sick and leave. I cried for my family and for people I don't know. I cried for all the woes of the world and because I am helpless in it. The next thing I knew the 2nd to youngest orphan girl was sitting next to me. I offered her my hand. She accepted it, dry-eyed. Maybe she doesn't understand. I held onto her hand but continued to cry into my lap. Eventually I looked up to find William standing there, who had apparently crossed the gender line when I went missing (women and men were standing separately, of course.) He has a quiet presence which I find comforting. We are exact opposites besides our age. He is educated through the seventh grade and is married with a child. We joke that he is my translator despite the face that he doesn't speak a word of English. Sometimes he just repeats what has been said with a different emphasis and I understand. Sometimes we don't talk at all and we just know. He doesn't ask me why I am crying. Instead he says, "I don't know what life is like in America, I am sure that their are problems, there are problems everywhere. You won't fix everything, Brie. Your heart is too big. This is our life. People die, people leave, people are sick and hurt, but somehow while we are alive, we stay happy. You are an African now, you need to learn how to hold your own hand." Just as I am about to object like a child and say "It is not fair!" The little orphan girl in rags puts my left hand into my right and clasps her own together. William gives and nod of approval and disappears back into the dark wailing masses. The little girls smiles up at me... little white teeth in the dark, like the stars that are starting to appear.

Juster and Jen are afraid of my tears and spend the night at my house. I sleep soundly between them and have an overwhelming presence of my own sisters, Shannon and Raeme. I wake up to them singing and playing with my hair.

"I will stay with you tonight, in case this corset gets too tight, and I will keep you company 'cause that's what a sister should be."

"Don't go too fast, but I go pretty far. For someone who don't drive I've been all around the world. Some people say I've done alright for a girl." - Brand New Key Lyrics

September 8, 2009

It is time for Standard Seven's exams again, which for me is entirely different than it was last year. Last year I was shocked at being placed separate from the women and with the men, last year I didn't even know all my own teacher's names. This year I am told to go to the Mwalimu Mkuu's home, where I spend hours with the women slaving away over the fires to cook for our guests who facilitate the exams. Anna is brought to me and sleeps on my back while I cut tomatoes. When it is finally time for us, "Women" to serve out guests and the male teachers, Mama Lau tells me to go in with the washing bowl and wash their hand but to not forget to kneel in front of them and bow down before I do it. Being Brie, I plan on rebellimg amd not kneeling, but I watch the women for a momment and see how eagerly they serve the men and I wonder if there should be more ways of showing respect in American culture. Not just women to men and children to adults but everyone to everyone.

So I kneel on the floor an avert my eyes to our male guests and my male teachers, exactly as I have been shown, like I should be embaressed for being a woman. When I get to Mwalimu Mwalango, (one of my good friends who is about my age), He says, "You should be standing, African Queen." This causes a lot of laughter. Jen and Mary started calling me African Queen after this stupid song on the radio where that is the chourus and now the villagers have picked up on it along with the teachers. They also call me "Baby". which is a little more fitting because I am pretty helpless with out them.

A new person came to our village this week. He is a Tanzanian man about my age. He told me he is an extension officer working on our chai production. I instinctively feel a bit jealous. In one day he knows more than I have learned in a year, and being an attention seeking Aries, I am worried that this guy is going to steal my show. I should not have worried. A Tanzanian man, even a guest, doesn't hold a candle to a white woman for mystique. I still run the Image show. It is funny to me how possesive I am over Tanzania and it's people. I would love to have American visitors, but I worry that they will not be able to see the hidden beauty that this place embodies. In so many ways Tanzania is mine- my sanctuary, my fear, my success, my failure, my love and at the heart of it is Image Village. Today, I was homesick. (That is right, even after a year here, I still get homesick.) In so many ways I have set myself up in a contradiction of interests. I love Oregon, it will forever be my home. But when I was there I longed for africa, for the adventure, for the freedom, for the unknown. For the sun blazing through my window in the morning as the village comes to life. Totally alone, but never really alone. Conflicting thoughts- my whole life I have wanted to get here, but here is sometimes hard, here is far- where will I be happy? I am a walking contradiction- the girl who is refined enough to wear red fingernail polish, but careless enough that it is always chipped. A woman who wants someone to love and support her, but prides herself on her independance and sense of adventure. A person who wants to make the world a better place, but who has no idea where her place is in it. But I guess for now, I can just be satisfied to have the place of 'Miss Image' and somehow becoming Tanzanian royalty.

"Whoa, We're half-way there, whoa, we're livin' on a prayer, so take my hand and we'll make it I swear, whoa, we're livin' on a prayer." -Bon Jovi and the unofficial song of our MSC

August 29- September 5, 2009

Highlights of MSC:

-Seeing my entire group for the first time since training.

-Getting my hair done by Masai men who then cut it with a Masai Knife and I watched them jump... awesome.

-Swimming in the Indian Ocean.

-Dance Beach Volleyball... The same as regular but you can't stop dancing.

-Korie's 25th B-Day party, both parts one and two: where we ended up taking over for the band...

-Trivia Night at Irish Pub where my excessive knowledge about Zorro finally paid off... Thanks, Dad :-)

-Kate and Brie's Date Night: We danced until dawn...

-Nights out with Greta, Kate and Teri...

-Trip to the Tanzanian dentist... enough said. Luckily did not have any cavaties.

-Being re-inspired by Peace Corps.

-Realizing that I am half-way through completing something that I have always wanted to do... nothing could be sweeter.

Me

Kate and I: Date Night

With slightly better faces on...

Trivia Team: Ralph, Kate (our Recorder), Greta and I

Korie's Birthday Party: Greta, Meesh and Korie... I think singing Cher here...

Teri and I

Ash, Great and I

Most people know that I am a crazy reader. I am going to guess that I read 12-15 books a month. Most Americans don't have much reading time, but I figured that every month I could post my favorite book for that month, because when you live alone in the middle of nowhere you have got a lot of time. I will post a book and a brief synopsis and if you read it than let me know what you thought. Sometimes the book might be old because we have limited book access. But the best book I read this month was....

"Learning to Breathe" By Alison Wright

Key Words- Photojournalism, Travel- Nepal, Thailand, Laos, India, Tibet, Tanzania, the Amazon and more, Buddhism, overcoming chronic pain, help to developing countries, meditation and natural medicine.

If you liked 'Eat, Pray, Love' than this book is way better. It has none of the chick flick qualities but is applicable to everyone. A fascinating true story about a female photojournalist who travels the world and her near death bus accident in Laos that lead her to re-evaluate her life and eventually climb Mount Kilimanjaro in Tanzania. A beautiful story about perseverance in the face of all odds, helping people around the world and finding peace within ones self. Highly recommended by me... Thanks, Mom, for the gift. I love you.

"I was born a rebel, Down in Dixie on a Sunday morning, Yeah with one foot in the grave, And one foot on the pedal, I was born a rebel." -Tom Petty

August 24, 2009

So I am what would be categorized as slightly overweight or what I prefer as "curvy". This is a body type that is considered ideal in E. Africa. But after a visit to America I could not shake the feeling that I was hoping to Punguza (reduce) a bit in Tanzania. So I try to explain this concept to Mama Lau, Mama Latifah, Juster, Mama Johnson, Jen, and Mary this morning when we are all having chai together. I explain that I am actually hoping to be attractive to Americans when I return (which dashes all their hopes that I will marry and live in Image forever). I try to explain my unrealistic goals of hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, learning to rock climb or (yikes!) competing in a triathlon. Mama Lau stops me here. She doesn't understand: Are you looking for food? What is the point? That seems like a lot of wasted energy for nothing... I try to explain athleticism... they don't really get it but finally agree to stop stuffing food down my throat at every possible minute. I also suggest that I want to start running. No village Tanzanians run unless there is a hurry or something to get away from. But since I am always the weird girl anyways I decide to start. Since I will get stares anyways, I think I will feel better with someone else, so I ask Jen because we are of similar size and I figure it might be more fun to do with someone else. Let's just say that I must have forgotten that this is the same woman who can dance for 5 hours straight, carry a sack of potatoes on her head uphill and be not even fazed, this is a Tanzanian woman who apparently even though we are the same size is solid muscle. The Brie/Jen running date practically killed me. Plus I felt like it was unfair to be trying to lose 50lbs. while she should not lose an inch to stay beautiful in this culture.

So I decide to start helping with the farming on a more regular basis. The farms are on the outskirts of the village so the walk is long and I even go with Anna on my back for added weight. I dig until Mary notices that my palms are bleeding and my legs are covered in thorns and tells me that no American would want me looking like that and forbids me to continue digging. So I try to exercise by running around like a little ivory fairy gathering the potatoes that are being dug up into sacks. I am still set on farming but Mama Latifah suggests that we have an all female dance party for exercise instead.

So that night under the thatched roof of Juster's house I am instructed on how to move my behind in ways that an exotic dancer could not even imagine. The women can move every body part independently and I am like their little apprentice. Finally Mama Johnson tells me that I better not lose any weight because I am perfect now and if I lose anything there will be nothing left to shake and I will dance poorly. So I am what I am... so much for the triathlon, because if I can shake it than I am in with the Tanzanians.

"When we walk to the edge of all light we have and take that first step into the darkness of the unknown we must believe one of two things will happen- There will be something solid to stand on.  Or, we will be taught how to fly."-Patrick Overton

August 22-23, 2009

Tonight is my first night back in my village since I returned from America.  Coincidentally, tonight as the sun sets, it is also my one year anniversary since coming to Image Village. This makes it impossible for me not to reflect on what one year ago today was like.  

First, let's look at what happened today.  I navigated the way to my village car with ease, complete with a supply of toilet paper, coffee and candles.  Hopped into the car and directed Stan, my driver, where to place my bags so that my bought items would not break.  Then Stan goes "So what did you bring?"  which is my cue to pull out bananas, oranges and passion fruit... Stan has brought sugar cane and pineapple cut into little pieces.  We look over our goods like fifth graders in the lunch room ready to share what our moms have packed us. This is our ride home tradition talking and bonding over our common love of fruit as we bump along.   Upon arriving to my house it is in tip-top shape with no break ins at all, which is sort of amazing since my entire village knew I was gone and for how long.  There is a welcome back party complete with villagers from a few months old to Mzee Ngoda.  I finally get to be alone and turn my house into my own romantic oasis, which I have learned to do every night to make myself happy, even though I am alone in the middle of nowhere.  I effortlessly build a fire in the fireplace, make soup, heat water for me to bathe with my favorite lavender soap, put my clothes into my wardrobe and light about 18 candles (although I have supposedly had electricity for months, in reality it has worked for maybe five nights.) I put on a Tom Petty cd and settle into the evening sounds of Image- children laughing, owls hooting, bugs chirping, something scurrying through my ceiling boards- rats? snakes? bats? lizards?  I don't know and I don't care as long as I can't see it.  Someone walks by singing in a foreign tongue.  And I think about a year ago- how these very same sounds terrified me.

I remember climbing into the car with Stan and being afraid.  unable to say more than a greeting to him and he generously slid some sugar cane across the seat, (which really started the whole tradition.)  When I got to Image no one was there to greet me, no one cared.  I think about how I couldn't build a fire, I didn't know how to get water to bathe, I had no furniture to set up, no candles and only a flashlight to shine into the dark recesses of my house at the spiders laying in wait.  I didn't eat.  Instead I curled into a ball on the cement floor and thought what have I done while I cried myself to sleep.  Who knew that only one year later my life would be like this?  My house would be this beautiful?  I would have a million Tanzanian friends?  And although today I love Image, they really gave me a sink of swim option, a fall or fly- and I am very glad that I CHOSE the latter.  And I must stress "chose" because being here was the hardest choice I have ever made, especially when the former could have been so easy to give up and go back to America.  A year ago I took a step into the unknown and even though I still have a lot of time left, today I feel like I am on the top of the mountain and can see the other side.  Next year at this time, I will officially be a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer after 27 months of service... It will feel good.

" 'Come to the edge'          'It is too high''Come to the edge'         'We might fall''Come to the edge'So they came, and they pushed and they flew..."

(PC's unofficial motto in my opinion... drop me off in a village alone with nothing and I'll show you...)

Dad and I

Wedding Day: Me, Mom and Raeme

Shannon and Erik's Wedding: Erik, Raeme, Shannon, me

"Life is the art of drawing without an eraser." -Unknown

August 21, 2009

So after almost a month in America, endless plane rides re-routing all through Europe, a twelve hour bus ride ride Dar es Salaam, I am finally back to Njombe. It is amazing how easily you forget things and as I climb off the plane the smell of Africa hits me and I get the feeling of home. It is impossible to describe things like this smell. But as I get into the Tanzanian residents line, somehow Swahili comes back to me, and I look out into Dar es Salaam and the sea of beautiful dark faces that stare into mine with an innocent curiosity and I remember why I love this country. The Njombe air hits me like ice as the cold wind blows over the Southern Highlands and I once again greet in Kibena and America feels like a dream. Less than a week ago, I was walking down Hawthorne, I was driving through the Dutch Brothers drive through, I was in a gown watching my sister get married... I saw people I love, people I have known my whole life who remind me of where I come from, which is important. For some reason it is easy to get caught up in who this "African Brie" is, and being in America, being with friends and family reminded me that I can be as tough as I want, I can be as "African" as I can be, but at the heart of it, I will never be a Tanzanian. I will never understand why men are allowed to beat their wives, why children do all the work, why nothing runs on time, at the real heart of it, I will never really understand Swahili and Bena, my skin will never be a beautiful chocolate color and I will never be able to think that the fatter you are the more beautiful you are. At the real depth of it, I am only a white girl from West Linn, Oregon. I am an American. No matter what I do, I will never be Tanzanian. I love this country. I love these people but going home reminded me where I belong. Tanzania has changed my life. I will never be the same. This country's people will be important to me for as long as I live and will always be intertwined into my life no matter what I do. So today as I head back to my village, which happens to be the year anniversary of when I first moved into Image Village. I realize, how far I have come. And I return with love in my heart for my Image family, my African house and my annoying little cat. I remember a year ago today, the fear I felt, the loneliness... the unknown. Now I get to go back knowing. So "Brie's Tanzanian Vision Quest" continues as I begin my second year, living alone in the middle of nowhere, with people who have a culture and a language that are not my own, experiencing a life that most Americans wouldn't choose. But somehow, today, I feel at peace with it. Secretly, I know, I was always meant to do this, to put myself through this. And when you are following what you are supposed to be doing your heart is always at peace. Whatever happens will happen.

"Although I've travelled far, I always hold a place for you in my heart. If you think of me, if you miss me once in a while, than I'll return to you, I'll return and fill that place in your heart."

July 24, 2009

This is going to be my last blog entry for a while. I am boarding a plane in a few days for America. This is pretty surreal.

Yesterday I had to say good-bye to my village. I am still processing in my head what happened. Margaret came to my site to visit me. Around two pm the village government came to my house to tell me that today is Siku Kuu Kwa Brie (A Holiday for Brie). The entire village government, my friends, my teachers were all gathered. There was drumming, dancing, and even a song where the main chorus was "Tunakupenda Brie Kwa Kweli" (We love you, Brie, truly.) I was pretty much in shock this whole time. Almost everyone made a speech telling me how much thy love me, greeting my family in America, and wishing me a safe journey. They have a strong fear I will not return. I made a tearful speech thanking them for becoming my family. They wrapped me in traditional cloth which later I used to carry Anna on my back while we danced. Food had been made and decorations put up, including a sign that said "Brie Fill at Home" They meant "Feel". I am not sure anyone has ever done anything more touching for me. The party continued at the bar and the whole time I was just in shock at why they love me so much and why I love them so much. Why they now are everything to me. I can barely speak to them, I am helpless, spoiled and different. Yet somehow watching the faces of the people I have known for only a year, I felt afraid to leave the security of them, my beautiful loving African family who somehow, despite the fact that everyday I miss my American family, stole a place in my heart.

"Make altruism and giving part of your life, and be purposeful about it. Researcher Stephan Post says helping a neighbor, volunteering, or donating goods and services results in a "helper's high" and you get more health benefits than you would from exercise or quitting smoking. Researcher Elizabeth Dunn found that those who spend money on others reported much greater happiness than those who spend it on themselves."

-Psychology Magazine, on the key to happiness

I realize that right now America is going through a financial crisis and most people are struggling with money. Our economic problems have been difficult to explain to Africans. There is no need to feel guilty over their lack. Tanzanians are happy people and used to their lives. However, I am here to try to help my own little Tanzanian village who is in great need. Despite your feeling of having nothing I would encourage you to think about what you do really have that you could offer. Tanzanians are special people and worth helping- please read my blog or email me with questions- brienneblacklidge@gmail.com.

Here is what you could do:

1) I need MONEY- if everyone I know just gave $5, Image Village would be completely transformed. The money is primarily going to build a latrine for the primary school girls. Inside will be girls empowerment messages, AIDS education messages and a sign with those peoples names who donated for the project. Also needed is funds to do AIDS testing, bee-keeping training, etc. If you, or your business or someone you know can give money please do! I can supply you with picture and statements of where your funds went.

2) I need CONDOMS- Anyone working in the health sector that could supply me with some free condoms would be great.

3) I need a NIKE CONNECTION- Mercy Corps partners with Nike to do AIDS education through soccer in Sudan. I want to copy this program on a smaller scale. We already have six teams of young boys and fields but we have no balls. Village women will be able to sell their goods at the games. Do you have a connection with Nike where I could receive balls for free or a discounted price? (I went to UofO, am from PDX, worked for Mercy Corps, am working in Africa... I think Phil Knight should help me out a little bit... don't you?) Any other sports gear would also be appreciated.

4) Any small inexpensive toys: Stickers, jump ropes, little cars, plastic jewelry, pencils, etc- gifts and prizes for children. Nothing too nice or high tech. Remember they have next to nothing.

Please email me if you are interested in helping Image Village in any capacity (monetary is preferred) There is also a village video, not posted online for my own privacy. Get your children involved! Giving is something that should be instilled in us all.

Thank you for your generosity,

Brie and Image Village

Beauty tips from Audrey Hepburn- My Favorite: " Remember if you ever need a helping hand you'll find one at the end of each of your arms. As you grow older you will discover that you have two hands, one for helping yourself and one for helping others."

July 18-23, 2009

I have become the village "rescue rat". Catherine gets so sick, with a fever the villagers think she might die. I am frantic. I sit at her bedside with a "My Little Pony" coloring book and crayons. I try to convince the teachers to let me sleep next to her but they are afraid for my own health and say I have been in her sick room too much already. She doesn't die. She has now regained a lot of her health and is now out of bed.

The teacher's are really busy this week so I spend a lot of time with William who has become my "security blanket" since the event with Martin. We are almost inseparable as I understand his Swahili and he somehow understands mine. Sometimes I forget that we are so different. That he is Tanzanian, speaks no English, has just finished primary school, is married and has a five year old son. Finding him was like finding a long lost friend I have known my whole life and we communicate with no problem, which surprises me. I find out that his son is handicapped and he will have no more children, His love for his son only endears him to me more. Also the fact that he will drop anything to help me. My door wouldn't lock and I kept forgetting to tell anyone. So for about a week my front door wasn't locked. I finally told William who was furious that I had been sleeping in the house alone with an unlocked front door. Within two hours I had a new door.

I sit at the bar and watch him fix his motorcycle and am reminded of my high school days where I used to watch Rian fix whatever broken down car he own. William is inventive using a screwdriver for everything. He pulls up a chair for me, buys me a soda, motions toward the rest of the guys and says "Okay, Brie, Tell them about condoms." We play checkers, they play slightly differently, but me, with my competitive, show-off, Aries personality says "Okay, whoever wins has to buy the other one a beer." Turns out, William is really good at checkers... Brie not so good. I think I owe him about five beers, I am yet to win one.

It is beauty week in the village. Jen wants to know why my eyebrows look so good. I tell her about tweezers, she thinks it is a weird idea but wants me to try to on her. So I spend about an hour plucking her eyebrows. Suddenly, I am in demand. I think I plucked about ten African women's eyebrows this week (not really my plan for my PC service, but things don't always go as planned.) They look through my people magazines to find the shape they want. (Beyonce was most in demand.) I tell them about waxing, which totally freaks them out and I teach them about tampons which is a very foreign idea. They are confused by why I wash my hair instead of add oil to it and I try to explain American hair... They all paint their nails with my nail polish. The whole exchange sort of cracks me up... Does PC service lead to beauty school?!?

"She's so far gone she feels just like a fool. My, oh my, you sure know how to arrange things. You set it up so well so carefully. Ain't it funny how your new life didn't change things? You're still the same old girl you used to be."

-The Eagles

I should have known that it might be a rough day when I drew "Courage" as my angel card. I was at my house cooking rice and a student came to tell me that the Mwalimu Mkuu has requested me to come to the school and supervise the water hauling... Great. I am only there for a few minutes when some students come up to me with one bleeding profusely from his head. I recognize him from my standard 6 class. The bleeding boy lips quiver and tears catch in his long black lashes, while he is trying to keep blood out of his face and off his school uniform (They are expensive.) Tanzanians as a general rule don't cry, and he is trying his best. I still don't really understand what happened but apparently he fell while playing. There is blood everywhere, the grass is red instead of green and my stomach turns over as I remember that I am not cut out for this. He tells me his name is Martin and he is not sure how old he is but he thinks around 11 (This is normal in Africa). I briefly picture my little brothers as I rip fabric from my skirt to attempt to stop the bleeding. I send the students to find another teacher and when Mwalimu Simon arrives I run to my house for my PC medical kit which is almost exhausted from Puce's motorcycle accident. I arm my self with gloves, antiseptic, and pads to compress his head. When I return M. Simon tells me I need to use a razor blade to cut his hair around the gash. All the children already have shaved heads but the little hair that is there I am supposed to cut. I put n the gloves and attempt not to vomit as I hold a razor blade to his head. I should say here that this much blood sort of freaks me out and I am not a calm person in emergencies. After his hair cutting I take him to our dispensary and send students to find his parents. Jessica, our nurse, tells me she cannot sew it up but I am welcome to do t myself with a needle if I want. This idea is so barbaric that resist puking again. I panic- "What do we do!?!" I say, "This boy need medical attention!" Finally his mom shows up and says "Bahati mbaya" (Bad luck) and that it is in God's hands now, because she cannot afford to take him to the other closest dispensary to get stitches (15 K away). No offense to God, but it is in Brie's hands. I find myself picturing my sweet parents rushing my brothers to the emergency room to have their chins sewn up (multiple times), and for a second I hate my villagers. I hate our poverty, I hate our belief that we are helpless and everything is only in the hands of God, I hate that we let a child suffer.

I am crying at this point and telling them that I will get this boy to the hospital if i have to carry him on my back and walk every step of the way. Luckily, this is not what i have to do. The next thing I know William (One of my Vijana-men between the ages of 17 and 30- guys) is at my side. He takes me around the corner of the dispensary, where I continue to cry and panic from the stress of it all. He puts his hands on my shoulders and for a second I think he is going to hit me, which would be culturally acceptable except that I am white and not his wife so I think our village would be pissed. Instead he takes me by both shoulders and tells me to pull it together, and don't I know that children die here everyday, me freaking out is only scaring this kid. He too says it is just in God's hands. I tell him no and in a very Scarlett O'Hara-ish moment, throw a huge fit about how we are going to the hospital right now and he is going to take us there. (William can drive a car.) I tell him I will pay whatever price. I am snobby ordering one of my best friends around. But William says, "Brie, why are you doing this? You don't know him, you don't know his parents. Just let it go." I continue my fit that I will absolutely not let it go and if he doesn't drive me this very minute... and I let him have it. Half our village has gathered at this point to watch me order a 28 year old man around, but finally he consents. He make sit very clear to me that he is doing it for me- sweet William, he has not given up hope that I might give birth to his children. I love Obama, but he has given every Tanzanian man the idea that he can father the next one.

I quickly run home, grab some money, my coat, a coat for the boy, more pads to soak up the blood, some bananas for him to eat and some shiny dinosaur stickers from America which he gladly decorates his arm with. The road is rough and I hold Martin's hand and we bounce along. William drives carefully and works to keep both Martin and I calm. We arrive to see the hospital is closed and so I freak out. William somehow handles all f it and soon someone is there to stitch the boy up. The nurse says to William "Your wife is very upset, please take her to the waiting room." For the first time all three of us laugh to be mistaken as a family, for we are a motley crew, and I am pretty sure that Martin would be a little whiter... I want to stay in the room and hold Martin's hand but William tells me he needs to handle it on his own he is a big boy.

One of the biggest rewards is n the waiting room William says, "That is the kindest thing I have ever seen anyone do for anyone else. Why?" And I cannot put it into words in Swahili so I just say "Because I love our people." I cannot add passionately, possessively, with complete recklessness- They have given me everything when they have nothing. He says, "You are the first American I have ever seen, and if they are all like you, your country must have the most beautiful people in the world." I am not the best PCV, I have reached almost none of our development goals, but as for the cultural exchange and representing Americans to people all over the world. I think maybe I have achieved it in my small corner of Tanzania. Martin's stitches are finished and I pay. The total of stitches, antibiotics and gas to get there comes to less than $9, but I am the only one who would have paid for it. The next morning I wash the boys white shirt of his uniform which has become red from all the blood stains. I figure I am the only one in my village who owns bleach, so bleach it and sew back on a pocket.

The next morning Juster comes to my house and tells me that the whole village is talking about it... Great. Now I am going to have to pay for every injury. But she says, 'No, it is because you went so far out of your way. You spent an entire day helping that boy. You made it happen with your money, with your connections, with power, with love. Today the villagers are thanking God for you." I sarcastically says, "That is funny, I have done nothing here really." She says, "You still don't get it do you? Everyday you live here some one's life is changed. You affected that boy's life forever. You think he is every going to forget you? Brie, he will remember you as long as he lives."

"My friends from high school married their high school boyfriends, moved into houses in the same zip codes that their parents lived but I, No, I could never follow... I've been a long time gone now, maybe someday, someday, I'm gonna settle down., but I've always found my way somehow by takin' the long way, Takin' the long way around."

-Dixie Chicks

July 6-13, 2009

I return to my village from Morogoro. I get multiple texts from PCVs about being robbed. I walk to my front door, expecting the worst. Instead there are three baskets: one is full of groundnuts for roasting, one is full of fresh eggs, one is full of maize to grind into ugali flour. Then there is a bunch of bananas straight from the Jungle Book cut right out of the tree. I am not sure how many bananas my village thinks I can eat but apparently about one hundred. I guess it was clear I was not robbed. I see Justice early on who tells me how much they all missed me and that the second day I was gone they were all so bored. So it was nice to be missed. Anna runs to me clapping her hands and giggling. I was only gone a week but they were clearly happy for my return.

Setting the Scene: Primary School garden area

Me: Surrounded by 900 dirty little kids, in my brand new skirt sitting in the dirt. My long (fake) blonde (fake) braids swing into my eyes. My red nail polish is caked in dirt as I stuff plastic tubes with dirt along with the students. So that we can plant trees in them in a few days.

Jen: Sitting in a chair her dark hair braided in cornrows (real), holding her stick to beat the students. She has on her high heels and cute little skirt. She smiles sweetly at me and shows off her one dimple. (We actually look not so different for being entirely different. The M. Mkuu has started calling me Jen Marekani and her Brie Tanzania.) The other teachers sit is various other places around the garden holding sticks and talking while the children and I work.

I tell Jen about my morning and how it sucked: first I chased Siyafu out of my house, then I scraped rat guts off my floor (thanks Kimulimuli... maybe you can eat all of it the next time), then I had to haul wood to make a fire tonight (it is freezing here now,) then I re-arranged my guest room....

(Conversation in English)

Jen: Brie, your family is going to be very surprised. You are not very soft anymore. (Unfortunately, she is not talking about my body). It is not good, you are turning into a village woman. You should stay soft.

Me: I live alone, I have work to do. I have to work.

Jen: You still are the most beautiful woman in our village and look like a princess (being white and fat here are valued traits), but you should not be working in the dirt with the children. You should stay soft. Your bride price will go down. Your father is going to be very disappointed.

Me: There isn't a bride price in America. No one is going to pay to marry me, my father is not going to be disappointed if he doesn't receive any cows. As long as the students are working there is no point in just sitting there I can work with them together. (Fundamental cultural difference: Tanzanians view children as lower class, they do not nurture individuality or Independence in children.)

Jen: Brie, your family is going to be disappointed with us. We are supposed to have taken care of you and you are dirty and fierce now. They will be surprised that you will not be well-behaved.

(Here I laugh to myself: not being well-behaved is one thing that I don't think will surprise my family. And I think of my Bami who reminds me- well- behaved women rarely make history.)

So for two day I make a point of working side by side with the students. The teachers tell me I will not be respected if this is what I do. The next day 18 students show up at my house to haul water and firewood for me. I have not asked them to do this none of the teachers asked them to do this. When Mwalimu mledwa questions why they came on their own accord they shyly remain silent, until one boy finally bravely says: "Because she is our friend."... Ha! I think I won that one! Not respecting me, whatever.

I got too involved in a domestic dispute which we are not supposed to do. Wither (Justice's daughter) was really sick. She is only a baby and Mama Wither came to me and told me that she was scared. I immediately offered up the money for a hospital bill but she said that wasn't the problem. It is that she asked Justice for the money and he said no. So I do what I know I should not and step into it. That night he is drinking at the bar with all of us and I say- hey, I think you are a good person and a pretty good husband but you need to give your wife some money and care for your baby. He agrees. But then the next day she tells me that he was really mad that she told me their business. Sometimes it is hard not to step in and with them when I am friends with the whole family it is even more difficult. Wither ended up going to the hospital and now is feeling a bit better.

Margaret (PCV/Friend) attempting to get a man to use a condom through a theatrical approach

June 29- July 3, 2009 So the internet has been down, so no blog updates in a while. But went to Morogoro with fourteen other PCVs and our counterparts for a week on training on how to use community theatre approach to teach about AIDS. It was interesting and I think will be very useful, particularly in Image, where people find it difficult to discuss the issues. We had a theatre group come into train us about how to bring an interactive approach to our communities. One of the more exciting things that happened in Morogoro was when my friends, Ashleigh, Catherine, Brianna, Sarah, and I were eating dinner at a restuarant and approached to be in a music video they were filming. So turns out the five of us danced awkwardly, I might add, in a Tanzanian music video that is due to play on Tv here this month. I can only hope that my village gets to watch it.

The other really exciting thing was that Teri (another PCV) and I spent about four hours enduring the pain of having fake hair braided into our real hair at a saloon. Picture Below:

Teri and I

June 2009

Not a great picture... but one of the holes in my toe from the egg sack. The top behind the nail is the other hole but difficult to photograph both.

Me... Sick, and wishing that my villagers with the best of intentions would just leave me alone.

Trying to scare Anna with my farm hands.

Farmer Brie... Looking a bit like a pirate armed with a jembe (hoe)...

Farm Hands... What you can't see is the blood. The villagers think it is hilarious that I farm fully decked out in jewelry, they obviously don't know me well enough yet...

So Tough...

Farm feet... Glamorous as usual...

A monster... Otherwise known as my cat, Kimulimuli

Night in Africa