Jen has added more pictures!

SO many pictures that she had to open a new album for the overflow!

Thursday, February 24, 2011 8:34pm

Today I had 6 mangoes for dinner. I didn’t feel like cooking, and mangoes are delicious.

Yesterday I went into the Masai Steppe, just over the mountain and down the road a bit from my village, to a Masai Village whose name I could not even begin to spell because it is in their language. I went with some sisters (the Catholic kind) from an NGO called Grail. They appear to do all sorts of wonderful work (as well as spreading Catholicism in an interestingly competitive environment with the Lutherans) including helping fund infrastructure of water and schools, as well as IGAs (income generating activitys), and health and community development projects.

We went in their truck (it’s always such a luxury to be in a car and have a whole seat to myself!) and appeared to randomly make our way through the brush and scrub until we miraculously found our way to a GIANT boabab tree (Swahili Mbuyu, Kipare – Hemramba) If the name doesn’t ring a bell, it’s one of those giant trees that have a huge trunk and are often considered symbolic of Africa. Apparently, out here in the steppe – which is a flat expanse of red dirt littered with thorny bushes of all different sizes and types of thorn, each village manages to have at least one boabab under which all it’s meetings are held. This is a helpful source of shade in the otherwise unbearable sun.

The Masai are one of the last tribes in Africa that maintain completely their separate tribal identity as well as their traditional ancestral culture. There are many modern conveniences that they adopt without hesitation, including cellphones and modern transportation. One thing that they have decidedly not changed is their dress, which consists of draped fabric in the colors of blue and red and some shades there within, sometimes also including orange (on top – in the shirt area) and purple (on the bottom – in the pants/skirt area) and patterns generally staying within a checkered or blocked print. I very commonly find myself squished next to a masai on a daladala who is draped in their traditional dress and carrying a staff (they are all traditionally cow herders) while talking on their cellphone. (they smell very strongly of milk, because cow milk and cow meat are their primary foods, and historically they ate very little else) It is an interesting mixture of traditional lifestyle and modern convenience.

But to return to the Boabab tree. The lesson for today is actually a review of information that has been discussed in the past. The sisters have been working in this village for 12 years now. Their PRIMARY goal is to stop FGM (female genital mutilation, Kiswahili – ukeketaje). At the moment, every single girl in the tribe is cut (per se, mutilated) ritually around the age of 3 – 5 years. The villagers who have gathered for the meeting, a mixture of young women and their babies (every single one had a baby on their boob) and elder men (no male youth) easily put together a list of the dangers associated with FGM. But they were able to put together an even more comprehensive list of why it was continued.

This list included: It’s a reason for relatives to get together to eat and have a party.

It was actually one of the first things mentioned.

The list becomes more confusing and harrowing as you continue. Things like, if the girl is not cut she will never turn into a women (ie – go through puberty) Her child will be born still-born. Etc. Etc.

Looking out over that field of faces, 90% of the meeting was women, I know every one of them had been cut in this harrowing ritual where they are beat if they cry out in pain.

It makes you wonder. Shudder in horror, and confusion. Why?

I look at the little babies feeding at their mother’s breasts. They look like normal healthy babies, happy, laughing, cranky, crying, squirming, crawling babylike babies. But then I look into the eyes of those mothers, tired and shy, subdued, resigned.

It is still practiced in Masai culture, if a man who has wealth passes by a pregnant woman whose unborn child is known to be female (how they know I am not sure) he can claim that child to be his wife. When she is 12 (that’s twelve – I didn’t mistype) she will go to live with her husband (who is now, mind you, 12 years older than he was when he claimed her and also already has a few other wives). It is supposed to be so he can ‘look after her upbringing and take care of her’ but as I am told by both the Masai women and the catholic sisters, many of them are pregnant by 14.

Sitting, standing, huddled in small circles of friends you can see their figures are somehow slightly deformed, by their diet primarily of milk (usually only the men have the privilege of eating meat) they are tall and thin, slightly sunken from a lifetime of malnutrition.

Of the group 45 who gathered for the meeting, only 4 could write their name, none of them women.

For twelve years the sisters have been coming. They brought a company who drilled a groundwater well to provide safe drinking water for the village. They helped build a classroom when the school was built, they brought in a machine that mills corn into flour, and built a building where a womens’ group started up a small store. The also started up a preschool which finally fell apart due to lack of attendance as well as an adult education school teaching reading and writing and Kiswahili (many of the villagers, primarily the women, know only kimasai – the language of the masai- which is a beautiful lyrical sound which I don’t even know if I could make come from my mouth if I tried. It is not Bantu (as Kiswahili and Kipare are) and therefore even Tanzanians find it difficult to grasp)

The adult education program was stopped as well due to lack of attendance.

It is difficult to know what to do in this situation. The Masai have been forced for the most part into a more sedentary lifestyle (they are traditionally nomads as they tend their herds of cows) by the TZ government in order that their children receive a primary education which is mandatory by law for every able child (disabled children can go to school until it is decided they aren’t keeping up or learning anymore and then they are just returned home. There are special schools in the cities but they are not government and therefore cost money, not to mention transportation, and are therefore generally inaccessible.)

The Masai have been taught to farm – which is a new and uncomfortable work for them. Sadly, in our area the farming education was brought in around the same time the rains began to fail and the Masai have all but given up on this labor intensive project that they see very little if any profit from. I have been told that it has, at least, improved their diets by bringing in corn and beans as more acceptable foods in their diet, to the point that they now purchase corn flour (to make ugali) in the markets.

Who are we to tell them to change?

Do they want to change?

Are they HAPPY?

What is HAPPY anyway?

The mothers/women are the ones who are receptive to the education. They have tried to change the diets of their children, they send their children to school, and they go to church. According to the sisters, the church is full of women every Sunday, and about 3 men sit at the side. Generally the men are not receptive at all of changes to the traditional Masai life.

Even at the meeting the only men who came were a few elders, who sat in the back and barely spoke up – unless directly asked questions and even then preferred silence.

At the end I stood up and gave a little talk, something that you become used to after awhile because it is asked of you at pretty much any event, funerals, weddings, government meetings, graduations, you name it – I have given a short talk at it.

And after I sat down they presented me with a beautiful gift – a beaded cross necklace (msalaba) decorated in the traditional masai fashion. (pictures will be posted when I get up to Moshi again)

They want me to come again, to teach them something, and I wrack my brains for what to teach them. My little talk was about change, because the world around them is changing, the weather in particular, their herds are dying and their wealth is shrinking rapidly (as their herds are their only source of wealth) I talked about how in the past there were no cars and we walked to get places, but now we use cars and we can get even farther, see more places, meet different people, etc. And in the past to send messages you sent by word of mouth, person to person, until it reached its’ destination (as they don’t write much, they don’t send letters) now they can speak directly to the person using a phone.

What I WANT to teach about is gender roles. Do an exercise which labels each activity with a gender than discusses whether the other gender is ABLE to to it (could do it) and then discuss whether they SHOULD do it – and why. It opens up dialogue, sets things moving in peoples’ heads. Because it wouldn’t work to go straight in and say men should help women do laundry, wash dishes, and bath the children. But to allow people to realize that both sexes are ABLE to do the labor, along with comparing the burden of labor the mothers carry versus the fathers, it can begin the wheels that will eventually lead them to change.

But some part of me really wonders if this tribe has held so tightly and dear to their traditions for so long, many of which I find abhorable, although many more I find fascinating and beautiful, whether it really is my place to stick my head in and change them. Create them in my image?

They are some interesting catholic-masai culture now.

They believe in God and Jesus and the earth and their cows. But not in that order.

Sunday, February 27, 2011 11:39am

I have had a lot more time to think about the Masai culture, as I continue my insanely busy schedule.

I have come to this conclusion:

Life in Africa is hard. There is physical and emotional pain. There is death. There is violence and corruption. There are limited resources and an ever growing population.

The Masai culture has adapted, if not embraced, that undeniable truth and created a system of rituals to harden their tribe members in order to survive, if not thrive, in this difficult environment.

From the age of a young child there is ritual branding. This is pain, you will feel pain in your life, it is like this. When a baby, or child, or adult is very sick, some Masai tribes still practice the ritual of leaving the sick person far out in the steppe to die. Death happens. Accept it, you will die, I will die, we will all die.

It is an unforgiving culture. It is a culture bent of survival. Some tribes still regularly steal cattle from neighboring villages. I have met people who have been badly injured by Masai for trying to protect their crops from being grazed by Masai cattle, or to try to protect their cattle from being stolen. Historically, most tribes in Tanzania were driven into the mountains by the Masai after many years of battle and suffering. The Wapare (or the Pare mountains were I live) and the Wasambaa (of the Usambara mountains south of me) were driven into the mountains many many years ago by the masai. The Masai prefer the flat land of the steppe to graze their cattle.

There are many practices that still don’t make any sense at all to me. Their diet does not provide them health or strength but they continue to primarily subsist on cow’s milk. They have access to modern medicines as well as education on disease prevention (most pointedly mosquito nets) but do not embrace these changes.

I do not know what makes cars and cellphones ok, but food and medicine not.

Maybe I will be able to learn more when I visit them again.

Saturday February 19, 2011 5:37pm

I’ve had a lot of tired days recently. Missing home. Pushing to try to get projects done, wishing I had the ability to do more, and wishing even more I had even one single day to rest.

In these days since I last wrote I received the ok for an additional grant to complete my rainwater catchment tank project – which is fantastic and very unusual. I am pretty sure it’s the first project which has received a ‘budget extension’ as I am calling it, in the history of PC Tanzania. (usually the rule of thumb is get it right the first time and if you screw up – it’s up to the villagers to pick up the slack, which is sortof silly, but I think is to prevent corruption which is such a big problem here in TZ) It is amazing that I got mine passed. I wish I could extend it even more. Build even more rainwater catchment tanks, help even more families obtain access to safe clean water.

But there is only so much one person can do. I was told a few days ago in another meeting that there are only 450 households in this village. Can’t I build each household a tank?

I wish I could.

But for now we’re building 21. 21 3,000 liter tanks. 13 of them have already been completed. They are working as fast as they can to get them all completed before the rainy season comes in full. We just got our first big rain a few days ago which was a blessing because the water in the spring that supplies 3 of 6 subvillages (including mine) had gone dry. Dry meaning no water. No water for almost a week. The 2 subvillages on either side of mine went for about 3 weeks without water, because the water reaches my subvillage first (we’re higher in the mountains) then goes down to the other 2. They were all coming to my subvillage to get water.

What do you do when you have no water? First you don’t bathe (a few swipes with a wet washcloth a day gets it done). Then you stop doing any house cleaning. Can’t really do laundry. You try not to dirty dishes as to have to clean them. But then I am single, I live alone. You can’t not bathe children. You can’t not wash their clothes, especially in a country that has no diapers.

I wrote a proposal to get a groundwater well dug that would be enough for the 3 subvillages that are hardest hit. I took it to Rotary (we have a Rotary Club in Same! Amazing I know!!!!) and they sent it to 2 clubs in the US to hopefully get funding. (IF YOU KNOW ANYONE IN A ROTARY CLUB PLEASE LET ME KNOW – OR ANY OTHER GROUP THAT WOULD HAVE THE AVAILABILITY OF FUNDS TO DIG A GROUNDWATER WELL!!) But it’s an expensive project. And I would want to be here when it is carried out because of the above mentioned corruption that is so prevalent here in Tanzania. So many donors give money that disappears before it reaches the intended beneficiaries. I would say easily 60% of aid doesn’t reach the people. So if a donor was found I would extend my time here long enough to see the project through to completion.

This one big rain that we had the other night also filled to at least half capacity the rainwater catchment tanks that have been completed. The households who were lucky enough to be amongst the first to receive tanks are still using water from one big rainstorm the first week of January. (It hasn’t rained, or even drizzled, or been damp, foggy, muggy, or anything hinting at water in the atmosphere since that first week of January and that was the first rain since the beginning of November)

We are getting huge rainstorms where the whole sky drops and the paths flood and the landscape is carved away once every 2 or three months instead of an actual rainy season in which every day or so it rains and crops can grow and mature. This is global warming. But I digress.

I mentioned before that I have been tired and homesick lately. Mainly just missing the comfort of people that I am familiar with. I miss talking about art. I miss talking about news. I miss talking about all the things that Americans talk about which are NOT the things that Tanzanians talk about. I miss sitting around and chatting and laughing and being with the people I love. I miss you guys.

So today I woke up early to do my laundry before going to my PLWHA Group meeting. I put my Ipod on it’s happy little speaker and put it on a book on tape – The Art of Happiness by The Dalai Lama. I have listened to it over and over and over hoping it would sink in and I would therefore learn to be happy. But you know when you listen to books on tape like this your mind wanders and you find you haven’t been listening for fifteen minutes and someone’s knocking on your door so you turn it off and go to make some tea.

But today I got lucky and the tiny moment I happened to be actually paying attention the author asks the Dalai Lama about loneliness. The Dalai Lama replies that he doesn’t ever feel lonely because he approaches all people with the same openness, seeing every person as wanting to feel accepted and having the same needs and wants as he (I am quoting this badly so I’ll let you guys use your google to get the right quote, as searching in an audiobook isn’t exactly . . . userfriendly.)

And either by luck or by having this thought bouncing around in the back of my head I was able to have a wonderful conversation with a good friend of mine for a few hours in which we talked about – The internet (even though he has never touched a computer) Internet sales (he was flabbergasted) and then drawing into talking about my art, talking about the project that I wanted to do here in Tanzania, why I hadn’t done it yet, what I was afraid of happening, and what my goals would be to do with it. And he understood (with patient explaining) and said he’d help me do it!

It would be amazing. And he’d be the person who’d really be able to understand. He is a member of the Muhama Group (the ones who are building the rainwater tanks) He finished 7th grade with great grades but couldn’t go on to secondary school because there weren’t any close by when he finished – there was only one in the whole district and his parents couldn’t afford to send him to boarding. But he’s a smart guy and he’s determined to keep learning. He’s more intuitive and ‘worldly’ than most others in the village, either by luck of experience or by his curiosity of the world and drive to keep learning.

Amusingly I have gotten to the point of explaining things to Tanzanians where I simplify the topic as much as I possibly can and then I explain it over and over in different ways until I get it. This can sometimes take a very long time as the concepts are very foreign to them. With this fellow when I start the second round he’s like ‘ok I got you, no need to repeat yourself!’

Anyways I have been rambling on for awhile now and I should go and make myself some dinner before I get too sleepy and decide to skip it and just go to sleep.

(And, More Pictures!)

Friday, November 19, 2010 7:16pm There is this phenomenon here in Tanzania which drives me absolutely batty. In a normal conversation when I meet someone they always, of course, ask me where I am from. I would say about the third of the time they then have some anecdote about life in America that is almost always inaccurate. (very sadly so – though usually it is associated with the fact that they think America is in Europe, or directly confuse it with Germany, Norway, or recently even more oddly, Arabic countries) Sometimes it is as simple as saying, “Oh, it’s always so cold there!” which is only inaccurate because the US is large and has many seasons and climates. Some places actually are cold, and a lot are during parts of the year. The frustrating, or dare I say infuriating thing is that when it is something that is much more inaccurate, like, say, all people who live in Miami are addicted to drugs and prostitutes (all, she was not allowing for even a single sober soul), or that Americans only marry within contracts (more on this later) For some unknown reason instead of accepting the truth being told by an actual American who was born and raised there, they fight the point! They insist that whatever misinformed fact they hold dear is indeed the truth and the only truth and nothing I can say will convince them otherwise. Now we will return to this marriage by contract. According to a large number of Tanzanians, both villagers right here in my village and people who live in cities, Moshi, even Dar, have this strange notion that Americans marry for a contract of 5 years at which point (after these 5 years) the marriage is absolved and they are single again to go marry someone else. Has ANYONE ever heard of such a thing? I hadn’t until I got here, to Tanzania, and had person after person after person argue with me that Americans practice this institution of marriage. I can discuss the issue for over an hour with someone (we have long bus rides in this country) and at the end they are still insisting on their superior knowledge of my homeland and our cultural practices. Perhaps it is so bothersome because the insistence in this case and most other cases where they are bound and determined to hold their ground, is them trying to insist that the culture of Americans is immoral and despicable. But on to other things. I have been very busy, as is usual, I guess. But finally, things are actually getting done. We built our first rainwater catchment tank last week and it is already almost half full of water with these very late very torrential downpours we have had these past few days. I will be meeting with the group to discuss the schedule of the project tomorrow as delays in grant processing caused the inconvenience of our work schedule to be right on top of farming season. But we will get it done. The group is so excited about the first tank (and so am I!) and are willing to keep putting in the work to keep the project moving. One tank completed, 19 to go! Each tank takes a week and after we get the hang of it we’re hoping to have 2 separate teams working on 2 tanks every week. It’s been a lot a lot of work and no play recently. My time here is slipping away quickly all the sudden, and I feel compelled to get everything I absolutely can done. Which is a lot, but never seems like enough. There is still some other project on the sidelines, neglected. So much I could do in another year, but my student loans loom over my head, and soon I’ll be returning to the motherland to get a job and learn what new technological gadgets have overtaken society since I left. And what change, I am sure both good and bad, has been made by the Obama administration. The village has become home and I have found my place in it. There are people I am completely comfortable with and people I avoid like the plague. It is sad to me that so many of the people I feel that I need to avoid live in close distance to my house. To clarify, I do not avoid them for any safety reasons, but only for peace of mind. There are, of course, those who are angry that I did not come to their house and teach them, individually, English. Or build them a new clinic (Peace Corps has a policy of not building buildings). Or pay their kids’ tuition. They are angry that I have worked with groups and they somehow think that I gave these groups money (white person means money) and that they didn’t get any. (despite the fact that I have welcomed them many times to join these groups!) So I just sort of stay away from them. January 13, 2011 7:35pm Today I climbed over a few mountains to a village about 4hrs away, way up in the mountains but not so far away that when we were at the tippy top we could still see Same town and the Massai steppe in it’s orange red flatness extending into the horizon. The village I went to was like another world. On the top of a mountain there were banana and avocado trees, coffee, potatos and another potato like plant that they love here, and the usual corn and beans brushed through with gentle cool breezes. What was even more amazing was walking down muddy paths when my village just a short hop over some mountains hasn’t gotten any rain since mid December (this should be the middle of our rainy season?) It was paradise. It was beautiful. Then myself and a member of my HIV/AIDs group carried back 3 four month old milk goats. We pushed them a bit, and pulled them a bit, but since their whole life they lived in a banda and only came out a few hours each day to play, they were not used to the walking. And so we carried them a lot. Goats are heavy. But we had a good time. And they are beautiful goats and they will give 3 more families access to nutritious goat milk as well as profit from selling the milk and the baby goats. Along the road we met a few people who didn’t seem to mind helping us carry the goats which was helpful there being 3 goats and 2 people. They even went out of their way to help us and then retracing their steps to reach their destination. These goats will finish (I hope) the milk goat project that I am doing with my HIV group. It has been a rocky road, with Flora and I reminding each other over and over and over binadamu ni binadamu (translated directly people are people but really means people are only human) because as we have trudged so slowly to try to get through this milk goat project done. Right after we got the first batch of goats they decided they wanted, instead, chickens. Well, not even, it turns out, instead, but also. And the conversation goes like this. “Jen, we were thinking - we want chickens.” “We haven’t even finished the goat project yet, we should see how things go because this one project is a lot of work for us and could get a lot of great results.” “But we want chickens” “You said you wanted goats” “We also want chickens. We’re not worried, we know you’ll bring us chickens.” They got nice, half caste/some full breed modern milk goats. Expensive milk goats, and supplies to help build them bandas and a full day seminar on their care and enough medicine for the first 6 months of their care. But they want chickens. I just can’t even grasp the concept since every single person, even the poorest person in the whole village has CHICKENS. (except me, who even if I go vegetarian will allow chickens in my diet as I see they have as much brains as the average edible vegetation) And just to clarify, they where the ones who came to me in the first place and asked to do the milk goat project, which we planned every detail together. But I am home now. My house is a disaster because after my brother left (he visited me – which was awesome – more on that later!) and I went to Mtwara to visit other volunteers (for those too lazy to look on a map – it’s the region that borders Mozambique but also still on the ocean) the day I got back I had people stalking my house looking for me and have been going like crazy ever since. I actually did my laundry when I got home at 9pm. In the near dark. Which is, in case you’re wondering, really difficult. On that note I’ve gotten 2 visitors since I started writing this and it’s almost 10pm and that’s my bedtime in case your wondering. So I’ll cut this short so I can actually post it instead of this other November post that hung around on my computer in limbo for 2 months because I was interrupted mid-writing and then got SUPER busy. So Good night Usiku Mwema (Kiswahili) Ooo See Koo Mweh ma Kio Chedi (Kipare) Kee Oh Che dee

First: Pictures from Mom & Dad's Visit!And, New Pictures at the end!Now, for the blog...

Yesterday I climbed Vumari Mountain. All the way up into our forest where I have been told there are ‘dangerous wild animals’, or maybe there were long ago. I went with Vumari’s Forest Committee, Kamati ya Msitu Shirikishi, the mwenyekiti (chairman) of the village, and 2 ascari (police officers) totaling 9 people. Our mission: to arrest people illegally cutting down trees in the protected forest. The police officers carried guns, old machine guns with wooden parts. I know nothing about guns so you’ll have to wait for the pictures if you are interested. I left my house around 615am to meet up with the group and start up the mountain. We started off at a quick pace, which wore me out quickly as we were climbing the mountain at a near run. But no one else seemed even winded. We walked as quietly as we could, listening carefully and looking for signs of cutting, and fresh footprints. By some stroke of luck, our trek was only 2 days after the first rainstorm in months, so it was actually possible to make out new footprints. And we climbed. Within the first hour we heard the first group, and slowly ambushed from different sides. I stayed towards the back, as I had no idea what to expect and didn’t want to get in the way of their strategy. The 2 male youth ran in different directions, and for a split second the mama in our group had caught a hold of one, but he threatened her with his panga (large knife/thing they use for pretty much everything – not as sharp as a knife) and she let go of him. They left one pair of sandals, an ax, a jembe (hoe), and a huge pile of old growth trees stacked up and ready to be transported. We stood around the loot for a few minutes, discussing how we would use certain items to try to ascertain the identity of the youths, and then continued our climb at the same hurried pace. A few hours in it was apparent I was not holding up as well as the rest of the group. Climbing uphill nonstop at near jogging makes me a little breathless, but the rest continued as if it where just lazy stroll. At last I had to stop as my legs refused to move any longer. I realized I had made a mistake in not bringing any food. I had thought we would be back down the mountain for lunch, and only brought water and my camera. But as lunchtime was rolling around, and we were still only nearing the top, I was worrying just a bit. The higher we got the lusher and more beautiful the forest became. An exotic, almost prehistoric looking mix of tropical trees and moss and cool air. Banana trees, palms, Neem (don’t know if there is another name but it is a medicinal tree in Swahili called Marobaini which means the tree of 40 medicines), and MANY other medicinal trees that the man I call babu (grandpa) (who was winding me the whole way without fail) would point out. I wasn’t able to take that many pictures because I was trying not to hold the group back, which I already felt I was doing. Luckily by around 1pm we had reached the top and we followed the ridge awhile, climbing and then descending, so I wasn’t as exhausted as I was by the steady climb. We wandered through and under and over, without any trail at all, being led by my babu. We passed a number of places where there was obvious destruction going on but we did not encounter any other groups in the act. There was one place my babu pointed out where a certain tree was growing that was not native to the forest. It was a pretty big tree and by looking at it and the surrounding environment, he ascertained that about 10 years ago that space was used as a cooking area for those who were cutting trees from the forest. The tree is Msele – they take the leaves from the tree and let the dry in the sun, then they mill them (they LOVE to mill things in this country!) and make a powder that they boil to make this green paste the consistency of snot (really) which they eat with ugali. I eat pretty much anything in this country, but I DO NOT LIKE msele. Most Tanzanians love it which is great because it is very nutritious. Along the ridge of the mountain you could look down on one side and see parts of my village. On the other side, Same. It was easier to see Same because the drop off on that side of the mountain was very steep. Which became tricky in coming down. I might mention at this point again my lack of preparedness for this trek. I had worn a skirt because it was in the village and I know how they don’t like me to wear pants in the vil. I wore an easy to walk in skirt, but a skirt nonetheless. And my chacos. Which are more comfortable in the heat than hiking shoes. Because I thought we were going up the trails I had already been on, or more like them. I did not, mind you, realize that we were going over the mountain. Next time I will ask more questions. . . So walking through high grass, brambles, and all sorts of new thorn bushes and awful prickly things, I just gave up trying to avoid them. The pain of whatever was scraping against my legs mingled with the momentum of the trek. I just kept going. My legs look disgusting right now. When I got home after I scrubbed off the mud and dirt I just sat with tweezers for over an hour pulling out thorns. Just one seems to want to get infected, but I just keep cleaning it out and neosporining it again and again. I thought going up the mountain was difficult, but going down was nerve wracking. We spent at least 2 hours wandering the ridge looking for a place we could descend. The Same side of the mountain is strewn with huge boulders, which when you’re on top of them make cliffs. It is also, as I mentioned previously, very very steep. So finally we just started down the best we could. We scaled the rock where there were enough vines and trees to hold onto. The soft mountain dirt just slid under my feet, but the mwenyekiti and sometimes others took turns making sure I didn’t fall down, finding sure footing and then taking firm grip of my hand. After awhile I learned to look towards the mountain. Looking out the other way made my head spin. We descended through the jungle-like high forest to the rocky grassy midland. One of the ascari (police officer) dislodged a rock from the path above that missed all of us and hit the other ascari in the arm. (imagine a rock falling off a ledge pretty much straight down, that was what we were scaling) He wasn’t badly injured, in that he could still use it, but it was obviously causing him a lot of pain. We traveled more slowly after that, and those in the front watched for loose rocks and moved them far out of the way. Anyone who has done any mountain climbing knows how hard going downhill is on your legs, and as we finally reached an area were we were actually just walking and not scaling, 3pm was rolling around and I had not eaten since 6am. My legs were wobbly, and I was lightheaded. I knew if I kept walking we would get to Same and food and water (mine had long since ran out since I shared it as no one else carried anything at all) so I kept walking. At one point we reached a water pipe which had a leak. Since my water bottle was already empty we filled it again and again and people took turns drinking. I knew the water was unfiltered and could have all sorts of worms and microbes and such in it, and as my job as a health teacher I did tell them before they drank that they were putting themselves at risk. But I drank it too. We were really thirsty. The Same side of the mountain is not as forested and the sun beat down on us overhead. It was only moving forward. Thinking about a cold fanta. Moving forward. We reached the road about 4pm. We walked a small distance down towards a primary school that we had agreed to meet the other group which had covered a different area in the low-lands. And I was so happy. We had made it. I had scaled Vumari Mountain, through the forest and climbed down the steep cliffs to Same town. The group watched over me like hawks. Making sure I was ok, always there to give a hand when I needed one (most literally) And we had all arrived safely. We hadn’t actually arrested anyone, which I was a little let down by. The group had decided to change paths after it was apparent that climbing steep slopes for hours was not within my ability, at least at their pace. I didn’t know this until later and felt pretty bad about it, though it didn’t seem to bother them. They said it allowed them to survey a different part of the forest they hadn’t been through in years (which is why they weren’t sure about where to cut down to Same) So there we sat in the grass in the shade of some pathetically dried up little trees, waiting for the car to show up to take us into town to report. And the other group came up and we chatted and exchanged stores and information. I was feeling a little light headed, so I went and sat down. And then I decided to lay down, and then I was out. I was lucky that an older woman was walking by with a bottle of water. Which they thought just as good to pour on me as in my mouth. In less than a minute they had sent some child running to get sugar to put in the water and in no time I was drinking the most delicious mixture of water and sugar that anyone in their life has tasted. And then I drank a whole soda, and a liter and a half of water, and then kept drinking. The car finally showed up and we went somewhere to eat, but somehow the rice and beans did not want to cooperate with my newly awakened stomach so I just kept drinking. None of the other people in the group seemed at all out of sorts. They were tired, a little sun weary perhaps, and they ate with their normal fervor. But I was the only one who thought that it was unusual to climb a mountain from 630am till 4pm without food or water. But, after all, it was also my total misunderstanding of what we were actually headed out to do. If I would have known, I would have brought snacks and more water. And worn pants and hiking shoes. Now I know for next time. But I wouldn’t take it back for a second. It was amazing. Babu stopped in on me today to make sure I was doing alright, as well as a few other folks that heard I was ‘sick’ which I guess is how it seems to them. I didn’t realize how worried they were, as I considered it quite normal to pass out if you climb over a damned mountain practically at running pace for 10 hours without eating and without drinking enough water. But I am under their care, and they take care of me as their own. I decided, for the first time since I have been here, that I would take a ‘day off’, and on the ride home from Same, canceled the Tree Nursery Group meeting that would have been the next morning. Somehow the thought of hiking back up into the forest only to carry back down huge bags and buckets of forest floor compost (for the tree nursery) seemed . . . impossible. So today I cleaned my house, did laundry, and in the afternoon walked down to the secondary school on my still wobbly and very sore legs. I sat through some of their graduation practice and scored some free mediocre food. Came back home, cooked up some eggplant and thought how good it would be if I only had some cheese. And then realizing I did, used up the very last of my parmesan that my parents brought me from the US of A. I am so glad that I finally convinced my mom that cheese can last without being refrigerated, and that I just might eat it anyway if it has gone bad a little, it’s still cheese! On that note, I’m gonna get some sleep. I have a village government meeting in the morning and a PLWHA meeting in the afternoon. And I’m up WAY past my bedtime. . .

September 12, 2010 Sunday 6:32am I have been in my village for more than a year now. The year mark passed August 20th (I happened to be in Lushoto as my parents where visiting). The year mark in Tanzania passed months ago – June 18th. I was in Same town with some girls I was teaching English. I bought us all icecream as a treat, and not being used to the cold food, they all threw theirs out after a bite or 2. The times flies by and I know I will blink a few times and already be back in the US. I have so much work to do, though. And everything (but time) moves so slowly in this country. My parents where here for three weeks. Traveling around Tanzania with them was the first time I looked at Tanzania from a tourist perspective. When I returned to my village everything became new again. A woman with a bucket of water on her head, balanced without using her hands, and her tiny baby tied to her back walking down the path towards her home is suddenly impressive, exotic, and beautiful, and sad. It had come in this year so commonplace that I didn’t think a second more of it before picking up my water buckets and lugging them towards my house. I am glad that I have reawakened my senses. For these few days cooking over a fire will seem novelty again. The same foods made from beans and maize and rice are delicious again. Each extended greeting and slow meandering through the village to stop by houses is comforting, instead of frustratingly making me late to whatever place I was going. Seeing Tanzania through my parents’ eyes also reminds me of how different their lives are than ours, and when they say that their lives are so hard and our (white people but meaning Americans and Europeans) lives are so easy, instead of having long discussions about it just being different and incomparable, I tend to agree.

Things so simple as water, cooking and food. Most people take for granted. Water is piped into our houses, safe to drink and cook and wash with. They carry water from many kilometers away, every day or every other day, just to get home, use it up, and go out to fetch more. And if they want to drink it, it should be boiled and filtered (but they don’t) We cook on gas or electric, supplied to our houses again, so we just turn it on and it is ready. Or toss the food in the microwave (oh novelty!) and in 20 seconds it is piping hot. They walk kilometers into the brush to gather firewood and cook in smoky brick rooms without windows. It is comparable. Our lives, for the most part, are easier. As much as I hate falling into generalizations, I find it impossible to reach any other conclusion.

And probably many of you are saying – well duh – that’s what you’re doing there to help them. But you know there is this purist idealistic little voice within us (or maybe just me) that wanted to see this life as simpler and therefore perhaps in different ways better. The one thing I am always sure to tell them is that despite their poverty, Tanzanians in my observation, in general, are much happier than those Americans whom they so desperately want to be like. I have finally fallen into groups working with successful projects, which makes me pretty happy. Our tree nursery is finally almost planted. The plot is cleaned and the day before yesterday we built a fence around it and made steps from the slight slope so the little trees would have a place to sit on.

The health drama club is up and running, and, knock on wood, the grant for my rainwater catchment project is slowly working it’s way through the bureaucracy that is inefficiency. The milk goats are already pregnant, and though they seem to be sick all the time, I am hoping once that grant comes through we will be able to get the project on its feet. Pictures should be up sometime soon. Whether they go up with this blog post depends on a lot of luck at the Same internet café today. It is unlikely though. [From Dad: they didn't make it...]

New Pictures!

Tuesday, June 16, 2010 8:57pm

Beans cooked with pizza spice is not as good as it sounds. Which is truly a shame since it doesn’t even sound all that good.

But it is different. An appreciated change from the norm, and edible. Sadly, the rice too, is plagued by these small mostly clear whitish rocks, which as you can imagine are impossible to pick out when cleaning. Flora warned me about them, as they showed up in her rice too, and explained how to clean them out. But I seem to have failed miserably.

So pizza beans and rocky rice paired with an orange (they are coming in huge numbers from Tonga now) after a day of laundry and cleaning and putting together lesson plans and preparing for the onslaught of tomorrow through Monday.

Tomorrow, ISF will be coming for a meeting. The Spanish version of engineers without borders who have devastated our existing water system and are coming back, I hope, to make amends and fix things. They left the village before I came, and the stories surrounding the event are varied so I will try to remain neutral in saying that the work they completed did not provide adequate water. They were updating and refurnishing an existing system that when they finished provided significantly less water than when started. Part of this is due to drought. The other reasons I will let you speculate in order to remain neutral as a good little Peace Corps Volunteer is supposed to be on a public blog such as this.

Needless to say, the villagers where very upset when water became inadequate, and arguments began. ISF left without finishing most of their work about a year before I came to the village. In order to do my initial report, I tried my best to get an accurate picture of what had happened, and what could be done. Water, as has been mentioned in previous posts, is the biggest problem in my village, and can be traced to be the source of most other problems (along with lack of education). Without water, there is no life.

My initial thought was to figure out the source of the conflict and then A: try to collaborate with ISF to return to the village and finish their work as well as look into the reasons of the failure of completed projects or B: Find the original contract ISF signed with the government of the village as well as the Government in Same and hold them accountable to finish the work described within to an acceptable standard.

Sadly, due to a total lack of adequate communication and a number of failed meetings, and the inability to find the contract due to a change in local government, I put all that by the wayside and started working with the villagers to think of other ways to find adequate water.

And now all the sudden ISF has shown back up. And tomorrow I will sit through my first meeting with them and my villagers. They have come 2 other days now, which I had already scheduled projects.

I am very interested in what they have to say.

I am also nervous they will let my villagers down again.

It might be a contributing reason to their lack of confidence in my larger projects coming through and their reluctance to take part, contribute labor, money, or resources to projects that seem so obviously propitious to all to me. But they have been let down now. And who knows how many other times before.

Friday morning (8am) I have a meeting with the Forest Committee. We will be planting a tree nursery with 2 trainers from Same. We are hoping to plant about 500 seedlings. I have promised to bake banana bread, and made sure that was written into the announcement (meetings are announced by letter which are distributed usually by children or whoever happens to be going near the home of that person, as we don’t have cell network and people don’t own cellphones. . and no, no landlines either) The bread is a bribe for people to show up – as well as show up on time.

Just this last week I went to a meeting, planned between myself and important gov’t officials (I won’t name) about a big project I am trying to get running, and not a single person came. Not even the unnamed gov’t officials. I sat for 2 hours in the hope that another single soul would arrive.

So I have come to bribing them with banana bread. And I pray that it works.

In the afternoon I have my very first PLWHA (People Living with HIV/AIDS) meeting. This took a long time because they had to become used to me and trust me. Also, I have to be known as working with many clubs and groups in the village. Because no one is ‘out’ in my village due to tremendous stigma, it is important that they are seen as just another group of people that I am working with.

I am excited, which seems an inappropriate reaction. I have met with many of them individually, taken them food and sat with them to discuss the difficulties they face in getting medicine and proper care, and many even adequate food for themselves and their families. One of them is a dear friend of mine who is sick and has been in and out of the hospital, and just yesterday showed me the rash that she has all across her stomach and side. The doctors say it is a bacterial infection, but she is not getting better.

I worry about her. I visit her often.

She is known and loved in her subvillage. I wonder what would happen if they knew she had HIV.

On Saturday I will be heading into Same to teach a group of Secondary students English for the weekend. Mostly form 4 students who will be taking their national exam soon (August I think) and are in Same for ‘tuition’ which consists of classes held by teachers during school breaks (such as right now) for a small fee usually about 100/= (about $0.10) per class.

Anyways, sleepy now. Pizza beans and rocky rice makes for a heavy dinner J

Thursday June 10, 2010 6:55pm

There’s this time of day just before sunset where light rakes across the landscape and I remember why I so love photography. Because really, photography is a love of light. A delicate understanding of the relationship between objects and (as most often in my case) the sun.

I climbed a small mountain, what some might consider a large hill, near my house today. I am on a quest to find personal space, peace and quiet, me time. Most of you who know me know how prone I am to cram my schedule full of productive activities, leaving me exhausted but fulfilled, moving ever forward in my somewhat eclectic life story.

But here, in Africa, in my little village, with my 2,204 villagers spread out over 8 hours of foothills and mountains, whatever I do never seems to be enough. And I am exhausted. So my plan is to do less.

Counterintuitive? Nah. I’m just tired. I feel like all of my projects are suffering from the lack of time to commit to any one single project. So I am cutting back, and wandering a bit, on my own.

And on top of that little mountain, looking down at the sun raking over the cornfields and the scrubby brush, over the mountains beyond, and the mountains farther beyond, I felt happy. And that’s a start.

So I climbed back down off the mountain, aiming haphazardly towards the primary school, cut through the soccer game, and went to my newest phone-signal spot down the road. There, I met a drunk man. Harmless, rather friendly in a comfortingly non-hitting-on-me way, which is unusual for drunk men. Instead he wanted to talk about our local Catholic priest.

In my first week here in my village, I had an unfortunate encounter with this priest. I will spare you the details as this is a very public venue, but needless to say, it was an un-priest-like encounter. Since then I have had numerous conversations with women here in the village, after I got a lot more comfortable of course, and found that everybody already knows that the guy is a creep.

So tonight, this drunk fellow is telling me that his wife’s sister recently got a ride with the priest as she was walking into town (the priest has a car, and is one of the 2 people in the village with this privilege). And he stopped the car and made, shall we say, (again because this is very public, we’ll leave out details) a forceful and graphic invitation.

I try to reason with this drunk man, making him aware that I know of the priest’s behavior and am rather furious and confused as to why the community both knows about it and still tolerates his presence in our village and in our church. He tells me this: because it is the custom of the Pare people, he put a medicine on his wife. If the priest sleeps with his wife, he will be stuck to her, unable to separate. And then the man will know that his wife has been unfaithful.

And my answer is: “Huh?” no but really? I asked him what the name of this medicine is and how it works but he said it was something known to him and his people. I suggested strongly and repeatedly he simply have a few words with the priest about his behavior, and he agreed that he would do that in addition.

And then he invited me to dinner. Which I declined. (As a rule, I don’t go home with drunk people)

So now I am eating my beans. Without rice or anything else cuz I don’t feel like cooking any more. And cooked with tea spices because I misplaced my curry powder cleaning today. Which I have to say makes for interestingly flavoured beans.

It’s these long evenings by myself that kill me.

Sunday June 13, 2010 8:47pm

Tomorrow I will walk into Same. My bike, as usual, has a flat tire, and in the soft glow of afternoon errands I couldn’t bring myself to again ask the fellow who always repairs my flat tires to help me yet again. Sometime soon I will have to learn how to do it myself.

Tuesday I will be leaving early in the morning to spend a solid 24 hours with a local group called Muhama, which is also the name of a local tree, who do a number of great things along with sing and dance in the traditional Pare tribal custom. They have invited me to come with them to guard and celebrate the Mwenge – the freedom torch of Tanzania – as it passes through Same.

They warned there will be no sleeping, only singing and dancing and staying with the torch as it travels through villages and towns. And at least the dancing part I can handle. The songs, I usually catch on in time.

I am not allowed to bring my camera, I have been warned time and again, that the photography surrounding the mwenge can only be done by government registered photographers, and one person even related a story of a poor Norwegian tourist whose camera was . . removed from her possession. So you will only get my written account, but I promise to draw pictures with my words, as best as I can.

For now I am off to prepare for these next few busy days.

I hope you enjoy the new improved blog with pictures! I tried for a good long time to get a nice slideshow from my picasa web album on the side of the blog but it doesn't want to show up in the widget to choose.

So I'm gonna go back to sleep cuz I'm sick and really sleepy.

I made a fantastic dinner tonight after almost a whole week of having no appetite (I think due to stress and the fact that I had a bad cold) I thought I would save half of it for breakfast tomorrow, but managed to eat it all! I made fish (from dried) in a sauce of tomato, onion, garlic, and carrot. Then I made some matembeli (delicious and healthy greens) and I managed to eat it all before the rice finished cooking (it’s still cooking now). Sometimes if I have leftover rice I boil it with milk for breakfast. (I have Nido – powdered milk – which is expensive but. . . necessary)I am glad to have my appetite back as my avocado a day diet probably wouldn’t have gone over well after the first week.Anyways, I know, again, it has been awhile. I have had some personal things going on, which are still unresolved, but I figured it was good time to let you in on how things are going.

My Easter I spent again with Flora and her family. It was subdued because of some family problems she was having, but I was happy to be able to go house to house to visit other neighbors in her subvillage. I was secretly happy that we didn’t manage to find milk so I didn’t have to bake cake, because I kindof didn’t feel like it. After cooking all day on Christmas and feeling like I missed out on visiting and being with people, I was ready for a holiday of being a ‘guest’ instead of the host.

The break of Easter along with the activity of it being rainy season (EVERYBODY IS FARMING EVERY DAY ALL DAY) put a long strange gap in my work routine. It gave me some time for a much needed rest, and to readjust my project schedule and visit people and reevaluate needs.

Also, I was finally able to plant my garden which already had some healthy matembeli and lemongrass, as well as some american sweetcorn and both tanzanian beans and american stringbeans which are well on their way to bearing fruit now. I have to say that the Tanzanian beans (which they are calling soybeans but I don’t believe they are) are so much happier and healthier than the stringbeans and I can finally have proof to back my claim that me providing seeds from America will not help their gardens. (although I do give some seeds to every person who comes to me to show me they have dug a permaculture garden, they are mostly of tanzanian origin)

But back to my garden, I have now added hot and bell peppers, tomatoes, watermelon, cantelope, cucumber, carrots, eggplant (though they are still tiny and pathetic little sprouts), and Chinese greens (they call them chinisi pronounced chai-nee-zee) which are eaten cooked and rather yummy. I also have a bed which I just put some zinnia and portulaca seeds, as well as ornamental sunflowers. I have approximately 3 of each plant listed, which if they all bear generously should be enough to keep me fed and take around to my neighbors to interest more people in vegetable gardening. As people who farm to feed their family as well as for most their sole source of livelihood, and who have done so since their ancestors first inhabited these mountains, I am sometimes taken aback by their lack of knowledge on how to farm well, as well as their lack of interest in planting anything other than corn and beans.

May 25, 2010 6:50pm

It can’t be that more people die here in Africa, because the truth of it is that everyone dies. Everyone dies. So why have I been to more funerals here in Tanzania than months I have spent in country, while I have yet to attend a single funeral in the US?

Yesterday, the funeral was for a woman whose wedding I attended part of in December. She was young, 25, with no known health problems. The day before she died she received notice that her mother had died. During the long trip to her mother’s funeral she fell ill, and died before she reached the hospital. Cause of death is unknown.

About a month ago I had been planning to go to a wedding, excited as I enjoy these cultural exchanges that have to do with happy things, and I have seen so few. When I got to Flora’s subvillage, as we were going to walk to the farther subvillage together, she told me that within the family that the wedding was taking place, the brother of the bride had passed away due to complications from polio. POLIO! They have vaccinations for polio! WHY!!!??

But the farther you are from the towns the less knowledge gets around, and when the people come once or twice a year and say ‘come and get shots for your baby’ if you’re sick, or your baby’s sick, or there’s farming to do, you don’t know how important it is to go. And years pass. And life goes on. Until it doesn’t.

Funerals are unbearable. The women who are close family wail. Not in that ‘wailing because it is culturally appropriate’ but wail in terrible, horrible agonizing pain of missing their loved ones. They fall to the ground and wail. And you want to hug them and comfort them, and you want to cry yourself, which I usually do. But there is no one comforting them, and no one to comfort me either. I tried to explain this to some women I was sitting with yesterday at the funeral, offering comfort, and hugs. They didn’t really get it. Here, they wail. I don’t like funerals. The break my heart, and I usually don’t even know the deceased. I cry the whole way through.

Last month a woman died because she bled out after she gave birth. She died because she was living where there was no cell reception, no transportation, and no clinic close enough to take her. She was healthy, from a reasonably well to do family. Her baby survived, and is thriving now. The family luckily has enough support from the community and within the family to purchase the very expensive and hard to find store bought breastmilk. The alternative for most babies? Cow’s milk and water.

Ah but enough of that. Good things have happened in all this time too. I have had some very important visitors to my site. (the Deputy Director of all of Peace Corps, the Regional Director of Peace Corps Africa, and the Country Director of Peace Corps Tanzania) Because I live in no-phone-service-land I got the information very late that they were coming and threw together quickly what I could think of as a welcoming but very short (40 minute) introduction to my village. My primary school kids sang and danced traditional Pare dances, and I showed them around the school and my home. They presented a plaque to my village in thanks for working together with me and supporting me, which my village loved, as well as pins to some of the people I work most closely with.

I was, as you can imagine with their large scale of boss-ness, very nervous about their visit, but they turned out to be extremely down to earth and comfortable and we had a very good time.

My garden, as you can see from the pictures, is beautiful. I harvested my first batch of beans, which my villagers said were beautiful and healthy (which is true) but they laughed when I told them how much I had harvested (about ¾ kilo) but this is only because they farm acres and acres, and I planted a space about 1 meter by 2 meters, or about 12 plants. I was impressed by my harvest.

My projects are moving along painfully slowly, despite the fact that I feel like I never have a second to breath because I am always in a meeting or teaching, or writing a project, or planning and scheduling lessons.

I am still teaching in the primary and secondary school. My gardening classes have come to a halt as people are busy with farming work, so I have put them on hold. I am starting a rainwater catchment project in Matongo which is our very poorest subvillage, with a high rate of childhood death and malnutrition, and the most desperate water situation.

I am continuing the process to try to get a water bore-hole dug for my secondary school which will also help the new primary school (they are beginning plans to build it and will be turning the current primary school which is much to large for it’s student body into a girl’s-only boarding highschool)

I am continuing to work on the youth club which will act as a school to teach out of school youth work skills such as carpentry, house building, tailoring, amongst other life skills. We just finished writing by hand the most tedious 26 page long katiba (I think that translates somehow into bylaws or constitution for a club but it is very important here in Tanzania) and we are now working on getting funding for the initial tools and materials to begin teaching.

This next week I’ll be heading to Lushoto to help an ed volunteer with a project that will be finishing up her service here in Tanzania. She is working on creating a history of her village. She will teach her students interview and documentary techniques, and they will go around and interview elders in the village. She then got some disposable cameras from the US that she is going to have a few students take around to document their village. And I will be teaching them some basic photography skills.

I spent this past weekend in Marangu, Flora’s birthvillage, her home, at the base of Mt Kilimanjaro. It is amazingly beautiful there. Coffee trees and banana trees line the roads, and there are avacados everywhere. If you’re hungry, you just walk outside a bit, until you find one that is ripe on the ground, and you eat it.

Paradise.

I went to see her niece’s wedding. Her whole family, of course came, and I have to say I have never been more comfortable with anyone (including, perhaps, volunteers) here in Tanzania. I was so comfortable that on 2 different occasions I forgot and spoke English. Which has never happened before. (although when the guests from Peace Corps came to my village, no one knew Kiswahili so I translated. I had no problem translating, though a few times I got mixed up and when I was addressing my villagers I spoke in clear English, and then addressed my guests in Kiswahili. Luckily, they just laughed. . )

The wedding was beautiful, though incredibly late. I didn’t really care since I didn’t have anything better to be doing, I was with good people, and NOTHING was my responsibility. I came when they said it was time, ate when food was offered, and wandered around and enjoyed my time off otherwise.

We came (Flora and I) Friday evening thinking that the wedding would be Saturday morning. All the guests came with this schedule in mind. But on Saturday morning word arrived that it had been postponed until Sunday. Afternoon. It didn’t even start until 430pm.

We took a rather fun and funny stroll to the house of the family of the groom, where he commenced in nervously offering us every drink under the sun, until agreeing that we would all, accept Flora who doesn’t drink, have beers. Despite my insistence that I HATE beer, they thought I as just trying to make Flora happy, which in it’s own way is sweet of them. (Flora thinks that drinking any kind of alcohol is bad)

They negotiated the terms of the bride price, which I assume was already mostly negotiated. What I overheard where last minute adjustments including making sure food and alcohol was brought for the elders who were unable to make the trip to the wedding place, as well as adequate transportation provided for the guests of the bride’s family.

This being my first full wedding (others I saw parts of the preparations which take place before the wedding but not the actual ceremony, or only the church ceremony as in the case of the wedding on Easter) I was unaware of the fact that it was a very sober time for the family of the bride. After some time, and careful observation, I finally asked Flora why the bride’s parents looked some mixture of pissed off and unhappy during the whole event. She replied that it is ‘unattractive’ for the family of the bride to appear happy during the wedding because they are losing their daughter.

Later there will be a ‘send off’ which is the party for the bride and her family to be happy and celebrate.

The wedding was an interesting mixture of western and Tanzanian culture. The service was Christian, Lutheran I believe, and then we went to the ‘kumbukumbu’ or party.

There were 2 cakes, but I believe only one made it to my photo album. The first one was a typical iced cake, made with flour, decorated as we are used to.

The second ‘cake’ was a whole goat, roasted whole, with it’s head sewn back on, and carrots and cucumbers placed as it’s eyes, and around it’s body as ‘decoration’ and celery or . . something. . coming from it’s mouth.

There is a ‘cake ceremony’ that Tanzanians do at events, whether it be birthdays or graduations, any event which cake shows up (it’s rare as they are expensive to buy and no on knows how to bake in the vil) They cut the cake into bite sizes, approximately the size of . . perhaps thick French fries. Then they toothpick each one. And each important party member (be it the graduee or the bride and groom or otherwise) takes it upon themselves to feed each individual who happens to have come to the party one by one with a bite of cake. They like it if there is a picture taken right at the point where the recipient’s mouth is gaping and the cake is half stuffed in.

Sometimes they then reverse the process and have everyone feed the said important person, but usually there isn’t enough cake.

It takes FOREVER.

And since I’m the one with the camera, they often want me to be photographing every gaping-mouthed-cake-eater. I have since declined to bring my camera to such events, but more for other reasons.

So at the wedding after they finish the cake feeding process with cake #1, they brought out, and in direct translation, cake #2 – the ndafu cake. (goat cake)

And they cut a little bit off the side of the goat. And they do the feeding thing all over again.

They gifts are not dropped on a side table to be taken care of later, but danced to the front in an organized procession, although at this wedding they were wrapped, which Flora says is a Chagga (tribal) custom. At the Pare (tribe) events and weddings the gifts are given without wrapping, so everyone knows what everyone else gave.

There was no dancing other than the dancing to and from the stage where the bride and groom with the best man and maid of honor where seated or standing the whole evening. When the MC suggested the groom and bride do a small dance before we left, and music was put on, they awkwardly (EXTRMELY AWKWARDLY) clutched each other with that 6-grade-dance hand on shoulder lean side to side. We all felt sympathy for them, and they ended the song after about 30 seconds.

Flora promised there would be tons of dancing at the send off, but the sad thing is the send off is at the home of the parents, who now live a day and a half trip away from their birthplace (Marangu) – a day and a half and very expensive trip away, and there’s no way I (or Flora) can make it.

Pictures!

Friday February 19, 2010 7:41pm

Yesterday, at the secondary school, I taught matumizi ya kondomu (how to use condoms) and today I sat by the bed of a fellow teacher at the primary school who is succumbing to complications after a severe stroke earlier this month.

He was the quiet one, who I have only greeted so many times in passing. The only one who didn't ask me millions of questions about just about everything. His was the desk I always sat at because, for some reason, every time I came in the teacher's office he was in the classroom teaching (a rarity in this country). I use past tense, but he is still taking raspy breaths, eyes unfocused, his chest rapidly rising and falling to the beat of a drum somewhere we cannot hear.

I know it's unusual, at my age, to never have had anyone I was close to die. And I was not close to this man, my fellow teacher, either. But to see him laying so vulnerably indented into the thin mattress, it tears at your heart. Knowing he is so far away from anything that could be called healthcare. His wife said she wants him to die in his home.

The dispensary doctor saw him today. He said it was 'pressure' referring to blood pressure, one of the many one-stop-answers on the list of diagnosis' here in Tanzania. If you have any pain, diarrhea, stomach problems, or sickness, the first culprit is malaria. A shoulder ache, I was just told by a friend yesterday, was malaria for sure.

Then we move on to a cough - which is inevitably pneumonia. Fever and sore throat are also pneumonia.

And then we have the third catch-all for anyone over 45yrs - pressure.

My all-time favorite diagnosis - perhaps because it was given to me: I had a headache (which I get all the time because the blazing sun) but this one was accompanied by the beginning of a sore throat (what one might attribute to a common cold, or in my case, just stress and not enough sleep). The doctor happened to walk by my doorway when I was playing with the kids, and saw my rather pained expression. I told him my symptoms (headache, slightly sore throat) his answer: tonsillitis.

The kids (the secondary school ones), by the way, LOVED the condom demonstration. And I rather enjoyed giving it, in spite of myself. One of the teachers helped, thank heavens, a temporary teacher who will sadly be leaving next week to return to college.

I teach Forms 1 and 4 one week, then 2 and 3 the following week. So this week I began with form 4. (Form 1 being equivalent to 9th grade)They asked so many questions, that time ran over and we didn't have time left to play the condom game. (a version of 'hot potato' using condoms blown up as balloons with slips of paper inside with questions about condoms and condom usage on them. When the music stops, the person holding the condom-balloon has to pop it and read the question aloud, then answer it.) They wanted to play the game so I told them we'd do it if they could teach their fellow Form 1 students how to properly use condoms (both male and female)

They did such a great job - I would definitely say much better than I did. They were able to explain in more detail things I had struggled with in language, and their peers listened surprisingly well. They could easily answer questions, while that is the HARDEST thing for me. As much Swahili as I know, to understand a shy student mumbling a question using words I probably don't know even if I could hear them - is really hard.

Among other successes, I finished the 4-lesson permaculture classes in one subvillage now. Once I got used to the fact that everyone would show up between a half hour to an hour after the scheduled time, everything went unbelievably smoothly. It was my intention that one person would be chosen by the group to have the 'example garden' which we would create together throughout the lessons. Of their own accord, this group went and dug everyone's garden together in the days between lessons. They have not finished all six, but so far 4 are complete, and they intend to finish all 6 soon, including an accompanying compost pile!

Not everything goes perfectly, though, and in my own subvillage, we have had 2 meetings now with no one showing up, and this past meeting today, before we all went to visit the sick teacher, my counterpart Flora didn't show up, the video wouldn't show on my computer, and the person whose house we were supposed to dig at had not gathered the necessary supplies (composted animal manure (any animal, and they have plenty of them) white ash (which they also have plenty of since they primarily use firewood and charcoal to cook) and charcoal dust) So, after waiting an hour, then going house to house to collect the people one by one myself, when we got to the house to begin the lesson, there was very little for me to teach.

And my lessons at the primary school. Oh. Who knows what I will do. I co-teach with a fellow teacher whom I ADORE. He is a sweet well meaning old man. But he DOES NOT understand the lessons we are teaching. And then the students, in turn, also don't understand the lessons we are teaching. I try to choose the simplest of lessons, and I have spent HOURS explaining to him what we are teaching and how.

Today we 'taught' communication skills. We had an exercise where the teacher had a simple picture he had to explain to the children how to draw. (I provided paper) He explained it (using words) 3 times. The first time he walked into the classroom and faced the chalkboard and spoke quickly. The students weren't allowed to ask questions, and he walked out. The second time they were allowed to ask questions, he faced the class, and he explained more slowly, but did not answer the questions. The third time he went student to student and helped them and answered the questions and gave praise. The students were then to discern that for good communication, you face the person/people. You ask and answer questions, you give praise, etc (it was more slightly elaborate than that, but you get the idea)

The problem is, after literally more than 2 hours of me explaining what we were teaching, my co-teacher wanted to just draw the picture on the blackboard. I would have been the person coming in and doing the acting myself but I just don't know enough Swahili to explain how to draw a picture well, so I was afraid it'd be skewed.

And after he did the lesson with me slowly walking both HIM and the class through it, when I asked the students to tell me what helped with communication, referring to them understanding how to draw the picture, the first answer I got was to use a phone. The second was newspaper.

I have to find a way to teach these kids!!!

March 10, 2010 7:31pm

A lot of time has passed since this last entry, partially because the events that occurred in between needed space to process and understand before I was fully ready to lay them out in the public eye.

Shortly after I completed writing the previous entry, I heard the blow of a horn. Without being followed by the voice of the town crier, the sound signifies a death in the village. I found out the next morning that very literally within a minute after I left the room, my fellow teacher and neighbor succumbed to his ailments, and stopped breathing. In the following days I was told by neighbors that I was brought out (I left with a group of neighbors) at that time because they knew he was about to die and didn't want to upset me.

After being told that the funeral was the following day, I headed into Same to check my email through a loophole Flora had found for me (without even knowing how to type or use a computer, she can still manage to hook me up with someone she knows who is the manager of the power plant in Same which uses internet to do business) Since I had made an appointment a week previous, and the funeral was the following day, I decided to keep it.

I expected an email from an NGO I wanted to collaborate with to help me with funding/digging a new water bore hole near the secondary school. I didn't receive an email from the NGO. Instead, there was an email informing me that a very dear friend of mine in the US, who was my neighbor growing up, had died of cancer.

Joe Peplinski may you rest in peace.

One of the last things he did before he died, I was told, was go out to buy things to send me a care package. And by judging the date of the email (which I received a few weeks after it was sent b/c I hadn't had access to the net in awhile) the letter I put in the mail to him was posted around the day he died.

I knew that he was sick, I had known a long time, but I never truly understood that he was sick. I did not truly understand life, I had not yet known death.

As I was writing and rewriting a reply to this email, working over the news in my head, Flora had just arrived at the power company to tell me another neighbor had just died of AIDS.

And for a good while the world was hazy.

Though I had seen this man many times and could put a face to the name, we had never spoken more than in greeting, and I did not know he had AIDS. (I don't know if it's wrong of me NOT to stigmatize thin sick looking people?)

4 days 3 deaths 2 funerals. The death of my friend back home overpowered the sorrow of the others lost. Somehow attending the funerals was cathartic. And wrenching. The teacher was young (early 50s) He had many children still at home, his youngest 9 years old. His wife I would guess around 40. The children were inconsolable. They fell to the ground in their anguish.

I allowed myself to cry, although more subtly, with the family, friends, students, fellow teachers, neighbors and villagers and people who had come from as far as Dar es Salaam to mourn. I cried for them all, but most of all thought of my friend back home. Somehow, it allowed me to mourn for all of them together.

Now I have known death.

It's strange how it enforces an immediate acceptance of mortality.

Life is finite.

Both funerals where open casket. Both were catholic. The close women of the family get together in one room where all the furniture is removed and the big woven plastic bags (gunia) that are used to store corn and other things are placed empty on the floor. The women sit up against the wall, silently lining the room with grief. Visitors (primarily women but the occasional male passed through) take off their shoes and work through the room greeting and offering 'pole' or condolences. I sat in this room a bit, as I was invited to by the women at both the funerals. There is a book and a type of 'offering bowl' that is passed around in the room, as well as throughout the crowd. In the book you write your name and the amount of money or the item you have brought in offering to help the family. It is custom to always give something, no matter how little.

Outside under whatever shade available or is set up in a haphazard manner, women sit and talk quietly separately from men. Women cook food in huge pots over fires, and before the service, everyone is served a large meal. In both cases this included pilau (a rice dish made with meat - either cow or goat - fried onions and spices and oil) and rice and beans. (yes rice with rice.)

The Catholic priest presided over both services. I do not know if it was a typical Catholic funeral service because I have never been to one before. The casket was opened and all the guests where led past to take a last look before the burial. While the preservation techniques are not as affective as what might be done in the US, it was not grotesque, just intensely upsetting. I do not know if I would ever want an open casket funeral. I guess it's not my choice though, as I will be dead.

Once the whole procession of guests are led through, women and children first, men carry the casket to a space behind the house (this all takes place at the house of the deceased) where a hole has already been dug. The men stand forward at this time, and the women create a semi-circle behind as the casket is lowered in and covered in soil. During the procession and the burial, the women sing.

After burying the casket, a short history of the deceased is read.

And then people disperse.

Women close to the family stay around to help clean up. Neighbors and friends visit every day for weeks to help cook, clean, and take care of the needs of the family, bringing food and water and whatever else need be.

The week that followed was strained. I was already overscheduled and everything I did felt tainted by sadness. I kept moving forward.

That Thursday a good friend arrived to visit me who lives in southern Tanzania, close enough to throw stones into Mozambique. I greatly appreciated her presence.

That following weekend many of my fellow volunteers (including my good friend from the south) ran in the Kilimanjaro Marathon.

I did my fair share of the work in supporting them wholeheartedly with screaming, cheering, clapping, and carrying all their crap. I also took tons of pictures which where subsequently eaten by a glitch in my friend's camera.

Which is unbelievably unfortunate.

But more importantly, they all finished in good time, and we all had a good time, and it was good to be thoroughly distracted for just a short while.

In the meantime, I have finished as of today, teaching permaculture gardening to 2 small groups (6-7ppl each) in 2 subvillages. So far, every single member of both groups has either completed or is in the process of creating a permaculture garden.

The first group finished their gardens about 3 weeks ago now, and they already have flowers on their tomato plants, and are harvesting and selling(!) mchiche (local greens) in large quantities, amongst other beautiful vegetable successes. Other neighbors are coming to see their gardens, which are producing in quantity now with the one brief rainfall we have gotten since they planted together with the small amount of water that was carried in buckets from the bomba (distribution point of gravity water that originates in our forest on top of the mountain) They are asking questions and becoming interested in using the same techniques to make gardens of their own! This, dare I say without jinxing myself, is very close to a 100% success rate. Tomorrow, after teaching at the secondary school, I will be going to a farther subvillage to teach their very first lesson: nutrition (basically a balanced meal) and the basics of the garden.

It is my intention to teach small groups within each subvillage so that they become teachers then themselves and teach others. Since the lessons are practical - we actually dig a garden completely at one group members' house - it is necessary that the groups be small. It also allows the groups to help one another in purchasing seeds, teaching other people the gardening methods, and generally supporting one another. The more people, the less cohesive the group.

But I am getting tired and just rambling now. I will leave you all here until I have the time and mental clarity and control of the English language (sometimes I have Swahili days) to continue on. (9:09pm)

Tuesday, March 16, 2010 1:22pm

It is RAINING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh how I love the rain.

(that's all, work to be done now)

(and a few more pictures!)

February 7, 2010 7:57am

It has been a busy week. I am finally on my feet – doing projects – teaching in the village. My first projects include teaching Life Skills classes at the primary and secondary schools (in Swahili, of course) teaching self-formed small groups permaculture gardening and nutrition, teaching disease prevention seminars at the dispensary, and working with the Village Water Committee to address our dire water situation. I also hope to get the permaculture garden at the primary school back on its feet and plant seeds in the next week or so as the rains are coming!!

I have my hands full, but as I work into a routine it will become less difficult. My villagers are excited about my projects, and excited to learn new things, I know that I am lucky in this. Many other volunteers face lack of interest and ambition in their projects from their villagers, people not showing up for meetings, classes, or project implementation. My village is the opposite – showing up at seminars asking if I can teach more about different things next time!

I began my teaching in the secondary school on Thursday of last week. I was very nervous going into it, never having taught in a school before, not being used to kids, the disciplinary structure, and of course – I would have to teach in Kiswahili. But luckily, I had no choice but to plow through it. I put on a fearless smile, and walked in and started. I told them we were learning together and when they laughed at my Kiswahili mistakes I laughed with them. I taught 2 classes in the secondary school, each with approximately 140 students. I didn’t know the amount of students (despite repeatedly asking) before my lesson, so when I walked into the classroom to see the sea of faces staring up at me squeezed into every space possible in the small classroom, I was pretty overwhelmed. But what can you do except begin?

And despite the complicated metaphors within the first lesson, they grabbed the concepts quickly, and the lessons that follow I think they will really enjoy. The Life Skills manual is a fantastic and easy to use tool, and it breaks down a lot of the lessons into hands on games, role play, and interactive lessons. I will have to figure out how to work with such a huge group, but I know they are willing and excited to learn – and where there is a will – there is a way.

Teaching at the primary school was a little more hit and miss. In the primary school I co-taught the class with a fellow teacher knowing that there was going to be even more of a communication difficulty getting across ideas to these younger children. Also, because the primary school is not so desperately strapped for teachers, it was actually an option, unlike the secondary school. The complication more arose from the lack of the teacher’s understanding (despite me sitting down with him and going over the lesson step by step a few times) of the meaning and content intended. In the future, I might end up wanting to teach that class myself, although the little voice in the back of my head reminds me of the unsustainability of this idea. Over time I am hoping he will understand more completely himself the ideas and skills we are teaching through the life skills lessons.

In the primary school I taught standard 7 students ranging from 13 to 15 years old. While most volunteers choose to teach only in the secondary schools, this year in my village only 4 students out of 48 passed the standard 7 exams which allowed them to go on to form 1 (secondary school). Those other 44 students are at the end of their educational careers. A statistical majority of students who pass the standard 7 exams don’t have the money to pay the school fees necessary to attend secondary school anyway. The very luckiest might somehow be able to find funding to go to trainings to learn skills as tailors, mechanics, furniture makers, or otherwise, but the vast majority will farm with their families while looking to start families of their own. (this is another project that I am working towards beginning - some sort of sustainable affordable apprenticeship program or school)

It feels good, rewarding, and exhausting, to finally be getting work done in the village. There is so much to do – so many things I can do – and damn – my Swahili is GOOD!

Saturday, January 23, 2010 7:28pm

There are always going to be those days that every moment I am wanting so badly to be home, in America, with my family, and my friends. Doing familiar things that I know I am competent doing, instead of teaching things in a foreign language that I myself just learned the day before. They will always be followed by days where every moment something new and beautiful happens that reminds me why I am here and restores faith in my ability to help bring change to this village.

Again, it has been awhile. I have been busy, training, then Christmas, New Years, then training again. I have just returned to my village now after my second training. I have completed my report (a whopping 17 pages of single spaced Swahili that I am very proud of) and I am ready to begin my real work here in the village.

Upon my return I was told that I have a new mtendaji – a village leader that I have long since forgotten the English translation for. I have yet to meet her – but was only told – repeatedly – that like me – she is a woman. The day I returned I searched out all the people I wanted to begin collaboration with: the headmaster of the primary school, the headmaster of the secondary school, the doctor at the dispensary, and the mtendaji. Not a single one of them where around.

But let me back up a moment because I am sure you want to hear about Christmas, New Years, my birthday.

Christmas: I decided I wanted to spend Christmas in my village, with Flora and her family, and cook American food to share with my villagers. The afternoon before Christmas I came to Flora’s house with my bicycle loaded down with supplies to make tuna casserole, macaroni and cheese, and cake. A strange menu, I know, but these were the foods I had ingredients to make. We could not find bread so the PB&J, what Flora was most excited about on the proposed menu, did not happen

I was excited to see midnight mass in Tanzania, and to hear the beautiful voices of the congregation raised in Christmas song. But, as blessings do come, the rain we had all prayed for began early evening continuing into the night, pounding the dusty soil into thick mud. Despite our best efforts, Floras’s son Chikira and I decided to turn around in only 2 minutes, being completely soaked, and unable to see or walk on the dark muddy paths.

So I awoke Christmas morning, before the sun, starting the fire with Salome, one of Flora’s daughters. I began helping her cook chapati and chai. By the sunup, people where already visiting a bit, close neighbors came to drink chai and give Christmas greetings and chat a bit before continuing on. I had already begun cooking my dishes. So I sat, in the jiko (pronounced gee-ko meaning kitchen) which is a brick room separate from the house that the fire is in, and cooked amongst the smoke and heat of the day.

It took longer than I ever thought it would to cook tuna casserole, mac and cheese, and 2 cakes. By the time I finished it was early afternoon and it begun to rain again. This whole time I had tried very hard to fight off thoughts of Christmas at home. Waking up to stockings on the door (yes, even now that I’m all old and grown up) cooking yummy breakfast and eating together. Cinnamon raisin bagels with cream cheese. Listening to Christmas music and sitting by the Christmas tree opening presents together. Relaxing and being together family.

I sat alone in the jiko trying hard not to resent my missed Christmas, not to miss all those things, to want in the least one familiar song. (On a side note, I was lucky that my mom had baked for me and mailed my very favourite part of Christmas, her Christmas cookies, which arrived amazingly intact and I was able to share with my villagers, who thought they were perhaps the most delicious food they’d ever tasted. But alas, I had run out by Christmas day)

So I cooked, until mid-afternoon. Then showered quickly, put on my new dress, and waited. But the rain had started again and no one came. We sat in Flora’s living room listening to Kiswahili choir music eating the food we had cooked, and dancing a bit. On any other day it would have been a fun afternoon. But I wanted Christmas. I was tired from cooking, and no one was even going to be able to come because of the rains. I had invited all my favourite families from my subvillage but it is a 35-40 minute walk, not something anyone would be willing to do in a steady downpour even for the promise of yummy American food.

After a lonely Christmas I decided I had to spend New Years with friends. I am glad I did. I headed up to Moshi to stay at the house of an ex-pat with fellow volunteers. New Years Eve we went to a club with live music, overpriced drinks, and the most fantastic fireworks/bonfire display I have ever seen. The bonfire was built about 2 times my height. Then, in a small area perhaps 20ft x 20ft, random people ran in, put down a firework, lit it, watched to see if it went off, relit it, and then ran away quickly. The next person would run in, at no prescribed interval, and put down a few more, and play the same amusing dance. In between fireworks, sometimes someone shot a gun repeatedly into the air. Bang bang bang bang bang bang bang. It was incredible, entertaining, and impressive that no one lost a limb.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010 8:54am

Someone came to my door as I was writing, and I haven’t had a chance to finish. But I am going to send this to be posted now, and will try to write more later.

New pictures are up, including of my birthday – cake and pizza! I was lucky to be in Dodoma for training during my birthday, but more on that later.

January 2, 2010 10:57pm

They say that depression is the disease of the privileged, and I have begun to understand why. I do see depression effecting people in my village, women who have lost child after child unable to find happiness in anything anymore. Men whose farms have failed for so many years it is hard to muster the strength to plant another crop and wait again for rains that will not come.

But the expectations and judgments that we Americans put on ourselves fall away, too. I came to this country probably a pretty typical American, concerned with my looks, my weight, my skin, my hair, my cleanliness. But these things I have no control over now. At first the weight gain bothered me, when I had the rare chance to see myself in a mirror I was horrified by how I was changing and desperate to find a way to lose weight and get 'in shape'. But I have realized, over time, I just have no control over it. I cannot control when or what I eat on most days.

My skin has plagued me since about a month into country, breaking out into a strange rash that has not really gone away for the 6 months of service until now. I hated it - not wanting to come out - trying to put the little bit of make-up I brought over it, and hating the very un-sensitive comments that I got daily from every Tanzanian I met ('Hi, my name is __ . What is wrong with your face?' - I'm not exaggerating. . ) But I have come to understand there is nothing I can do about it. So it doesn't bother me.

I am getting fatter. My skin is plagued by some strange rash. I am often late, or early and waiting for hours. When there is no water, I cannot shower. Or when I run out of conditioner, which they don't sell in this country. My hair is often stringy, oily, and dirty. I have no control over these things so they are no longer stressful for me. I have to accept them, and everyone in this country accepts them. There are so many things that you do not have control over, even as simple as food and water. Sometimes they are there, sometimes they are not.

The less control you have over your world the less you feel like it is your personal responsibility to make it perfect.

The sociologists are right.

I hope you all had a great Christmas and New Years. :-)

New Pictures

Saturday, December 19, 2009 8:46pm

I just finished eating dinner, the first meal I have cooked at home in awhile. Rice with masala spices spooned over a cut up fresh tomato. I was feeling lazy, and only cooked because I am trying not to eat all of the ready-made food I have received in recent packages. (thank you!!!)

Yesterday I returned to my village after being away for about 2 weeks of training in Morogoro. It was the first time I had seen most of my friends for 3 months, since we were installed at site. It was interesting to hear about how each of them had settled into their different village cultures and what projects they were beginning, and what challenges they faced, and what successes they had. For the last 2 days of training, our counterparts came to learn about the Peace Corps program, and how they could help us in our work. (Program design and management and the like) I asked Flora to come and was happy she could meet my friends and understand more about my culture by observing us en-masse.

In Morogoro I ate pizza, macaroni and cheese, and drank cold crisp apple juice (once – it was REALLY expensive). There were so many fruits! I bought bags of tiny plums and ate them with every meal. I bought pineapples and shared them amongst friends. I tried jackfruit (finesse) for the first time (and found I did not like it – though I was told it was not a good one) and fell in love with little peanut candies that where sold on the street near the circle of chairs men sat in to drink chai and chat amongst themselves.

The internet was fast enough to not only log onto facebook – but for chat to be enabled so I could talk to friends I had not heard from since I left the US. The place we stayed was a short 45 minute walk outside of town, beautifully shadowed by the mountains rising up behind.

I was spoiled for a short moment. But we exhausted ourselves quickly – beginning our lectures and workshops at 8am and going to 6pm and then walking out into town to get dinner and staying out till midnight or much later before we ambled back to sleep.

Everyone agreed that I had the best counterpart. Her sassy and wise answers kept things moving, and gave insight to the topics we discussed. I feel truly lucky to be working with her. I know she also enjoyed coming – her first time to Morogoro – to learn new things and meet the people she had heard me speak so much about.

But nothing comes so easily. The nurse who has helped me a bit since I arrived was very upset that I didn’t invite her. I tried to explain it away (‘but you have to work at the dispensary!’) but she pouted quite vehemently for the days up until I left. Luckily since I have returned home, with a pineapple for her as a gift, she does not seem so upset. She did ask A LOT of questions about how much money Flora got, whether her bus fare, accommodations, and food were paid for. And also about whether mine where. These questions make me even more glad I did not invite her. I know Flora will help me with my work – and works happily along my side as a volunteer – like me.

It is good to be back in my village. I have spent the majority of these past 2 days wandering a bit, hodi-ing (going from house to house to greet people) and inquiring about the time past since we have last seen each other.

Despite rumours otherwise, the rains have stopped in Vumari. The rains have stopped before the crops have finished and the tall proud stalks have shriveled leaves that will soon turn brown and fall to the ground. Another years crop will fail if rain does not come by Christmas. I have heard this now from the mouth of every villager. If only the rains could come, for Christmas, they could all sing and dance.

I will be spending Christmas here in the village with Flora’s family. I will be cooking American food, and she food of her tribe – Wachagga (from around Moshi), and her daughter will be cooking food of the tribe where we live – the Wapare (from the Pare Mountains). I am thinking of making a cake, macaroni and cheese (using the cheese sauce sent to me from my loving parents) and tuna casserole (using the tuna sent to me by Rachel J and packet of dried cream of mushroom soup mix I got in Moshi) Flora also wants me to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches which she adored when I made them for the village leaders during the long day of food aid distribution.

Going to email this to be posted – though I haven’t finished writing more. Perhaps soon? I have more pictures too but the internet connection is so slow I have to try multiple times to even send an email through gmail’s html only.

More Pictures! – Jen's AIDs Day Event

(At the bottom)

She's still promising a blog post soon.

Jen Has Added More Pictures!

(Check towards the bottom)

She promises that a blog post will be coming soon.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009 4:18pm

It’s been awhile since I have written, I know. I have been busy, I assure you, with meetings and research, trying to understand this village of mine and figure out how I can even begin to help.

I have been going house to house in each subvillage, of which we have six, and asking a very long list of questions pertaining to the family, their perception of life in the village, their health, their nutritional status, their income source(s), their perceived needs, etc. It has been the most amazing and exciting and fun part of my work so far here in Tanzania.

Since I have the list of questions, there is no awkward silence, and I learn so much from them about their families, life here, and about the village. It is amazing the differences of attitudes and qualities of life amongst the different subvillages and even within the subvillages. But the conclusion is pretty grim. There is a draught here that has affected the area severely for the past four years, although it has been slowly encroaching for many years before that. Everyone who lives in this village is a farmer. A lucky few have alternate sources of income: carpentry, tailoring, teaching, shopkeeping. But income from these jobs is still insufficient to support their families. They grow maize and beans. What they don’t need to feed their family, they take to Same to sell. But they haven’t had enough crops to even feed their family in years.

Traditionally in this area there are 2 rainy seasons. One in the fall, a shorter season where they grow corn; one in the spring, a longer season, where they grow beans and other vegetables like tomatoes and onions and such. The problem is – for 4 years now – the rain hasn’t come.

A question I have come to dread in the survey inquires about the nutritional status of the family. Every family but one so far has answered that they cannot even begin to address nutrition because they don’t even have enough food.

Which brings us to water.

There are 6 public wells in my village, one at each subvillage, as well as a number of private ones that I haven’t figured out quite yet. They use a gravity system to bring water from natural springs on the top of the mountain down to villages. When the system was built there were 6 natural springs that provided water every day without fail. This was many years ago when this area was lush forest, before the beautiful hardwood trees where harvested and sold in the 80’s.

Over time the springs have slowly gone dry, one by one. Now there are only 2 springs that provide water at all, and they are inconsistent.

(Here in Tanzania, if you live in a village, you normally go daily to the water source, be it a pump from groundwater, the river, the pond, the mud puddle – as we had in Kilulu - whatever, and you carry buckets of water to your home to use.)

There are now only 2 wells in the whole village – which spans many miles – which ever have water. And the water they provide is inconsistent. This means that families spend whole days simply walking to get water and carrying it home. All week, every week. If there’s water.

So I live in this desert that once was lush forest. There are dried tree carcasses remaining, and people KNOW – they tell me – the environment is suffering because the trees where cut down. They want more trees. But the situation has gotten too dire – you can’t plant new trees without water for them to grow. And climate change will hit this area hard as well. Tanzania’s average temperature is supposed to rise (I think?) between 3 and 5 degrees in the next 30 years. The cycles of extreme draught and severe rain will become even more exaggerated.

So I have been spending this time, when I am not conducting my surveys, in meetings with people who know things about water.

I’m going to find a way to get my village water. I have to. They can’t live without it.

It has rained once now since I lived here. I was so happy and surprised. It rained for hours fast and hard – drenching the barren dusty landscape and eking out gullies and ravines. And suddenly little green leaves are budding out of trees I thought were dead. Beautiful stones dot the landscape that were once hidden by a mask of copper colored clay dust.

It is the year of El Nino and the expectation is that instead of no rain, as we have gotten these past years, we will get such torrential rain that it will cause massive flooding and erosion. You can’t win. But I will teach rainwater catchment, I hope. And people will be able to use it. I have no idea what to expect. I live day to day and learn and reshape my judgments and expectations as I go.

I was told yesterday that I will be given land to farm – that I MUST farm mahindi (maize) and send it back to America to sell. Every single person here is a farmer and they can’t even begin to understand my lack of interest in growing a field of maize. #1. I don’t like maize (but I wouldn’t dare tell them that). I tell them I want to grow a garden with vegetables and maybe some fruit trees, but they look at me funny. That is not food. Grow maize!

I have a radio now. I am borrowing it from the woman who I think will become my counterpart if she doesn’t get fed up with me first. She said I could borrow it for my entire service here, which is fantastic. It is a wonderful outlet to the world and sometimes I can get BBC new reports. I actually heard about Obama winning the Nobel Peace Prize the day it happened. I went around the village gleefully telling everyone I saw – I was so excited and happy – but they didn’t know what the Nobel Peace Prize was. . .

In the afternoons at 3pm if I am lucky I get BBC world report. That same BBC world report I’d listen to at Craven Allen, and it is so nostalgic. I try to imagine what you guys are doing – if you are listening too. I think that’d be 8am your time. So you’d all be bustling around your houses with your running water and your electricity, eating your breakfast and walking your dogs…

I am sitting here with time to write this, I should tell you, because on my last bike ride in to Same, I fell and sprained my ankle. Which has made me pretty immobile for almost a week now. It has been a blessing and a curse. It has given me time to breathe and step back from my work, a much needed break. But also, I can’t do my work! And even more, I can’t go anywhere!!

People from my village have stepped in immediately to take care of me. The second I got home my favorite neighbor, who is about 10 years old, saw that I was limping. He asked for my water buckets and fetched my water. He has returned every other day to get water. He has been sweeping my front courtyard (it’s dirt, they sweep it. . . it’s what they do here. It gets the chicken shit, and the cow and sheep and goat and dog shit, out of the walking area.)

The following morning 3 neighbors arrived to make sure I had food and could cook for myself and one promised to send her daughter the following day to help me. Her daughter cleaned my house, did my laundry, and my dishes. I felt kindof guilty, but she seemed content and happy she got to listen to the radio.

And you might be wondering why in the world the woman who is helping me so much might get fed up with me? Miscommunication. Miscommunication has caused now a lot of struggle for both of us in – not knowing where the other one is that we are supposed to meet to begin work. I will wait at my house and she at hers. A 35 minute walk from each other, waiting. Not knowing. And that’s just the beginning. She must have infinite patience. I take everything as it comes here. This is my job. But this is not her job. She has a family and children and a non-profit organization to run. She is giving up her time to help me. I hope her patience doesn’t run out. She wants me to start working again tomorrow but my ankle is still swollen and the Doctor said I should wait until it is fully healed – next week – before I begin work again. To begin work would entail walking almost the entire day through the village, starting at sunup and returning at dusk.

And I can’t wait until I can work again. . .

Wednesday, October 14, 2009 12:43pm

It’s a lonely day today. Perhaps because I have been shut in my house with my sprained ankle this last week, limping as far as the duka that I get cellphone signal, and hanging out a bit at the dispensary chatting with the nurses, and returning home.

Today is a holiday, which means the school is closed and the dispensary as well. It is an overcast day, and everyone is at their shomba (farm) planting their maize and preparing their fields for the rains to come. It is a good day for work, without the sun beating down on them.

The adjective they use to describe sun here is so much more effective than I have heard used in English – they say – Jua ni Kali – ‘Jua’ is ‘sun’, ‘ni’ means ‘is’ or ‘are’, and ‘kali’ means ‘sharp, cruel, difficult, etc’ I find it a precise description of the sun here in Tanzania.

This morning as I was waving my phone around searching for signal, my favourite mzee (elder) came by with his bucket of vegetables. He is the only person who has hodi’d me yet, which I find somewhat unusual. To ‘hodi’ is to come to one’s house to visit. You say ‘hodi’ in their doorway and wait to be welcomed into the home. One Sunday a few weeks ago he came by, and I invited him in.

He is the man who caught my eye during the party they held for me on my arrival. His face is weatherworn and reminds me perhaps of a wild west cowboy, which might be due to the fact that he wears a cowboy hat often. I remember he smiled warmly at me that day as I sat in amongst these strangers awkwardly trying to understand the events that were unfolding. Every time I saw him since he always smiled so kindly at me, and though we greeted, it was never in a situation that allowed for conversation.

He lives in a subvillage an hour and a half walk from my house. He walks around with a bucket of vegetables going from house to house to sell them. That day he hodi’d he told me about his work, trying to sell vegetables. He buys them from a village very far away (where they have water) He also told me about the minerals and stones that are mined in the mountains here. He had rocks and bits of previous stones that he showed me. I didn’t understand a lot of what he said but I appreciated the company and the interest. Before he left he gave me a bunch of tomatoes as a gift. I was taken aback by the man who worked so hard, but came here to give me these tomatoes.

Today, as I sat on the rock by the duka, waving my cellphone in the air, he handed me another bunch of tomatoes, after greeting me, and continued on his way.

It is for him that I will do my work. It is for him that I will find a way to provide the village with water. And then teach the village permaculture so that he may grow his own vegetables, and his profits will be larger, and he can live comfortably.

My choo is stopped up again. Which is a terrible problem to have. The solutions you try first are to pour water in, preferably boiling water. So I made up a big pot of boiling water and dumped it in, and now, excuse the profanity, it smells like cooking shit, and it is not draining. So I have twice the problem. And yet again the only source of solution is from those gov’t leaders and the doctor, the headmaster at the school. And they will crowd around in my choo-room and look at the shit floating in water and talk about how it’s a problem. Again. Ugh.

Monday, September 14, 2009 7:24pm

The first thing I have taught to my village (somewhat inadvertently) is how to make brownies. Even today, the day after my lesson, children and adults are repeating to each other the ingredients and proportions of this wondrous Merikani (American) food.

I initially intended to bake brownies (my first try at baking in Tanzania) for the graduation party for the daughter of the nurse who has been so much help to me these past weeks. I had been trying to explain to her about brownies, but the best I could get is chocolate cake which she sortof understood. They don’t have dessert here. The day before the party she asked if I could cook them at her house – because I haven’t managed to buy charcoal yet, and so she could watch.

When they have parties here people all bring over food, dishes, pots, and firewood and women all come to help cook. So when I came to bake my brownies I had quite the audience, and the children of course come to see whatever I might be doing as well. I am so glad that they turned out well, since I was using a recipe out of the PC cookbook and changing it a bit because ingredients like butter just can’t be found around here.

In case you’re wondering, the ingredients are:

9 spoons of blueband (a horrendous margarine I have come to love)

(melt in pan before adding the rest of the ingredients)

1 ½ teacups sugar

9 spoons unsweetened cocoa powder

½ lidfull vanilla extract (they didn’t know what this was but I did

buy it in Same, artificial, but you take what you can get)

2 eggs

¾ teacup flour

tiny pinch of salt if you feel like it but the blueband already has plenty

Make an oven out of a big pot by putting 2 flat stones on the bottom. Put the smaller pot in and make sure that it doesn’t stick out of the top (there should be room between the top of the inside pan and the top of the outside) put a lid on it and put it on the charcoal.

Wait impatiently with everyone watching and peeking under the lid until finished (about 45min to 1 ½ hours) I made 2 batches the first one took forever. . .

The brownies where quite the hit, and the party was pretty amazing. It was asked that I photograph Aziza and her daughter and sister and brother and then since the camera was out I took a number of other pictures as well so hopefully you’ll get to see those sometime.

In the morning, there was a party at the Catholic church as well, for christening and it was asked that I take some pictures there too. The place was beautiful and the singing was amazing. It was packed full of people and I was uncomfortable taking pictures so I don’t know that they turned out well.

I would like to apologize to the people who I wrote letters during the last few weeks, and you will know who you are when you receive them. As promised, the first weeks at site where very difficult for me, but now I feel that I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else, I love my village so much and I have so many projects to do that I hope will really be able to change the lives of the people who live here.

This past week has been the turning point for me. I was in meetings every single day as well as a few the last days of the week before. The first meetings were strenuous and frustrating. I would arrive and wait, very patiently, for the rest of the people to come. As promised, meetings usually start an hour or longer after the proposed meeting time. It made no difference to me because people would be talking before the meeting, and I would not understand the conversation. Then the meeting would begin, and people would be talking even faster usually, passionately discussing things of importance, but again, I would not understand a thing going on. A meeting scheduled to begin at 10am would usually get out around 430 or 5pm. No break for food, or anything for that matter. I took to writing down the words that I heard repeated that I didn’t know, then looking them up. Still, the gist of the conversation was usually lost on me.

Sometimes someone would be so bold as to ask me why I was not contributing to the conversation, and over time I answered this question with more evident frustration, as I thought it was quite apparent that I had no clue what was being said.

Tuesday, after one such meeting, I was approached by a young teacher who started speaking to me in English (asking me the dreaded question as to why I had no contributed to the conversation) The meeting that we had just finished was the government and school officials discussing what would happen during the meeting with the parents at the school the following day.

So, Wednesday, at the parents meeting, I insisted on sitting next to the teacher who had promised to help translate. I had to be pretty pushy, as everyone thought I should sit in the place of importance between two very important gov’t officials, but I had had enough frustration, and already missed so much important information.

After that meeting, my eyes where opened to so many things in the village. I was able to discuss many things with the teacher, and it seemed suddenly people understood that I could not understand them, and when possible they would call over someone who knew English (they’ve been hiding – I didn’t know they were here!) and suddenly the communication barrier was all but gone.

With the aid of communication, I have been piling on ideas for projects (and inadvertently expectations from the villagers for immediate action) and all the sudden I feel empowered to get things done. I also feel connected to these people. I have begun to make friends, even despite the communication barrier, find comfort in seeing certain people everyday.

There is this myth that during training we heard over and over again. From our teachers and staff a little, but mostly from current volunteers. They said we’d be bored a lot. That we’d have so much time on our hands we wouldn’t know what to do with it. Now, they might be big fans of PB&J for every meal, or maybe they have villages with fewer needs than mine, but I don’t ever have a second to breath from waking (usually around 430am, as the rooster crows) to sleep (somewhere between 830 and 930pm) I feel bad because for the past week and a half I haven’t studied Swahili (accept ‘in the field’) at all. I haven’t had time. At all. Even this past weekend when I was in my banking town (fri-sat) I spent all of Friday in meetings with different NGO’s and gov’t officials.

That said, I am exhausted. Tomorrow promises to be a long day as there is another meeting. This time though, I already know someone will be coming to help translate for me.

Also I will have someone (and hopefully not every important gov’t official as I am afraid will be the case) come look at my choo, as it does not drain. Which is quite awkward as I am the only one who uses it and thus must take responsibility for all that has. . . piled up.

And with that I will say, good night, Usiku mwema.

Jen slaved at the internet cafe today to get more...

Pictures!!!

(Posted by Dad for Jen)

August 22, 2009 7:25pm

I know I haven’t written in awhile. And I haven’t posted the things I wrote awhile back. Maybe I will post them when I post this entry. They feel so far away now.

Today I arrived at my site. I am cooking my first dinner now, myself, on the kerosene stove that my host family gave me as a going away present. I am starving, and it is cooking slowly. I am making potatoes with tomatoes, onions, garlic, and I might put an egg in at the end if I feel so inclined. I forgot to buy salt and I have no other spices...

I love my village. I love my district. I love the people who live here, and the people I will be working with. I love my house. I feel so lucky to be here.

Perhaps it is different because I struggled through my homestay. I didn’t connect with my family and often felt at odds with their expectations for me. I especially disliked my kaka Siafu and was often in his company. I was unsure of myself and stumbled a lot.

Last Monday at 5:20am I left my homestay family. It was a complicated goodbye for me as I wanted so badly to feel, still, like they were family, and connect somehow with them. I appreciate greatly their teaching me how to cook, fetch water, clean Tanzania style, etc, and I appreciate so much them welcoming me into their home and accepting me as family, but I never felt like family.

I traveled from Muheza to Dar es Salaam. I went to the dentist in Dar to get a tooth fixed that I had chipped on shadow week (nothing too bad, don’t worry) and on the 19th we were sworn in as official PC Volunteers.

The shindig was at the Ambassador’s house for the first time in more than 4 years. It was amazingly posh, the food was fantastic, and we had an AWESOME band and we all danced the night away. The ceremony was nice, and we sang a song of our making to illustrate the things we had learned during training. Each CBT created a verse that thanked their LCF and mentioned particular things that had happened during training. I think it was televised so feel free to try to google search it. They were videotaping the whole thing.

(I finished cooking and ate. . . so here is the continuation. . )

August 24, 2009 7:13pm

Today my village officially welcomed me. My VEO (village executive officer) talks so quickly it is like a waterfall of Kiswahili falling onto me, and I don’t understand at all. He knows a tiny bit of English, and sometimes, when he feels especially inclined, he will make sure I know what he is talking about and when I say ‘NO’ that I really don’t know at all, he will translate a tiny bit in English. And then return to the waterfall of Kiswahili.

My village is tiny, at the foothills of the mountains, and very dry. It is beautiful, with cacti and a dabbling of trees, and the mountains rising behind. From about halfway up the mountains there is a forest, and I think the top catches a bit more rainfall than we get here at the base.

I am high enough in the mountains to be cold at night, and sometimes chilly during the day a bit too. I am really glad to have such a warm sleeping bag. I do wish I hadn’t lost my only jacket, though, I am going to try to buy another here soon so I don’t freeze all the time.

I am about a 2 hour walk from my banking town which is the only place I can buy pretty much anything. Here in my village I can buy soap, eggs, salt, and sugar. Sometimes I can find phone vouchers, though it is almost moot because I have no signal here in my village, unless I climb the mountain. There is a ‘public’ truck that goes to town every Sunday morning and returns in the late afternoon. If I want to go any other day I have to go by foot. Which isn’t bad accept that I need to buy all my food in town and many other things I need for my home, and will be carrying them all the way back. . I will be in good shape very soon.

I was told when I arrived in town that jumatatu (Monday) would be “Jennifer Day” So I prepared to be fed (meaning I barely ate breakfast) and prepared a small speech to explain myself to the villagers in Kiswahili. I even bathed for the first time since I got here in lukewarm water which was the best I could make with the tiny pot I have to boil water and the one bucket I have to use for all my water needs.

My house is a duplex that I share with the family of a teacher at our primary school. They have chickens that crow at about 4am, and their doors (and mine) could use a good dousing with wd-40. It took me a while to not jump at every door opening thinking it was my own. They have a new baby, who cries often, and a child about 2 who knows the words mama and baba and dada and says them all the time. The older kaka, Juma, who is 11, is quiet and helpful and often watching his younger sisters. When my door is open during the day he will peer in curiously but not enter.

The wife is a teacher and I do not know what the man does, perhaps he is a farmer? I think they just moved here as well because in Tanzania teachers are moved around a lot by the gov’t. I tried to visit this morning but got the feeling it was a bad time.

As you walk in the house, you enter my sitting room (currently sans chairs). To your left is a room that could be a bedroom or office or otherwise though I don’t have the money to furnish it at all. Past the sitting room is my bedroom on the right. There is a single window that looks out into my courtyard. The windows all have boards halfway up, perhaps for safety (per PC request) and perhaps to keep out the wind which is cold at night.

My courtyard has a rocky concrete floor. A wall separates my courtyard from the family in the other half of the house. Across the courtyard are three rooms. One is to serve as my kitchen, another my food storage room, and the third is my choo/shower room. There is a door to the outside from my courtyard and the wall to the outside is lined with broken glass (again for safety) which glistens and glitters in the sun.

Along the front of my house are tropical looking plants planted in old broken buckets and paint containers and other such things. They are situated to catch the rainwater off the roof so they can get watered occasionally. Nothing is flowering right now, but I pulled all the brown leaves away and they look pretty happy now that I give them my waste water.

My village is tiny, and the houses are spread out over the foothills far away. My house is next to the dispensary and across the street from the secondary school. Both are very well made buildings, and look new.

Our water comes from atop the mountain. I haven’t figured out quite how it works, but we have a faucet and every other day we are allowed to get water from it. From what I understand sometimes there isn’t water. The water is clean, though, very clear.

So this morning I woke up and swept like a good Tanzanian woman (though couldn’t mop because I don’t have enough buckets) and bathed and prepared myself for Jennifer Day. I left my house with trepidation, and stumbled immediately upon so many people who wanted to converse with me. They speak quick and fluid Kiswahili, rolling out at me as if I understood each word. I feel like even when I recognize some words I forget their meaning because I am so engrossed in the timber of the voice.

I understood almost nothing all day.

First, I spoke to the doctor at the clinic after many long greetings with nurses, villagers, teachers, and children. He knew some English, which was such a relief to my brain. He asked me what I was going to do (the giant looming question), and had a list of things that he wanted help with. It was comforting to know that all three things I plan to begin with (at his request) are within my reach. He wants help with rainwater catchment, he wants me to teach about prevention of common diseases in the village (and provided a list) and he wants me to teach about permaculture (which excites me greatly) He was very organized, and I look forward to working with him in the future.

Next, I met with a huge group of village officials, all of whom spoke to me and about me in rapid Kiswahili. For awhile I could see that they were going over what looked to be a budget for the party they were throwing me. Which was awkward to say the least, but here in Tanzania things like that are different. I think they wanted me to know that they are putting money into welcoming me here, so that I know that they want me here and are showing it through lavish reception.

Together, we went on a small walking tour of the village, with the VEO spilling out his beautiful Kiswahili as he pointed here and there at houses and hills and the pocked rocky dirt road. When we returned, the villagers where gathering for my welcoming party. Children where playing soccer in the field, and women were standing in groups wearing beautiful colorful clothing.

A chair was brought out and I was told to sit in it. Students marched out and began singing songs, all about me. I could understand most of the words, and they were about my long journey here to Africa, and about wanting to learn from me, and thanking me for coming. The older children sang first and I was asked to dance with them, which I did, much to the enjoyment of the crowd.

The little children came next, singing more songs about me and thanking me for coming again. I danced with them, as well, and some of the mamas came to dance with us too.

It was pretty amazing to hear these songs they had written, as they were all about me, and how I could help them and how happy they were I came.

I might mention at this point that I hadn’t eaten because I wanted to be hungry for my feast, and it was going on 3pm.

Then a lot of speeches commenced and I was very glad to have prepared mine. I am pretty sure I repeated A LOT of what the VEO had already told the villagers about me, but I said most all of it anyway. They were very happy that I used a Kipare (local language) greeting, and they received me warmly. I feel very welcome and comfortable here.

After the speeches, the children played this strange game where one pretended to be me and another pretended to be a villager and they played out scenarios. I didn’t really understand much of it but everyone laughed a lot, so I did as well. Then there was a question answer session with the children where they were asked questions about me (my name, what I do, when I arrived in town, when I will leave) and took turns answering.

It was hard to concentrate because I was hungry and dehydrated. But it was amazing. It was a good way, I think, for the villagers and children together to learn what this mzungo was doing here in their village.

It was amazing.

Completely amazing.

Then I was welcomed inside for my feast.. So many different things to eat and they were all so good. I like the cooking here better than Muheza or maybe I was just soooooo hungry that it tasted so good. I kept eating and ate too fast that I immediately felt like I was going to throw up. I had to finally not even able to clean my plate, which is bad manners, but I was very afraid that instead I would have to go throw up which would also be. . . bad.

Many more speeches were given and then there was a question answer session which luckily I didn’t have to provide the answers as the questions were about me. The only one I understood completely was basically “how can she help us if she can’t speak/understand “Kiswahili” which is a fair question. The answer was “She’s learning”

I was asked to speak again, and just ended up repeating a few things I had said before and then saying thankyou about 30 times and sitting down.

After the speeches were over, the VEO said I could go home and rest, as I had danced a lot and must be tired.

And I was. But I sadly could not rest, there are always things I need to do.. ..

There is a nurse here that I met the day I arrived. She has helped me through the village and though she knows absolutely no English we have been able to make sense of each other. She is kind and luckily has also been willing to give me a bit of space when I need it. She has the unfortunate habit of ripping my phone out of my hand all the time when I am trying to do something (send a text message or call) and I know it’s because she knows where to hold it exactly to get the signal, but I have to bite my tongue to not snap every once in awhile for her not to do it.

She has gotten me the use of a bucket, though, which is great, and I will use it until I go into town on Thursday and can buy a few more. I really need to do laundry and clean a bit here.

I am still living out of bags and the only furniture in the house in the bed which I am borrowing from neighbors until I can have one made. The PC gave us, from what I have heard, considerably less than previous groups as ‘moving in allowance’. We were told it should be sufficient to buy one bed, mattress, one table, and 2 chairs. I am hoping to squeeze in a bookshelf and something to hold my clothes, but we’ll see. There are many other things for the house that I need. Like buckets. (note to those who haven’t lived w/o running water: Buckets are life. You fetch and store water in buckets, you wash clothes in buckets, you clean the floor in buckets, you do dishes in buckets, you keep drinking water in buckets, etc.)

Tomorrow I will be going to the fundi with my nurse friend after we return from our visit to the hospital. Hopefully I can post all of this soon. . . but I am tired and have written enough for the night.

Usiku Mwema!

August 29, 2009 7:02pm

They have said, and I know very well, that these first three months at site will be the hardest of my service. I do not know if I am more homesick now than I was those first weeks during training. I am even craving things that I didn’t think would be an issue for me at all. Running water. A stove. Right now, furniture to sit on. I am so tired of sitting on the floor and my back hurts. I will have furniture sometime next week or the week after, though.

It was a long day today.

Let me mention a few things that happened this week, though, before I go into it, for the sake of congruity.

The visit to the hospital was a miscommunication, as instead we were a ‘mobile clinic’ which meant we took a box of supplies out into the hills (by the aid of a car) and sat on stools in the middle of nowhere. Women and children came, and the children were weighed, given inoculations and vitamins, and the babies where checked for health. Birth control was handed out (pills) and women even came selling wares and vegetables. Which was good because I really needed some food and I bought some cabbage and mchiche (Mchiche is translated according to the dictionary as ‘spinach’ but it’s just the greens of some plant and it has nothing to do with what we know as spinach, but it’s good cooked. Also, it’s different greens depending on the region)

The nurses (of which there are 4) sat around and gossiped and tried to teach me Kipare which is the local tribal language. I cannot understand them and feel desperately lost. The common verbs they use here are different from the common verbs used in Muheza, and it seems I get lost in the simplest sentence. They also conjugate A LOT which loses me quickly.

All you who know me know that I tend to be quiet around people initially. And it doesn’t help me being the foreigner who can’t talk anyway sitting around quietly. But I observed and took notes and tried to understand what was going on. The questions that I did understand I could not answer anyway, for that reason that I kept trying to insist the PC not place me as they did – the nurses asked me what ages children in the US got what shots, and did we give this shot in the leg or the arm or the buttocks, etc. And I have no clue. I don’t even know what shots I got as a child, only that they have been sufficient to keep me from dying yet.

They even wanted me to help dispense medicine and give shots myself. But I insisted I was not a doctor. And not a nurse. I am beginning to feel like the are questioning my worth to them, wondering exactly what I do.

I guess maybe I am wondering the same thing.

Thursday I woke early to go so Same to buy things. My nurse friend had insisted she come with me, and as I didn’t know how to get there I thought it might be a good idea, though I felt so bad she had to take off work and walk there (a 2 ½ hour walk) although she also negotiated transportation back, which was helpful.

I met a PCV in town who has been here for about a year and he showed me where to buy everything. Of course, despite my list, I forgot some things, but I was at least able to add considerably to my food stores. I now have bread and peanut butter and jelly which has become my favourite meal. I also have some spices, some more buckets, a frying pan, and a lot of other necessary house stuff. (this morning I made peanut butter chapatti and it was fan-tastic) There is an amazing luxury to be able to eat when I am hungry instead of having to light my stove, cut things up, and wait for them to cook.

When I returned from Same, I was tired and dirty. I wondered over to my nurse-friend’s house and talked a tiny bit with her. I wanted to buy some laundry soap from her duka, so I waited for her to decompress a bit from the trip. As I mounted the hill above my house, I saw a ton of people standing around, more than I had ever seen in my village. Seated at a table in front of them where the VEO and Mwenyekiti (Village executive officer ie – head honcho, and the chair person) amongst the other important village officials. The VEO saw me and motioned me over.

So there I sat, in front of maybe a houndred or more people, dirty and tired from my trip, hungry and thirsty, and just wanting to buy some laundry soap.

It turns out that they were reading the list of people who were to get food aid, in the form of corn, the following day. It took me a long time to figure this out, of course, but I sat patiently and observed and wrote down the words I didn’t know, which was most of them.

In the middle of the name reading, the VEO decided to introduce me and then asked me to say a few words. Which was very kind of him, he is a very kind and wonderful man I like him a lot, the problem is he said my name, where I am from, how long I have been here, how long I am staying, and what I will be doing. Which are the only things I really know how to say well in Kiswahili. Which left me with nothing to say. And being tired and hungry I squabbled out a few broken Swahili sentences and then said thank you and sat down.

The name reading continued.

At the end of the list of each subvillage (they read the name of every person in each family, as the corn would be distributed based on the number of people in the family) they had a discussion as to what people found to be inaccurate in the list. People got very angry and where screaming. I couldn’t really figure out why.

The following day I had the pleasure of trying to wash out my newly purchased buckets so I could fetch water with them. See, when you buy a bucket here it was used, usually for cooking oil, already. They sell it to you dirty. So I stood there, at the well, with my bar of soapand washcloth for about an hour scrubbing at the 3 oil covered buckets trying to clean them.

Finally, seeing my frustration, one of the nurses came over and in 5 minutes, with a clump of old rice bag and the same soap I was using, cleaned all 3 buckets and had kids carry them full of water back to my house.

2 days before that I had been quite the spectacle. I had my one big bucket that the PC had given us. I filled it with water and someone told me that the children would carry it for me to my house. Being the independent American, not wanting to make children do my work, I insisted I could carry it. I had carried water on my head before. I had the children help me get the bucket onto my head and immediately realized it was a bucket twice the size I was used to. Still, with my pride intact, I knew I could walk down the hill to my house with it. So carefully, I did. But by the time I got to my house, my neck wasn’t holding out, and I knew then I couldn’t get it off my head by myself. But as no one was around, I had no choice but to try. I thought I about broke my neck, and the water fell everywhere.

And apparently everyone was around, because I heard laughing immediately and every time I come to the well now they recount the story to me. I try to take it lightly, but my neck still hurts.

They gave out the corn yesterday, and as far as I could see, there weren’t problems with the distribution. I did my laundry so I was in my courtyard for a good part of the day, and then I went to my Kiswahili class (more about that later)

Today, though, there were more problems.

I felt like a hermit, a bit, today. I took some time to try to neaten up my belongings which are just piled places since I don’t have furniture. I cooked peanut butter chapatti which was fantastic. I consolidated my lists and then made newer better lists. I stayed cooped up in my house until about noon.

When I ventured out I found myself again the observer of a meeting. I was invited to sit, again, this time amongst a group of perhaps 15 villagers. Almost all where familiar faces. The Mwenyekiti insisted that everyone speak Kiswahili (and no Kipare) on my behalf so I could understand (which was almost moot, because I barely understood a thing) and was super awkward because everyone was angry and yelling.

I was unprepared to observe a meeting so I found a spare second to rush back to my house and grab my dictionary and a pen so I could continue my list of words I don’t know and maybe look a few up as I went. The meeting went on for a few hours. At the end I barely understood. All I knew was that someone was supposed to be getting corn and for some reason did not.

Then, out of some miracle, a man came up to me and in fluent English explained that the women had not been able to carry all of their bags of corn back to their home the day before. They had left it in the duka (shop) that belongs to my nurse friend. A boy (22 year old) who I have talked to a few times and seems pretty nice, sleeps there (haven’t figured out why but knew that he does) The corn disappeared during the night but the boy insists he didn’t sleep there that night.

At the end, the women were given a little corn to tide them until the corn could be found.

August 30, 2009 7:25pm

I am writing a tiny bit more before I go to sleep because tomorrow I will be heading to Same and likely will post this.

I went to church today, Catholic, which is about a 2 minute walk from my house. Most of my neighbors go to either the Catholic church or the Lutheran one down the hill a bit. I chose the Catholic one because one of the nurses said she was going and invited me to come to her house after service.

But, alas, I did not see her there, or at all today, and I have no idea where her house is.

The church service was beautiful. I understood very little if any at all. I know at one point the pastor mentioned me because everyone stared at me for a bit and he mentioned the word mmerikani (American) a few times. Of course, it was all in Kiswahili.

The singing was amazing, and there was accompaniment of drums and clapping, though not revival style, a more reserved melody as could be expected at a catholic mass. It was nice to feel like I was part of the community and for once my lack of ability to communicate was not such an immediate barrier.

After church I visited a neighbor mzee (elder) who told me a bit about his life, mostly in Kiswahili but some small pieces translated into English. We ate a late lunch together and chatted and played with his 1 year old grandson, who is the healthiest and cleanest kid I have seen so far in Tanzania (and is in love with me) And he brought out some videos (he has solar power, and a TV and a VCR, he has, as far as I can tell, the posh-est house in the village) and we watched people dance to Christian music in Swahili with strange interjections of pictures of biblical stories which seemed so out of place because of their all white cast.

It was a good Sunday all in all.

Hi folks, I am sorry not to post actual text. I swear in tomorrow and I am tired and I have enjoyed being able to actually upload some photos with actual haste today instead of logging into gmail after 30 minutes only to have the power go out before I can read a single email.

I have many posts prewritten and perhaps will post them tomorrow. . . Put until I get to that - Karibu (welcome to) photos:

http://picasaweb.google.com/JennKunz/Kilulu?authkey=Gv1sRgCLORm9HOnd3SMQ#

The speed was even decent enough to make comments for some.

So appreciate.

And write me letters.

I will be at site on Saturday.

More soon (ish)

(before reading this please apprecite that it took me 45 minutes to log into my blog and copy and paste this from my thumbdrive. . )

Sunday, June 27th(?) 2009 1:55pm

I have been trying to figure out how to best cover the time that I have been here in Kilulu in my homestay, since there is so much to tell, and my mind is disjointed from being sleep deprived and on sensory overload for .. . 2 weeks or so.

I will take a few bits from my journal so you can get a better feeling of how I was experiencing everything in the moment. My recollection of the emotion is not as explicit as I felt it – I know when I read back over the entries for my first few days.

But first, let me introduce you to my village.

We are in the north near the mountains, outside my house everywhere you look there are beautiful lush green mountains in the distance.

The larger market town, is about 4 – 6 kilometers away from the village. From the market town you climb a red dirt road up through fields of maize and cassava, some sunflowers, all dotted with orange trees, coconut palms, papaya trees, mango trees, and many other things that I don’t know. Along the road is a primary school and secondary school, both made of brick – large open structures – I hope I will be able to post a photo or 2 of the secondary school when I post the blog.

There are a few shops that are hard to differentiate from the houses, made of either brick or of mud and straw. They are small, and people are walking along the road. Women wrapped in colorfully decorated kangas and dresses, men in loose bright button up shirts and shorts. The women are carrying baskets on their head, or have their head wrapped tightly in fabric.

As you approach my village, there is a long space of just brush and trees. You start seeing humble homes, made of cement or, for the most part, of mud bricks, or just of mud and straw. The doors are all open during the day and children are laughing and running through the streets (school is out for the summer) Women are sorting corn or rice on mats in front of their houses, doing wash, cooking, or cleaning. Men walk around, wave, on their way to work, or .. really . . I haven’t figured out what they do.

I don’t really have photos of the village – or of my home for that matter, because I don’t want to bring out the huge symbols of my wealth – especially not so early.

It is spring here and everything is green. All you see is green, accented by the red dirt of the road and courtyards that are swept daily in front of each house. There are crops everywhere. When you get to my house, depending on which road you approach it from, you will either see the red clay courtyard, the chair that my Baba (host father) sits in often, then some of the children playing, or a small covered porch accented by a red wall.

I am greeted by my host Kaka, Abdullah, who takes my bag from school and invites me into the home to rest.

In the afternoon (5pm), when I come home from school, I will try to tell the family what I have learned that day. My Dadas (host sisters) are sitting in the courtyard around a number of jichos (stoves) peeling vegetables, preparing food for dinner. I will usually start on the peeling of potatos to make ‘viazi’ (which just means potatos in Kiswahili)

I peel the potatoes with the very dull knives. My hands have not been washed, but neither had the potatoes (they are rinsed before they are cooked). I just peel and talk and point to each ingredient and other object around me to practice the Kiswahili word for it. My host kakas (brothers) will crowd around to watch, and sometimes make fun of how I do something or say something, we all laugh.

My family consists, as far as I can tell, of a Mama and Baba (mom and dad) who are older, perhaps around 65ish? There are 4 Dadas (sisters) my age, and 2 young girls maybe 4 and 6. Then I have 2 host Kakas who are about my age, one a bit younger, and 3(?) who are children, around 4 yrs.

The house is one of the nicer ones in the village. It is made of cement, with cement floors. It has wooden doors (as apposed to just a piece of cloth to separate rooms. It has 2 bedrooms as you walk in, a sitting room, and then my bedroom. My window looks out to the side of the house, to my Bibi (host grandmother)’s house.

Running around the courtyard are countless chickens and chicks. While we cook dinner they walk around and peck at the peelings and bits that we leave as we cook. I laugh at them but no one seems to be interested at all in them. They run around everywhere throughout the village. There are also dogs and cats (mbwas na pakas) running throughout the village. The dogs tend to stay near their families but the cats have no allegiance. I am told they are fed/let live because they keep the rodents away.

Next to my house we have a papaya tree, 2 orange trees, both still young, some cassava and some mchichi (greens that are cooked) Outside the back of the house (which is where the courtyard is and usually where I enter) there is the choo (toilet) and shower. They are the same structure with a wall separating that does not go all the way up, which sucks because when I shower, I always have to smell the choo.

We get water from one of 2 ‘wells’ in town. I have only been to one. It is the most beautiful walk, I would approximate about ¾ of a mile. Through fields of corn and cassava and others that are dotted generously will all sorts of trees and palms and oranges and such, down a mountain and then down a steep hill. What they call a well I would assume is a natural spring. It is muddy. You can’t see an inch through the water, like a river after a heavy rain. I carried a ¾ full bucket on my head the whole way back to my home. Women laughed at me as I struggled up the steep hill, but really the bucket of water on my head wasn’t the problem.

Women wear a piece of fabric called a kanga over their clothes. So I wear a skirt and a short sleeved shirt, then over the bottom I wrap a long piece of fabric that goes to my ankles and over my top I drape the same. Walking up the hill the kanga over my skirt really restricted my movement, and kept falling off. Still, it was one of my favourite memories here yet, carrying the water up the hill along the beautiful path to my village at sunset. Perhaps because my host kaka (brother) who was with me did not expect me to speak Kiswahili to him for a moment, I had the peace of completeing my task.

The muddy water from the ‘well’ is used for everything. It is the water poured in a pot to boil for rice, to make ugali, to wash your hands, to wash your body, to drink. I have gotten used to it. I have not gotten sick. It is disconcerting, but it has no flavour. I have bought drinking water and I horded it from our training center as much as I could but I end up dehydrated because Tanzanians (as I was warned) just don’t drink much. They drink chai (which is just black tea but has no caffeine, as far as I can tell) but not much else. They eat a lot of oranges. I try to do the same. I try to eat as many vegetables as I can. I have no vitamins as it seems that the PC usually does not provide them until after training (why – I don’t know) but they are also backordered. .

After cooking, water is warmed for my ‘bath’. I wrap my clothes, instead of in kangas, in my backpacking towel, and I head to the ‘stall’ with my shampoo and soap. The heated muddy water (sometimes with sticks and small leaves in it) is in a bucket with a plastic cup in it. I get myself wet – soap up – and rinse – by pouring water from the cup. It actually isn’t that difficult at all. As long as they give me enough water, which is an unpredictable thing. At night I only wash my body, the sweat and dirt of the day. In the morning I wash again, and wash my hair too. Some PCTs (PC trainees) only shower once, or every other day, but some of my family showers 2xs, and I think you would too if you were so wrapped in kangas and hot all the time, sweaty, covered in dust, and had NO other time to wash any other part of you during the day, your hands before or after eating – which you do with your hands (other than the more ceremonial than useful pouring of water on hands before you eat) or after using the choo (which is a hole in the ground leading to a tank) not even before cooking, or after cleaning.

While I am showering the family gets things ready for dinner, sometimes they are already eating when I finish. The small kids are all bathed before dinner as well (which is good since all the eating is done with hands out of shared dishes of food) The men sit at a table in chairs in the sitting room and I eat with the women and children, on a mat on the floor in the corner. The first night, when I arrived and was shellshocked and overwhelmed and was sitting in a chair and then as food was brought out, asked to move to the floor, it REALLY upset me. With all the other stuff going on I have grown not to care.

After dinner I usually try to go to my room, because I am exhausted. It’s about 9 by the end of dinner, usually, but my older host kakas and host baba want to talk to me. I entertain them with as much Kiswahili as I can bring to mind, and they teach me as much as I have patience for (usually they try for much more) before I can pull myself away to sleep.

I wake up usually around 3am. I have finally come to the conclusion that my Mama does dishes at that time in the room outside my door. It is loud as hell, whatever it is. Sometimes I can tune it out and go back to sleep. There are other intermittent noises after that, as the house slowly wakes up. Usually, the house is bustling by 5:30am, and I resign myself to waking around then and drag myself out of bed.

When I wake I try to find my Baba and Mama and greet them with the respectful morning greeting given to elders (shikamoo) Then I help my Dadas (sisters) sweep out the house, and then scrub the cement floor with an old kanga. You’d be amazed how much dirt is tracked in that house everyday.

After cleaning, I shower (bucket bath) and eat. Then my host kaka Siafu walks me the 10 minute walk to class. Sometimes the 10ish year old kaka (brother) Le Ju Manne walks with us and wants to carry my bag.

I get to school at 8am. There are 4 other PCTs in my village. Jayce and Shani, who are about my age, and Wes and Heather - a young (24 year old) married couple who are very shy and keep to themselves. I am very sad to say that I have come to heads after some time with Jayce and Shani who I personally can’t even understand why they are in PC or what they are doing here. They are catty and are annoyed by my exuberance and excitement in things (which is so strange to me) (I came in one morning after helping to cook chapati – a small pancake type thing – and was excitedly telling everyone how it was done, and Shani said she’d had just about enough of my getting excited about things.) It’s hard to explain, but I am sad to say that I cannot find comfort in the group of other volunteers I am posted in village with. I took a walk with Wes and Heather at lunch one day, and they are very kind, they seem fine, but they keep to themselves.

All day, we learn Kiswahili. We have lunch made for us by a local mama and then get back to work, until around 5pm. Then I return home to my homestay.

I have to say, it is completely overwhelming. There is nothing here that is familiar to me. Except maybe the fruits. The language, the customs, the homes, the people, my surroundings, how I am expected to dress and act, everything is unfamiliar. It is overwhelming. It is even weird to go from class, which is more casual in that it’s taught by a Peace Corps Kiswahili teacher who cusses and is funny and laid back, and with my English speaking fellow PCTs – to return home to my homestay family where I am expected to act a certain way and everything is spoken in a language I don’t understand, and still, what is expected of me is confusing.

Slowly I am learning. Pole pole (slowly slowly – pronounced poe-lay poe-lay)

http://picasaweb.google.com/JennKunz/PeaceCorpsTraining?authkey=Gv1sRgCOv_-MnakNfidw#

It took me a long time to post these. So please appreciate. Nothing especially interesting but it gives you an idea of where I have spent my last week(s) (I really don't know how long I've been here and am too tired to figure it out right now. . .)

Monday June 22, 6:11 PM

I am sorry I haven’t written in a bit. They have been keeping us very busy with Kswahili and safety lessons and all sorts of fun talk about sex.

Yesterday, for the first time, we went into Dar es Salaam. They have been keeping us pretty sheltered in a nun-run complex outside of Dar, other than our trip to the Peace Corps office, which of course was another pretty sheltered space.

It was a Sunday and we were told that it was much less crowded than usual, although a lot of shops were open, I tried to imagine what it would look like on any other day. We walked about a half hour into town in small groups each with a staff member – some took dala dalas in (small buses) but our group decided to walk.

The city is beautiful, though the poverty is evident. The shopkeepers were kind, but in general people kept their distance. I bought a katenga which is a large piece of fabric that women wear either wrapped or get made into dresses our clothes. Some girls in the group got kangas which are slightly smaller and have a saying in Kiswahili on them. I also picked up some shampoo which was much more expensive than I thought it would be – and very hard to find – at least one that looked like it was meant for. . white people hair. I ended up finding a bottle of target brand 2in1 on the back of a shelf unpriced and paid about $7.50 for it. Hopefully I can stretch it for awhile.

I also got a dress, since my skirts are pushing the edge of modesty, and I want to have something to wear once I get to homestay where I will need to respect the more conservative expectations of dressing (including the before-mentioned no pants)

Dar was amass with different people – and different smells. I will have to get used to the strength of scent in this country, especially if I ever need to use the choo (bathroom) and am not near my own house.

In the afternoon part of the group rode a dala dala to a ferry, went to out to a peninsula, and way to a beach near a resort that was safe. We had 2 PCV escorts that led the way as we grasped our packs to our fronts and desperately stretched our Kiswahili skills.

The beach was beautiful, and peaceful, and it was the first break we have gotten since we got to staging however long ago that was. We all swam all afternoon and relaxed on the beach (and some even road a camel – but I was being cheap with my shillings, and decided to save for other things . . like toilet paper. )

We left the beach around dusk and climbed up the hill to where the dala dalas had dropped us off. Half the group got on one that I think had timed it’s return well to pick up our group. The rest of us split into groups of three or 4 after climbing up the long road to some houses, and stuffed (I mean STUFFED) ourselves into the dala dalas to make our way back to the ferry. We all met up safely, though, made our way to the ferry, and with the help of our savvy PCV guides, got ourselves onto another dala dala home. It was a good day.

Tomorrow, we leave for homestay. Early, around 7am. At homestay, each of us will live with a family. We will have our own room, and the family will help us learn Kiswahili, culture, cooking, cleaning, laundry, showering (bucket style) and all the other basics (like for us girls, how to make sure we dress appropriately and act appropriately, as there are SOOO many rules to follow here.)

I am nervous and excited. I will be entering into someone’s home to live with their family when I don’t know much of the language or the culture. I barely have a familiarity with my surroundings. I remind myself that they are excited to meet me and that they want to help me as a PCV, and they signed up to have someone live in their house for 8 weeks.

It will be an experience – I am sure – that will build my skillset of meeting new people even though I feel unprepared to communicate. In 8 weeks I will enter my village alone, without my fellow PCVs to turn to, and have to meet new people every day, until they become familiar, until the become friends.

I am going to try to upload some pictures with this blog post but I don’t know how it’ll go. The computers are slow in the internet café, and I have been typing some on my laptop, saving it to a USB thumbdrive and taking it over so I don’t have to fight with them (and pay for the time) The photos are of the place we are staying (that I am not allowed to tell you, in case you were wondering why it had been left out) and a few from the PC headquarters in Dar. I did not bring my camera to the trip yesterday because I didn’t want it to be a target. I brought almost nothing, after listening to stories of pick pocketing from other PCVs and being warned in particular about Dar. Three of our group where pick pocketed yesterday in Dar. I wish I could have photographed the city. The people. The beach. The pretty camel J But I have 2 years. I will need to become very comfortable with my surroundings, very aware, and probably made sure I know a lot of the people around me, before I show that I have anything of value that can be snatched.

I am sorry this is hastily written, I have to conserve laptop battery life, I don’t have much time as is. I still have some packing to do and some Kiswahili studying, and other reading. We are leaving so early tomorrow!

I hope all is well in the US of A. Please write me letters, as I will likely not have internet access for the next 8 weeks.

Now I’ll go see if I can post this. ..

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Today we went to Peace Corps headquarters. It was the first time we had ventured from the walls of the nun – run – complex we are staying since we arrived late evening on Tuesday. It seems like we have been here for so long, and at the same time, that time has flown so quickly. Soon enough we will be heading towards our homestays to live with families and begin a very intensive regime of Kiswahili.

Outside the gates, the poverty is apparent. I find myself observing the people to try to understand their mannerisms. I tried to see what the women were wearing, judging my own clothes in hopes that they are not too tight, short, or otherwise revealing. I know that when I am in my homestay and then at my post, the dress will likely be more conservative than here on the outskirts of Dar. I wish I brought longer looser skirts, and looser shirts. Hopefully on Sunday they will let us venture into Dar with PCV (Peace Corps Volunteer) guides and I can buy a kanga (cloth that is used to wrap around other clothing, or as clothing)

Inside the compound everyone is kind and greets you in Kiswahili – which I stop to try to stammer the appropriate reply. When I practice them in class I feel very confident, but when they are presented unexpectedly in a quick practiced tone, I usually end up replying ‘hi’ with an apologetic smile.

Tomorrow is more safety instructions, and now that I have been through town I truly understand the need for it. And immunizations, 4 more shots for me.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009 7:45pm

It is still impossible to fully grasp that for the next 27 months, I will call this beautiful country my home. Walking around the grounds of the nunnery that we are staying at for these first 8 days, it’s hard to even convince myself I am in Africa.

These next days will be long, filled with paperwork, medical information, rules, and a lot of Kiswahili – preparing us for the 8 weeks of training that we will be doing in Tonga. I am so tired from so many nights of not sleeping that it is barely possible for me to stay awake in the hot stuffy classroom, very much absorb what is being told to us. I am hoping to get a full night’s sleep tonight and perhaps feel human again tomorrow.

We each have our own room here in the nunnery. A bunk bed with mosquito nets, a small closet with shelves, a table, chair, sink, a toilet without a seat, and a shower head that puts you precariously close to standing in the toilet in order to shower. There is only one temperature of water, but it is room temperature, not cold, and it is hot here so it isn’t so bad at all. You have to make sure not to open your mouth while showering, because the tap water is unfiltered. We brush our teeth with boiled water and drink bottled water for now. They showed us during class today how we will make large filters for our water. We will have to boil it for 3 minutes, then pour it through a bucket/filter system to filter out the solids.

I had to take out my nose ring. Some current volunteers who are here to help with our training said that women in the villages wear them – Muslim women and Christian women, but it is still against PC policy.

My camera is locked up under my bed. I probably won’t even bring it out until after I am finished my training, even perhaps more than a month into my post. I have my little point and shoot and I will hopefully be able to post some pictures for you soon. I don’t know how much access I will have to the internet. I am writing this now because I know we will be going to PC headquarters tomorrow and have a little time planned in as internet time.

Tomorrow begins the real training. Friday we get more shots. .

Here I am in Philly, tomorrow I leave from JFK towards Tanzania. The flight will be ~18 hours with a 3 hour layover in Amsterdam (a slight recalculation on my previous estimate)

During our staging we were told that our first 8 days in Dar we will basically be 'compounded in' - not allowed to leave. This, of course, is for our safety. It also prevents us from being able to get internet access, phone access, be able to purchase cellphones (which they said eventually might be an option) or contact home in any way.

So don't worry about me if you don't hear from me for a little while. No news is good news.

I am exhausted, and not looking forward to check-out at 6:30am and getting my immunizations at 7am. Hopefully I'll be able to get a good night of sleep tonight. Goodnight all.

Today I packed up a truck with the help of some friends, said my final goodbyes, and drove away from the city I have come to call home.

Over the last few weeks I have been saying goodbye over and over, it seems, to everyone I see. It still hasn't sunk in that I will not see my friends for 27 months. You will be missed. But I will come home. I promise.

Information on Tanzania from

The Peace Corps Welcome Book

you can read all 107 pages at:

http://www.peacecorps.gov/welcomebooks/tzwb621.pdf

People and Culture: The population of Tanzania consists of more than 120 native African groups, the majority of whom speak a Bantu language. The largest groups are the Sukuma and the Nyamwezi, each representing about a fifth of the population. Tanzania is also home to people of Indian, Pakistani, and Goan origin, and small Arab and European communities. The population of Tanzania is estimated to be close to 32 million, giving the country a population density of 106 people per square mile. The population distribution is irregular, with high densities in the fertile areas around Mount Kilimanjaro and the shores of Lake Victoria and comparatively low densities in much of the interior. Muslims, Christians, and those with indigenous beliefs make up relatively equal proportions of Tanzania’s population. Muslims live mainly along the coast and on Zanzibar, while Christians reside primarily inland and in the larger cities. Animist beliefs are still strong in many areas of the country.

Economy: The economy of Tanzania is primarily agricultural. About 80 percent of the economically active population is engaged in farming, and agricultural products account for about 85 percent of annual exports. The country is the world’s largest producer of cloves. Other products include tea, coffee, cashew nuts, sisal, timber, and cotton. In recent years, the mining industry has developed significantly, with gold, tanzanite, and diamonds providing jobs and income. The manufacturing sector is small and growing slowly.

With per capita income at an estimated $270 a year in 2002, Tanzania is one of the poorest countries in the world.

History: Most experts agree that the earliest humans originated in fertile regions of East Africa. Cushitic-speaking people from southern Ethiopia migrated through the eastern part of the Great Rift Valley into north central Tanzania during the first millennium B.C. Early cattle herders found an unoccupied niche in the virgin grasslands and coexisted with the Khoisan hunters and gatherers who were already there. During the first millennium A.D., Bantu-speaking peoples originating from west central Africa filtered into western Tanzania and the fertile volcanic mountains of the northeast. These ironworking cultivators preferred wetter areas and thus avoided the dry savannas that were already occupied by hunters, gatherers and pastoralists. In its desire to establish an economic and political foothold among other European powers, a newly unified Germany entered mainland Tanzania in 1884 and signed a series of agreements with local rulers that ceded administrative and commercial protection to Germany. With the onset of World War I, Germany lost control of mainland Tanzania. Great Britain took over and renamed the mainland Tanganyika. In 1922, the League of Nations consigned Tanganyika to the British Empire under its mandate system. It was not until 1961 that Tanganyika gained independence from Britain, with Julius Nyerere serving as the country’s first president.

Government: The United Republic of Tanzania was formed on April 26, 1964, by the adoption of the Act of Union between Tanganyika and the islands of Zanzibar. The nation is governed under a Constitution formulated in 1977. The chief executive of Tanzania is a president, currently Jakaya Kikwete, who is elected by popular vote to a five-year term. The president appoints a vice president, prime minister, and cabinet.

Environment: The landscape of mainland Tanzania is generally flat along the coast, but a plateau with an average altitude of about 4,000 feet constitutes the majority of the country. Isolated mountain groups rise in the northeast and southwest. The volcanic Kilimanjaro (the highest mountain in Africa at 19,340 feet) is located near the northeastern border. Three of the great lakes of Africa lie on the Tanzanian border: Lake Victoria in the northwest, Lake Nyasa (also called Lake Malawi) in the southwest, and Lake Tanganyika in the west. The latter two rivers lie in the Great Rift Valley, a tremendous geological fault system that extends from the Middle East to Mozambique.

Peace Corps in Tanzania: Peace Corps Volunteers first arrived in Tanzania (then called Tanganyika) in 1962. Since then, approximately 2,000 Volunteers have served in Tanzania, working in education, health, the environment, and agriculture. In the early years of Peace Corps/Tanzania, most Volunteers focused on education.

As a relatively small player in a country of almost 36 million people, Peace Corps/Tanzania recognizes the need for a strategic vision that focuses on niche areas, where a small number of dedicated Volunteers can make a significant difference. Our projects are in areas where we can play a catalytic or model-building role while meeting Tanzania’s real, identified needs. Thus, our projects in education, health, and the environment have the potential to make a real difference in Tanzania. Our focus on youth, particularly in the areas of environmental education, empowerment of girls, and HIV/AIDS prevention and care, serves our overall “country theme,” as it empowers young people to take greater control of their lives and to be responsible, active members of their communities.

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