"Hello Darkness, my old friend, I've come to talk with you again because a vision softly creeping left it's seeds while I was sleeping and the vision that was planted in my brain still remains, within the sound of silence." -Simon and Garfunkel
November 20, 2009
A cow watched me pee today- it's head stuck through my outhouse window. I only felt slightly violated, it is "My Cow" after all.
One of God's worst creations is enjoying entering my house these days- no it is not the siyafu, those were a bad idea too. It is like a cochroach, but smaller and lighter colored and great! (sarcasm here) it can fly! Now all it need to do is transmit AIDS and it becomes my worst nightmare. They make a horrible clicking/buzzing sound when they fly, not like a bee, like something gross. For someone who is outdoorsy, lives in Africa and likes animals- I still hate bugs. Luckily, my cats have decided that this bugs extinction is up to them. They make flying leaps into the air knocking them stunned to the ground and then crunch, crunch crunch... gone. Yuck.
Is your life pathetic if you dream about food every night? What is you dream about silly foods? Last night it was Toby's Tofu Pate. I could see the container, I opened it, salivated and then woke up. I could almost taste it. Lately, every morning the second before I am completely conscious, I think I am in America. This is weird because I have slept in this room for over a year. The worst was the morning that I thought I could hear my Dad making breakfast and I jumped up to go eat with him, before realizing where I was.
I can barely move today. Yesterday I dug with a hoe for five straight hours. I told Mama Max that i would help her on the farm, but when my alarm went off at 5.30 am and I awoke to drizzle and gray skies, all I wanted to do was crawl back into bed. But can Mama Max do that? Can any Tanzanian woman just sleep in? No, this is about what we are going to eat. With that I got up and braved the elements and physical labor. I actually enjoyed being on the farm. What a great female bonding experience. Every women slightly related to Mama Max was there with their hoe. We lined up shoulder to sholder like a small female army and truged forward, turning the soil. My hands were bleeding almost immediately but I forced them on, even thought the women tried to make me stop. However, since I am Image's full idea of what an American is, I force myself often through painful or uncomfortable situations just to prove what Americans are made of. I might be a woman who is used to a dishwasher, washing machine, shower and sitting at a desk in front of a computer, but i refuse to let them believe that I am weak or can't. Sometimes i wonder what would happen if I always lived like this- with a "can-do" attitude- "I can do it," "I am not afraid," "I am not hurt," "I can eat it," " I can wear it," "I can sit in the dirt," "I can... I can... I can..." What could I possibly accomplished that I previously thought I couldn't? What if we all lived like this? What if we all always tried our hardest and didn't complain because we were representing an entire country and culture? What would the world be like?
Anyways, it pours rain off and on but I laugh with the women as the rain runs down our faces and makes my hair stick out at every angle possible. I pretend I am going to take a hot shower when this is all over. My favorite part is being with the little girls- they are care-free and lugh, but are hard workers, they will have to work like this for the rest of their lives. Maxillia, Mama Max's second child who is 11 years old, tells me story after story. Grace, a five year old distant cousin, hoes and hoes, until I am pretty sure that she is stronger than I am. My whole body hurts and my hands are raw, but there is some satisfaction there, sometimes it feels good to serve others and be part of something.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Riding in Cars With Boys
"If these are life's lessons she'll take this test. She needs wide open spaces, room to make a big mistake, she needs new faces, she knows the high stakes, she knows the high stakes..." - Dixie Chicks
Novemeber 18, 2009
Now that Image is used to me, my appearence at village things hardly surprises them. So I do things to "up my profile"- this is my chance to be famous after all, for once in my life no one looks like me. I do things that people will least expect. For example: I learned how to cook pombe (home brewed alcohol that looks and tastes like vomit) with a bunch of bibis (grandmothers). I learned how to play some game that all the babus (grandfathers) play that makes no sense and people told me that only old people can play it... well, Brie now can too. I kiss little dirty village kids, hold their hands and tell them that I love them. At the meeting with all the vijana (young men) about how they are supposed to stay away from my house, I tell them that if any of them come through my window again, I will go "Lorena Bobitt" on them. They laugh but they believe me. It was a good threat. I find jobs at two mgahawas (cafes/beer shacks) and one duka (shop) where i surprise people by working when I feel like it (I work for free after all!) I take the guys to visit my owl and crack up when they are terrified. The fuuny thing is these stories follow me around, I even get to hear the third or fourth hand. "I heard you threw 200 condoms ar the guys in the bar today and then walked out." Yep- true story.
Anyways, my antics keep me interesting and while I am interesting, people want my ideas, adivce and company. Today I decide I am going to paint the checker board at Mama Max's Mgahawa, because the red squares are entirely impossible to see from too much use. I take my red acrylic paint and go to work. Then I write around the edge "Use Condoms" in swahili, surrounded my hearts. This makes all the guys laugh. Osmond shows up and I ask him what he is going to do today. "We are going to work." "Work?" I say, like I have never heard the word, which from village men, I pretty much never do. He has just bought the worst Land Rover in human history. It is a Flintstone car, you can see the ground as you go because there is no floor. None of the doors fully close and only the windsheild still has gas. You have to push it to get it to start. So when he invites me to come along, the prospect of riding in it is fully awesome! "Great!'" I respond. The guys are out of money for beer, so we need to cut some trees. This is not really like deforestation- timber is our main livlihood, so we are constantly replanting pines.
Unfortunately for this little outting, I am Tanzanian woman dressed, complete with a long tight skirt and heels. I get into the front seat (if you can call it that) and hold my feet up so they don't drag. Puce, Joeseph and Stanly all effortlessly sit on nothing or stand on the back bumper. Nicky rides on the roof. We go complete bush four-bying over old cornfeilds, between banana trees and into the forest. What cracks me up about the whole event is how suddenly my rough, rural TZ guys are all super concerned about me. Osmond asks me, "Are you scared? You can get out if you want," as we plow over a ridge. "No", I reply, smiling. I am not sure how to translate, "Hell no! This is my African Indiana Jones adventure!" (He wouldn't get the reference anyways.) I ditch the heels when we park, so everyone offers to carry me, I refuse that, so then everyone's shoes are offered, which I also refuse, preferring like always to go barefoot. Tanzanians and their hospitality though, geez. I lay on my back in the grass surrounded by wildflowers. Puce comes over with the equivillant of "bush grapes" and another "fruit" I have never seen before. I'll question Tanzanians about a lot of things but what is safe to eat in the bush is not one of them. After an hour, they declare that is enough. We load back into (or out of) the "car" but all the guys have to jump in when it is actually moving, because first they have to push us out of the ravine.
Back in the village, my bush story arrives before I do- was I afraid? How did Osmond drive? Why would I go into the woods ? The guys brag- she even went barefoot, she wasn't scared at all. My villagers look surprised, Americans sure are weird people.
Novemeber 18, 2009
Now that Image is used to me, my appearence at village things hardly surprises them. So I do things to "up my profile"- this is my chance to be famous after all, for once in my life no one looks like me. I do things that people will least expect. For example: I learned how to cook pombe (home brewed alcohol that looks and tastes like vomit) with a bunch of bibis (grandmothers). I learned how to play some game that all the babus (grandfathers) play that makes no sense and people told me that only old people can play it... well, Brie now can too. I kiss little dirty village kids, hold their hands and tell them that I love them. At the meeting with all the vijana (young men) about how they are supposed to stay away from my house, I tell them that if any of them come through my window again, I will go "Lorena Bobitt" on them. They laugh but they believe me. It was a good threat. I find jobs at two mgahawas (cafes/beer shacks) and one duka (shop) where i surprise people by working when I feel like it (I work for free after all!) I take the guys to visit my owl and crack up when they are terrified. The fuuny thing is these stories follow me around, I even get to hear the third or fourth hand. "I heard you threw 200 condoms ar the guys in the bar today and then walked out." Yep- true story.
Anyways, my antics keep me interesting and while I am interesting, people want my ideas, adivce and company. Today I decide I am going to paint the checker board at Mama Max's Mgahawa, because the red squares are entirely impossible to see from too much use. I take my red acrylic paint and go to work. Then I write around the edge "Use Condoms" in swahili, surrounded my hearts. This makes all the guys laugh. Osmond shows up and I ask him what he is going to do today. "We are going to work." "Work?" I say, like I have never heard the word, which from village men, I pretty much never do. He has just bought the worst Land Rover in human history. It is a Flintstone car, you can see the ground as you go because there is no floor. None of the doors fully close and only the windsheild still has gas. You have to push it to get it to start. So when he invites me to come along, the prospect of riding in it is fully awesome! "Great!'" I respond. The guys are out of money for beer, so we need to cut some trees. This is not really like deforestation- timber is our main livlihood, so we are constantly replanting pines.
Unfortunately for this little outting, I am Tanzanian woman dressed, complete with a long tight skirt and heels. I get into the front seat (if you can call it that) and hold my feet up so they don't drag. Puce, Joeseph and Stanly all effortlessly sit on nothing or stand on the back bumper. Nicky rides on the roof. We go complete bush four-bying over old cornfeilds, between banana trees and into the forest. What cracks me up about the whole event is how suddenly my rough, rural TZ guys are all super concerned about me. Osmond asks me, "Are you scared? You can get out if you want," as we plow over a ridge. "No", I reply, smiling. I am not sure how to translate, "Hell no! This is my African Indiana Jones adventure!" (He wouldn't get the reference anyways.) I ditch the heels when we park, so everyone offers to carry me, I refuse that, so then everyone's shoes are offered, which I also refuse, preferring like always to go barefoot. Tanzanians and their hospitality though, geez. I lay on my back in the grass surrounded by wildflowers. Puce comes over with the equivillant of "bush grapes" and another "fruit" I have never seen before. I'll question Tanzanians about a lot of things but what is safe to eat in the bush is not one of them. After an hour, they declare that is enough. We load back into (or out of) the "car" but all the guys have to jump in when it is actually moving, because first they have to push us out of the ravine.
Back in the village, my bush story arrives before I do- was I afraid? How did Osmond drive? Why would I go into the woods ? The guys brag- she even went barefoot, she wasn't scared at all. My villagers look surprised, Americans sure are weird people.
Jen's Village
* So I am about a month behind in blog entries. Don't freak out they are all hand written, but it is going to take me a while to catch this thing up. And since I am a person who likes to tell stories from the beginning, I will not jump ahead, so bear with me.
"...The Eskimos had fifty-two names for snow because it was important to them; there ought to be as many for love." - Margaret Atwood
11/13- 11/15
I have a weird affliction. Everyone in my group of PCVs are sick of their villages, they are tired of being here, and feeling like they cannot make enough changes. My affliction is- I am not. Sure I get frustrated a few moments, but my villagers? They could not be any better. Next to the state of Oregon, this is my favorite place in the world. This small area in Africa houses people I love immensely, beauty I have found no where else. If anything, Image Village has only assisted in my romance with Africa- which is interesting because my love of this country has been tested and tried but somehow remains. I hate leaving Image, even for the day. I have this anxious feeling- what is happening there? I wonder if he is sick? If she is better? What did Mama Max cook? Did Felix open his shop on time? Did puce get in another (!) motorcycle accident? Who is holding Anna? Did Mama Suze have her baby yet? Are Giza and Kimulimuli still being fed? Did anyone remember to bathe Lau? You get the idea- as minor as these things may seem they now make up my life and not knowing the answers is weird.
I love Jen though. She calls me daily- lonely and missing Image (I understand) she begs me to visit the village she has been relocated to, so I finally agree to step out of Image. I am actually nervous about spending so much time non-stop with a Tanzanian, even one who is my best friend. I have always been allowed private space from them, a door to close. Jen meets me in Njombe- she is thrilled. Her village is near Makambako, a town north of Njombe.
The good thing about the whole visit is it reminds me of how far I have come in Image. Her village has never had a volunteer. Everyone yells, "mzungu", no one would day call me that today in Image. People talk about me in front of me like I am not there and do not understand. everyone stares non-stop, today in Image, I have to do crazy things to get people to even look twice at me. I get pestered with questions about Americans that people in my own village have known the answer to for over a year. Her teachers try to tell me, "Wouldn't you rather live here? We have regular bus service, water pumps and cell service. We are 'developed'." I think to myself- sure that would be easier. Then I look around at the lack of my people, my friends, the Image villagers who have given me everything especially their hearts. I look around at the lack of tall pine trees, deep ravines and pristine Image air. The missing rustic, rural, Tanzanian, bush- no roads, no other villages, nothing for as far as the eye can see. This is not Image. "Nope", I respond confidently. Easier is not necessarily better. In fact, one could argue that it is worse, it is certainly less exciting. So just like my heart resides on five acres outside of Oregon City, it also stay bush-bound, which to me means Image.
My days with Jen are unfortunately non-stop eating, the primary way of showing love to a guest is to cook good food, and Jen knows all the food I like. So I eat my body weight in food everyday. It is like home stay and once again I become some one's Barbie. She braids my hair, tells me what to wear, sprays me with perfume, tells me when it is time to bathe, and tucks me in at night.
However, I like it. I think there is such a thing as being on your own so long, looking out for yourself so much that it is nice to have someone care for you. Nice to have someone hold your hand and love you, nice to feel dependant. Jen cries when I leave, but secretly Image calls- I have to go home.
"...The Eskimos had fifty-two names for snow because it was important to them; there ought to be as many for love." - Margaret Atwood
11/13- 11/15
I have a weird affliction. Everyone in my group of PCVs are sick of their villages, they are tired of being here, and feeling like they cannot make enough changes. My affliction is- I am not. Sure I get frustrated a few moments, but my villagers? They could not be any better. Next to the state of Oregon, this is my favorite place in the world. This small area in Africa houses people I love immensely, beauty I have found no where else. If anything, Image Village has only assisted in my romance with Africa- which is interesting because my love of this country has been tested and tried but somehow remains. I hate leaving Image, even for the day. I have this anxious feeling- what is happening there? I wonder if he is sick? If she is better? What did Mama Max cook? Did Felix open his shop on time? Did puce get in another (!) motorcycle accident? Who is holding Anna? Did Mama Suze have her baby yet? Are Giza and Kimulimuli still being fed? Did anyone remember to bathe Lau? You get the idea- as minor as these things may seem they now make up my life and not knowing the answers is weird.
I love Jen though. She calls me daily- lonely and missing Image (I understand) she begs me to visit the village she has been relocated to, so I finally agree to step out of Image. I am actually nervous about spending so much time non-stop with a Tanzanian, even one who is my best friend. I have always been allowed private space from them, a door to close. Jen meets me in Njombe- she is thrilled. Her village is near Makambako, a town north of Njombe.
The good thing about the whole visit is it reminds me of how far I have come in Image. Her village has never had a volunteer. Everyone yells, "mzungu", no one would day call me that today in Image. People talk about me in front of me like I am not there and do not understand. everyone stares non-stop, today in Image, I have to do crazy things to get people to even look twice at me. I get pestered with questions about Americans that people in my own village have known the answer to for over a year. Her teachers try to tell me, "Wouldn't you rather live here? We have regular bus service, water pumps and cell service. We are 'developed'." I think to myself- sure that would be easier. Then I look around at the lack of my people, my friends, the Image villagers who have given me everything especially their hearts. I look around at the lack of tall pine trees, deep ravines and pristine Image air. The missing rustic, rural, Tanzanian, bush- no roads, no other villages, nothing for as far as the eye can see. This is not Image. "Nope", I respond confidently. Easier is not necessarily better. In fact, one could argue that it is worse, it is certainly less exciting. So just like my heart resides on five acres outside of Oregon City, it also stay bush-bound, which to me means Image.
My days with Jen are unfortunately non-stop eating, the primary way of showing love to a guest is to cook good food, and Jen knows all the food I like. So I eat my body weight in food everyday. It is like home stay and once again I become some one's Barbie. She braids my hair, tells me what to wear, sprays me with perfume, tells me when it is time to bathe, and tucks me in at night.
However, I like it. I think there is such a thing as being on your own so long, looking out for yourself so much that it is nice to have someone care for you. Nice to have someone hold your hand and love you, nice to feel dependant. Jen cries when I leave, but secretly Image calls- I have to go home.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Giza
"She's out on the highway She's got a homemade sign it says Go ahead try to figure out What my future looks like I don't want to live my life like a story Always thinkin I could've been something Don't run along side and control me Just film away and let me be At ease I, I feel fine I'll go on, I move on There's something so divided Don't worry about me I'll be fine Don't live your life for me or for anyone Live your life as if you're one Live your life as if you're one And find quiet, it's awful quiet " -Tegan and Sara
November 9, 2009
My loneliness led me into the trap that is Giza. I love my villagers but in many ways they are a poor replacement for who I used to be. I used to be the oldest sibling of a big American family with amazing parents. Beautiful is a word that often gets thrown in with my name. "Beautiful Brie", people don't care if it is factual as long as they like the alliteration. I have been teaching William English and even he has picked up putting the two words together, although to be fair Juster has always done it, so he probably just picked it up from her. We have a sad conversation though (in Swahili, his english sucks), "What will happen when you leave?" He asks. "Someone else will come." I say. "But they will not be you." "No, they won't be." I agree. "What am I supposed to do?" "The same thing you always did." I answer. "Africa will call you back." He confidently says. "I know." I say equally as confidently. (I think Africa has it's own way of making phone calls to those who feel it within themselves.) "But you cannot leave, because we love you." "I know." I say (I can't say anything else.) But I wonder if Peace Corps really brings cultures together or rips them apart. I wonder about who I used to be, who I will never be again. I remember the beautiful, charismatic, funny, elite group of six people that somehow I got randomly added to. That I get the privilege to call my family, how I have no idea, but I got extremely lucky. I remember that I used to have best friends I spoke English with. I used to look forward to the acadamy awards and a hot shower. For the last decade, I used to have some sort of boyfriend. I used to think I was scholarly, I loved Art History and Shakespeare. I used to be a Kappa Kappa Gamma sorority sister and wear black high heels and red lipstick, I used to revise grants to provide aid to Sudan, I drove a car, I drank wine, I used to sit in Powell's Books and dream about all the places I might go... I used to have a million terms to define myself. I am not sure that there are any anymore.
I thought I liked the company of myself, which I guess I have grown tired of- turns out I am no as cool/interesting/fun as I thought. That is where Kimulimuli comes in and I get a bit insane believing that he is fluent in both Kiswahili and English (which funnily enough he sort of is). In Tanzania, he is my family and like all animals he loves me unconditionally. I guess that is why I fell for Giza. I needed to feel a bit more love in my life.
I was visiting my Bibi (grandmother) whose cat has just had kittens. "Five!" I exclaimed. "Yes, but that one will die." She said matter of factly pointing to the little mostly black one with one orange toe and and orange stripe down her nose. "Why?" I asked looking at the healthy kitten. She looked at me like this was a stupid question, "Because everybody knows that black cats are inhabited by witches." Oh yeah, right. I forgot. I beg her to keep the little black one for me, but first Mzee Ngoda must come and do some sort of exorcism on it, so we are sure that it is safe. (Now that she lives with my I am not sure that the exorcism was entirely effective...) But she is allowed to go live with me. If there is an animal more pathetic than Kimulimuli, it has to be Giza. Unlike Muli, she is beautiful, but she drives us both crazy. She is too eager, constantly meowing, and much to both Muli and my dismay is afraid of thunderstorms. She takes turns following one of us around like we are both gods. Muli has zero patience for her and as I trip over her for the 28th time that day I have minimal patience. But some how as I cuddle her and she mews so pathetically, I love her. My Buddhist principle reminds me you must have the darkness to have the light. Kimulimuli literally means firefly, but also to light up or illuminate. Giza means darkness, obscurity or gloom. Now I am stuck with them- my African cat family. At least Kimulimuli earns his keep with his exceptional hunting skills. We shall see if Giz ever amounts to anything besides being small and obsessed with me. Muli and Giz try to make me feel less alone, but what can you really expect from two scrawny African cats?
November 9, 2009
My loneliness led me into the trap that is Giza. I love my villagers but in many ways they are a poor replacement for who I used to be. I used to be the oldest sibling of a big American family with amazing parents. Beautiful is a word that often gets thrown in with my name. "Beautiful Brie", people don't care if it is factual as long as they like the alliteration. I have been teaching William English and even he has picked up putting the two words together, although to be fair Juster has always done it, so he probably just picked it up from her. We have a sad conversation though (in Swahili, his english sucks), "What will happen when you leave?" He asks. "Someone else will come." I say. "But they will not be you." "No, they won't be." I agree. "What am I supposed to do?" "The same thing you always did." I answer. "Africa will call you back." He confidently says. "I know." I say equally as confidently. (I think Africa has it's own way of making phone calls to those who feel it within themselves.) "But you cannot leave, because we love you." "I know." I say (I can't say anything else.) But I wonder if Peace Corps really brings cultures together or rips them apart. I wonder about who I used to be, who I will never be again. I remember the beautiful, charismatic, funny, elite group of six people that somehow I got randomly added to. That I get the privilege to call my family, how I have no idea, but I got extremely lucky. I remember that I used to have best friends I spoke English with. I used to look forward to the acadamy awards and a hot shower. For the last decade, I used to have some sort of boyfriend. I used to think I was scholarly, I loved Art History and Shakespeare. I used to be a Kappa Kappa Gamma sorority sister and wear black high heels and red lipstick, I used to revise grants to provide aid to Sudan, I drove a car, I drank wine, I used to sit in Powell's Books and dream about all the places I might go... I used to have a million terms to define myself. I am not sure that there are any anymore.
I thought I liked the company of myself, which I guess I have grown tired of- turns out I am no as cool/interesting/fun as I thought. That is where Kimulimuli comes in and I get a bit insane believing that he is fluent in both Kiswahili and English (which funnily enough he sort of is). In Tanzania, he is my family and like all animals he loves me unconditionally. I guess that is why I fell for Giza. I needed to feel a bit more love in my life.
I was visiting my Bibi (grandmother) whose cat has just had kittens. "Five!" I exclaimed. "Yes, but that one will die." She said matter of factly pointing to the little mostly black one with one orange toe and and orange stripe down her nose. "Why?" I asked looking at the healthy kitten. She looked at me like this was a stupid question, "Because everybody knows that black cats are inhabited by witches." Oh yeah, right. I forgot. I beg her to keep the little black one for me, but first Mzee Ngoda must come and do some sort of exorcism on it, so we are sure that it is safe. (Now that she lives with my I am not sure that the exorcism was entirely effective...) But she is allowed to go live with me. If there is an animal more pathetic than Kimulimuli, it has to be Giza. Unlike Muli, she is beautiful, but she drives us both crazy. She is too eager, constantly meowing, and much to both Muli and my dismay is afraid of thunderstorms. She takes turns following one of us around like we are both gods. Muli has zero patience for her and as I trip over her for the 28th time that day I have minimal patience. But some how as I cuddle her and she mews so pathetically, I love her. My Buddhist principle reminds me you must have the darkness to have the light. Kimulimuli literally means firefly, but also to light up or illuminate. Giza means darkness, obscurity or gloom. Now I am stuck with them- my African cat family. At least Kimulimuli earns his keep with his exceptional hunting skills. We shall see if Giz ever amounts to anything besides being small and obsessed with me. Muli and Giz try to make me feel less alone, but what can you really expect from two scrawny African cats?
First Rains
"The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware." -Henry Miller
November 7, 2009
I have kept pretty quiet about this but we ran out of water here in Image Village. Our ravines dried up- the students went down with shovels to dig for water but found minimal supplies. So the men got on their motorcycles and hauled back water from other villages, women walked for miles in search of our most precious resource. It turned out that cooking and drinking were the only things we still did with water. No one bathed, no one washed clothes- let's just say everyone smelled great... Brie is not someone who enjoys being dirty and likes to smell good. My parents love to tell the story of when I was little and would fall down, then waddle over to them and say "dirty" as I held out my hand for it to be cleaned. I would like to think that I am a little less "princess-y" now, but I have perfected the art of bathing all the "stinky parts" in about an inch of water. A dry season is normal in Tanzania. It hasn't rained since April or May and usually this is fine. I am not sure what the problem was this year but it was a problem.
In the Southern Highlands, the rain comes like nothing you have ever seen before. It was a sunny morning and around 3 pm it got so dark it was like night. Clouds rolled in black and menacing. First I heard thunder that rocked the hills then off over the rolling landscape, I saw the jagged lightning reach it's fingers down for the earth. I love lightning, I always have, I get some sort of high from it. Apparently Kimulimuli, my little firefly cat, was aptly named because he ran around house looking like an owl. I stood outside and watched it come. Suddenly the sky opened up- RAIN. Maybe because I am an Oregonian, maybe because I am a fire sign and need something to balance me out, but I need the rain. I let it wash over me, watched it trail through the dust, leaving white snail trails on my skin. I bathed in it, I opened my mouth and drank it, I danced in it. I put my dishes outside that have not been washed in forever but i just keep using. I brushed my teeth. I did everything you can possibly do with unlimited water. I could only focus on the rain and the deafening sound of it on my tin roof- nothing else could be heard until the thunder would unleash it's anger from above. Kimulimuli took advantage of the storm to go on a killing spree. Anything escaping into the house was fair game to him- including two huge rats, a lizard, many spiders, centipedes and other unknown bugs. I just twirled around finally clean- and thanked nature for its beauty, for providing for us, for its unknowable plan, for its magic.
November 7, 2009
I have kept pretty quiet about this but we ran out of water here in Image Village. Our ravines dried up- the students went down with shovels to dig for water but found minimal supplies. So the men got on their motorcycles and hauled back water from other villages, women walked for miles in search of our most precious resource. It turned out that cooking and drinking were the only things we still did with water. No one bathed, no one washed clothes- let's just say everyone smelled great... Brie is not someone who enjoys being dirty and likes to smell good. My parents love to tell the story of when I was little and would fall down, then waddle over to them and say "dirty" as I held out my hand for it to be cleaned. I would like to think that I am a little less "princess-y" now, but I have perfected the art of bathing all the "stinky parts" in about an inch of water. A dry season is normal in Tanzania. It hasn't rained since April or May and usually this is fine. I am not sure what the problem was this year but it was a problem.
In the Southern Highlands, the rain comes like nothing you have ever seen before. It was a sunny morning and around 3 pm it got so dark it was like night. Clouds rolled in black and menacing. First I heard thunder that rocked the hills then off over the rolling landscape, I saw the jagged lightning reach it's fingers down for the earth. I love lightning, I always have, I get some sort of high from it. Apparently Kimulimuli, my little firefly cat, was aptly named because he ran around house looking like an owl. I stood outside and watched it come. Suddenly the sky opened up- RAIN. Maybe because I am an Oregonian, maybe because I am a fire sign and need something to balance me out, but I need the rain. I let it wash over me, watched it trail through the dust, leaving white snail trails on my skin. I bathed in it, I opened my mouth and drank it, I danced in it. I put my dishes outside that have not been washed in forever but i just keep using. I brushed my teeth. I did everything you can possibly do with unlimited water. I could only focus on the rain and the deafening sound of it on my tin roof- nothing else could be heard until the thunder would unleash it's anger from above. Kimulimuli took advantage of the storm to go on a killing spree. Anything escaping into the house was fair game to him- including two huge rats, a lizard, many spiders, centipedes and other unknown bugs. I just twirled around finally clean- and thanked nature for its beauty, for providing for us, for its unknowable plan, for its magic.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Halloween and other Random Moments that Make up my Life
October 31, 2009
Halloween- the end of the Pagan year. So much to let go of, so much to be thankful for. This was one of my weirdest ones yet and there wasn't even any costumes involved.
Jen came to visit Image for the weekend and I could not have been more happy to see her. It has only been a little more than a month since she left but her presence is like a breath of fresh air. She is so easy to love. Almost everyone in Image is sick right now, I don't know how I have escaped the plague. Margaret has aptly called it "The season of death." So because mama Latifah (Mwalimu Monika) is sick right now, Jen and I ended up walk hours to her farm to burn it for her. The corn has all dies, so all Tanzanians burn their farms around this time- they do it at dusk. It is sort of unreal being in a burning cornfield, under an almost full moon in Africa on Halloween.
Eventually we realize that it is very dark and we are nearer to a "neighboring" village than we are to our own. We walk the mile or so there in the dark, William is there drinking beer with some guys and is surprised to see us stumble out of the bush in the dark. I am just relieved I did not see any snakes. Jen and William both think that we should haggle for a ride to get back to Image. The ride negotiations commence and I decide that I am worthless in this negotiation process and I am exhausted, so lie down in the grass. I piss William off because he tells me to get up but I pretend I don't understand him (This is like day one Kiswahili training), so he ignores me and I actually drift into snooze mode. (Geez, I must trust these two.) Luckily, I wake up for the funniest part of the whole conversation. They are debating about price.
Potential Driver: You can pay it. She is white. Tell her it is more and we can split her money later.
William: She is fluent in Swahili, so she understands you. Plus she is not white.
Driver: Yes, she is. She is white! We can make some money.
William: You have made a big mistake. She is my best friend and she is not white.
Driver: You're her best friend?
William: Yeah, Jen and I. (Adamantly) She is not white!
Driver: Okay, okay.
I am cracking up. My whiteness is the last thing I thought that could be debated. I finally get home. Mjemah shows up at my house with Anna in his arms (flanked by my two guards...geez). It is turning into a huge problem because Anna prefers to sleep at my house and won't go to sleep at home anymore. She is asleep within minutes of entering my arms. I make a fire in the fireplace, pop popcorn, drink pumpkin spice tea, and start "Twilight", the vampire series that all the Njombe girls are addicted to. There are no pumpkins, no trick-or-treaters, no candy, no orange lights, no big harvest celebration. But I am here and I celebrate alone which I have learned is the way that some things should be celebrated.
I crawl into bed next to Anna, who awakes at 2 am crying. I somehow remember how to ask her in Swahili if she had a bad dream. She nods and I hold her against me and tell her that "her Brie" is here and sing her the words that I can remember from the songs my parents sang to me when I was little. Soon she is back asleep, using my chest as a pillow- probably the cushiest part- one of her arms grips around me, and the other reaches up, fingers intertwined in my hair- I can only miss my mom, and the way I used to sleep. The weight of her body is strangely comforting. And i hold her small dark body against my large white one- so different, but so the same.
Halloween- the end of the Pagan year. So much to let go of, so much to be thankful for. This was one of my weirdest ones yet and there wasn't even any costumes involved.
Jen came to visit Image for the weekend and I could not have been more happy to see her. It has only been a little more than a month since she left but her presence is like a breath of fresh air. She is so easy to love. Almost everyone in Image is sick right now, I don't know how I have escaped the plague. Margaret has aptly called it "The season of death." So because mama Latifah (Mwalimu Monika) is sick right now, Jen and I ended up walk hours to her farm to burn it for her. The corn has all dies, so all Tanzanians burn their farms around this time- they do it at dusk. It is sort of unreal being in a burning cornfield, under an almost full moon in Africa on Halloween.
Eventually we realize that it is very dark and we are nearer to a "neighboring" village than we are to our own. We walk the mile or so there in the dark, William is there drinking beer with some guys and is surprised to see us stumble out of the bush in the dark. I am just relieved I did not see any snakes. Jen and William both think that we should haggle for a ride to get back to Image. The ride negotiations commence and I decide that I am worthless in this negotiation process and I am exhausted, so lie down in the grass. I piss William off because he tells me to get up but I pretend I don't understand him (This is like day one Kiswahili training), so he ignores me and I actually drift into snooze mode. (Geez, I must trust these two.) Luckily, I wake up for the funniest part of the whole conversation. They are debating about price.
Potential Driver: You can pay it. She is white. Tell her it is more and we can split her money later.
William: She is fluent in Swahili, so she understands you. Plus she is not white.
Driver: Yes, she is. She is white! We can make some money.
William: You have made a big mistake. She is my best friend and she is not white.
Driver: You're her best friend?
William: Yeah, Jen and I. (Adamantly) She is not white!
Driver: Okay, okay.
I am cracking up. My whiteness is the last thing I thought that could be debated. I finally get home. Mjemah shows up at my house with Anna in his arms (flanked by my two guards...geez). It is turning into a huge problem because Anna prefers to sleep at my house and won't go to sleep at home anymore. She is asleep within minutes of entering my arms. I make a fire in the fireplace, pop popcorn, drink pumpkin spice tea, and start "Twilight", the vampire series that all the Njombe girls are addicted to. There are no pumpkins, no trick-or-treaters, no candy, no orange lights, no big harvest celebration. But I am here and I celebrate alone which I have learned is the way that some things should be celebrated.
I crawl into bed next to Anna, who awakes at 2 am crying. I somehow remember how to ask her in Swahili if she had a bad dream. She nods and I hold her against me and tell her that "her Brie" is here and sing her the words that I can remember from the songs my parents sang to me when I was little. Soon she is back asleep, using my chest as a pillow- probably the cushiest part- one of her arms grips around me, and the other reaches up, fingers intertwined in my hair- I can only miss my mom, and the way I used to sleep. The weight of her body is strangely comforting. And i hold her small dark body against my large white one- so different, but so the same.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Book of the Month: November
November's Book is :
"Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close" By Jonathan Safran Foer (He's the one who wrote "Everything is Illuminated" which was also a great book.)
Through the eyes of an incredibly precocious and extremely funny nine-year-old narrator, Jonathan Safran Foer tells a story of the effects of death on Oskar Schell and his family. Oskar's father was killed in the Twin Towers terrorist attack. Oskar's grandparents witnessed similar terrorists' attacks during World War II. The consequences of these horrid deaths have marked the psyches of the main characters in Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close in different, but equally painful ways.
Totally uniquely and beautifully written. Don't let the 9/11 stuff fool you, this book has a lot more substance to it. I loved loved it. It is eye opening and not depressing like it sounds.
Dad- You have to read this book. It talks about the things we always think about...
Other books I really liked this month:
"Eyes, Breathe, Memory" By Eldwidge Danticat. Super intense, but detailed novel about the lives of Haitian women.
"My Sister's Keeper" By Jodi Picoult. Think a lot of people have probably read this, but I had not. Tear-jerker. Made me realize that I would give any part of my body if it meant saving either of my sisters' lives, and hopefully will never have to.
"Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close" By Jonathan Safran Foer (He's the one who wrote "Everything is Illuminated" which was also a great book.)
Through the eyes of an incredibly precocious and extremely funny nine-year-old narrator, Jonathan Safran Foer tells a story of the effects of death on Oskar Schell and his family. Oskar's father was killed in the Twin Towers terrorist attack. Oskar's grandparents witnessed similar terrorists' attacks during World War II. The consequences of these horrid deaths have marked the psyches of the main characters in Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close in different, but equally painful ways.
Totally uniquely and beautifully written. Don't let the 9/11 stuff fool you, this book has a lot more substance to it. I loved loved it. It is eye opening and not depressing like it sounds.
Dad- You have to read this book. It talks about the things we always think about...
Other books I really liked this month:
"Eyes, Breathe, Memory" By Eldwidge Danticat. Super intense, but detailed novel about the lives of Haitian women.
"My Sister's Keeper" By Jodi Picoult. Think a lot of people have probably read this, but I had not. Tear-jerker. Made me realize that I would give any part of my body if it meant saving either of my sisters' lives, and hopefully will never have to.
Exhuastion and Elation
“It’s four-thirty on a Tuesday, doesn’t get much worse than this, and beds in little rooms in buildings in these lives which are completely meaningless… I’m tryin’ to keep myself away from myself and me.” –Counting Crows
October 18-24, 2009
I listen to some old CD that some long gone PCV left behind, we don’t get a lot of music choices here and it takes me back to about seventh grade when Sugar Ray sings, “I just want to fly, put your arms around me, baby”. I put my arms around myself because I am cold but also because I have no one to put their arms around me, I am alone.
It is commonly believed in my village now that my attempted break-in was most likely going to be an attempted rape, I was jus in the wrong (or right) bedroom. There are a million reasons my villagers and government have come to this conclusion, and in the middle of it all is me trying to live here. I watch all the guys who used to be my friends and I don’t trust and I am fearful. I am sure it wasn’t someone I know, or one of my friends but I still let the ocean between us grow. I feel their eyes on me, and it scares me. Mary tells me when the village first found out they were getting a female volunteer the men were happy and hopeful, I guess I can understand that, and maybe now they are hoping I will settle down there, but I don’t like their eyes on me. It occurs to me that it is no wonder that women have children here. Their husbands pay no attention to them; they want something that belongs to them, something of their own. I wish their husbands paid no attention to me either.
I don’t sleep at night anymore. I doze a bit, but I move from room to room with my knife, usually starting on the living room couch, then to the inspiration room, and then in the wee hours of the morning to my bedroom. I fall asleep asleep around 5am when the village starts to stir, otherwise I wait. I read or stare at the ceiling. I am physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted. The other night I woke up around 7.30 pm, which I still think is an acceptable time to sleep even though it is already dark here on the equator, to hear William and Mary bickering outside my door. (Since it is dark William is not allowed without Mary.) Mary is telling him, “I try to make her eat and rest.” To which William replies, “You can, you just don’t know how to deal with her, you don’t leave her alone.” I open the door at this point because I am sure Mary is pissed off, as these are the two people who consider themselves my best friends. They stand there with a pot of beans and ugali. I stare at my two best friends, their dark faces illuminated by the candle light to show off their flawless chocolate skin, their beautiful bone structures, their full lips, their dark worried eyes, and I wonder how I got here. How are these two people part of my immediate life? But I breathe in the smell that is uniquely theirs, Mary: perfume, hair oil, and wood smoke from cooking. William: motor oil, sweat, and wind. Somehow, these familiar smells put me at peace.
I think I have hidden my fear pretty well. It is really only Mary and William who detect it, but I let it out to Mama Max. In front of my village, though, this time, I don’t break down. I am still Image’s golden girl (the permanent hair dye I used in America didn’t stick) I smile, I laugh, I teach, I greet people, I hold Anna, I feed my cat- I appear put together, so I believe. I stay away from the guys, but I still go to the bar to teach. While I wait fro the guys to arrive, I go back to the brick building with a fire pit that is called a kitchen in Tanzania, where Mama Max is slaving away. She hugs me, “I have missed you, you don’t come here very often anymore.” “I know,” I say, and then because I cannot help it, I cannot hide it from my Mama, I say, “I am so afraid.” Instead of reacting like everyone else- “There is nothing to be afraid of.” She says, “I know.” I tell her, motioning to the main bar room, “I am afraid of them now.” She replies, “They miss you, they talk about you almost every night and not in a bad way.” “I miss them too,” I tell her. Out of nowhere she says, “Your mom is a very lucky woman.” “Why?” I ask. “Not every woman can have such a special daughter,” she tells me. Then I rudely say, “In America, I am not special for being white.” “Is that what you think we see?” She asks, “That is what we saw at first but no one sees that now. You still think the village thinks your special because you are an American?” She laughs a little here. “Image sees a woman who is beautiful on the outside, who smiles and greets everyone like she cares, who tries hard to fit in as a Tanzanian, who is willing to try anything. But mostly we see a woman who gives herself and her love with total freedom. And love without expectation is a rare and beautiful thing to find in another person- you are our blessing.” She holds my hand as we walk out of the kitchen toward the main bar, where I am about to come face to face with my fear. “You are brave, Brie, go in there and give them another chance. They love you, truly.” So I take a deep breath and walk into a crowed room of about 40 guys my age, ready to make amends.
My site visit from PC happened recently and my Tanzanian boss came to see how things were going in Image. I told him I should be replaced after I leave, but to make sure that it is someone really hard core, because this village is tough, which he said that he knew he had put me in a really hard village and thanked me for staying. “Why me?” I asked. “You are hard core,” he said. “No,” I said, “I mean replace me with someone who can do this.” Then he said, “Brie, you are doing this.” It dawned on me: I am, aren’t I?
I need to introduce some new characters- Felix is 35, he has one wife and three children. He just opened up a shop right next to my house. Right now he is campaigning to be our next village chairman, which it appears is a role that he will win. He is so awesome it is difficult to describe. He is so not creepy and wants to help me succeed here in everyway he possibly can. He speaks to me patiently and listens like I am important. After the break-in he upped my guards to two that are both older than 45 years. Felix has become one of my best friends and confidante, as he actually understands what I want to do here. Then there is Titu, upon first glace Titu looks fierce, plus his name sounds like an Italian mobster, however, I totally love him. He is also about 35, has two wives with five children among them. I didn’t really know Titu until I passed one of our village bars and he called me in to buy me a beer a few weeks ago. Since there were many people there, I turned the conversation towards AIDS education, like I have become an expert at turning conversations in this way. The weird thing is, I thought I was teaching but Titu was agreeing or adding even more detail to what I was saying. Finally, I was like, “Dude, who are you!?!” Surprise, surprise, he is a doctor! Unfortunately, he works in another village (the government determines who works where), but he technically lives in Image. He has helped infinitely this passed week. He is respected, he respects me, he does condom demos with me, we role-play for our village, and he has been amazing. Plus his youngest wife is an added benefit, as one of my new good friends. Mama Maria is 22 and had three little girls, Maria, Suze, and Osmonda. I love playing with them and there is something about their games that just reminds me of Shannon, Raeme and I.
So I have literally been n the campaign trail this week. As our village government gear up for voting new chair people and committees, I go along and teach about AIDS, condoms and testing. Each morning at 8 am we are in a new sub-village, we have six; the meetings take most of the day. At the meetings, I glance down at my “Fearless” bracelet, then I stand up and address crowds of Image villagers in the hundreds. I shake, I stumble, but I can feel my villagers holding out the net to catch me, tossing me a life saver- I feel the hundreds of eyes on me, but eyes who want me to succeed- when I falter, I find a villager to look to, usually, Felix, Titu, Mama Max, William, Mzee Ngoda… Someone who will silently nod me on, grab my hand before I drown. In a village so fearful of AIDS, I try to be confident as I talk about sex, semen, and demonstrate putting a condom on a soda bottle; I talk about things that are totally taboo to say out loud. But the weird thing is that they want to hear it. I get a million questions. They clap and cheer at the end and thank me for coming- I always close with, “I have now finished a year living here. Image is my home in Africa, you are all my family, I want you to be healthy because I love you.” I get cries back of love.
On the fourth day of campaigning, I am totally shocked when our village mama choir that has been traveling with us, comes out with a brand new song all about AIDS, almost word for word what I have been teaching. One of the mamas shyly tells me they wrote it for me, as a surprise. I invite them to come and sing and dance on the testing day. They are more than excited and tell me they are in the process of writing more songs for me. I can’t believe that they did this on their own, just for me.
Having no idea how many people will really show up to test, I call in for back up, in case I have to spend the night crying over my failure. Margaret and Tally come to hold my hand through it. I should not have worried. When we get to the health center in the morning, the line is out the door. I can’t believe it. All day the line is constant. People of all sorts crowd to get tested. The mama’s choir sings and dance. But I sit watching the line. This sounds stupid, but for some reason, I had only thought about getting that far. I watch people I know, my people, nervously standing in line, and suddenly I understand their fear to know. In one second your life can change. I am afraid. Two hundred and seventy-five people get tested that day before there are no more testing supplies. The line is still out the door. (I have agreed to get another one going in a few weeks.) Thirty-three people are positive. I find this encouraging, seems like a small number to me. However, Image is a village of 3,000 (a thousand are enrolled in primary school and then there are still the kids under 6), so 275 are really a very small portion. Plus the organization testing tells me this is probably not a very accurate picture of the village overall because people are more likely to get tested if they think they are negative. Also apparently this is a high number according to them.
But still I have done something. I have put something into motion here. I have started a dialogue, I have started a movement. It might be a small one, a huge planet, a giant continent filled with problems, a big country with many illnesses, a region plagued by AIDS, a small village in the middle of nowhere- but in that tiny corner of this planet the spark is trying to ignite. I did what I was afraid I could not do.
“You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop and look fear in the face. You must do the thing which you think you cannot do.” –Eleanor Roosevelt and my personal PC motto because each day I do what I think I cannot do.
October 18-24, 2009
I listen to some old CD that some long gone PCV left behind, we don’t get a lot of music choices here and it takes me back to about seventh grade when Sugar Ray sings, “I just want to fly, put your arms around me, baby”. I put my arms around myself because I am cold but also because I have no one to put their arms around me, I am alone.
It is commonly believed in my village now that my attempted break-in was most likely going to be an attempted rape, I was jus in the wrong (or right) bedroom. There are a million reasons my villagers and government have come to this conclusion, and in the middle of it all is me trying to live here. I watch all the guys who used to be my friends and I don’t trust and I am fearful. I am sure it wasn’t someone I know, or one of my friends but I still let the ocean between us grow. I feel their eyes on me, and it scares me. Mary tells me when the village first found out they were getting a female volunteer the men were happy and hopeful, I guess I can understand that, and maybe now they are hoping I will settle down there, but I don’t like their eyes on me. It occurs to me that it is no wonder that women have children here. Their husbands pay no attention to them; they want something that belongs to them, something of their own. I wish their husbands paid no attention to me either.
I don’t sleep at night anymore. I doze a bit, but I move from room to room with my knife, usually starting on the living room couch, then to the inspiration room, and then in the wee hours of the morning to my bedroom. I fall asleep asleep around 5am when the village starts to stir, otherwise I wait. I read or stare at the ceiling. I am physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted. The other night I woke up around 7.30 pm, which I still think is an acceptable time to sleep even though it is already dark here on the equator, to hear William and Mary bickering outside my door. (Since it is dark William is not allowed without Mary.) Mary is telling him, “I try to make her eat and rest.” To which William replies, “You can, you just don’t know how to deal with her, you don’t leave her alone.” I open the door at this point because I am sure Mary is pissed off, as these are the two people who consider themselves my best friends. They stand there with a pot of beans and ugali. I stare at my two best friends, their dark faces illuminated by the candle light to show off their flawless chocolate skin, their beautiful bone structures, their full lips, their dark worried eyes, and I wonder how I got here. How are these two people part of my immediate life? But I breathe in the smell that is uniquely theirs, Mary: perfume, hair oil, and wood smoke from cooking. William: motor oil, sweat, and wind. Somehow, these familiar smells put me at peace.
I think I have hidden my fear pretty well. It is really only Mary and William who detect it, but I let it out to Mama Max. In front of my village, though, this time, I don’t break down. I am still Image’s golden girl (the permanent hair dye I used in America didn’t stick) I smile, I laugh, I teach, I greet people, I hold Anna, I feed my cat- I appear put together, so I believe. I stay away from the guys, but I still go to the bar to teach. While I wait fro the guys to arrive, I go back to the brick building with a fire pit that is called a kitchen in Tanzania, where Mama Max is slaving away. She hugs me, “I have missed you, you don’t come here very often anymore.” “I know,” I say, and then because I cannot help it, I cannot hide it from my Mama, I say, “I am so afraid.” Instead of reacting like everyone else- “There is nothing to be afraid of.” She says, “I know.” I tell her, motioning to the main bar room, “I am afraid of them now.” She replies, “They miss you, they talk about you almost every night and not in a bad way.” “I miss them too,” I tell her. Out of nowhere she says, “Your mom is a very lucky woman.” “Why?” I ask. “Not every woman can have such a special daughter,” she tells me. Then I rudely say, “In America, I am not special for being white.” “Is that what you think we see?” She asks, “That is what we saw at first but no one sees that now. You still think the village thinks your special because you are an American?” She laughs a little here. “Image sees a woman who is beautiful on the outside, who smiles and greets everyone like she cares, who tries hard to fit in as a Tanzanian, who is willing to try anything. But mostly we see a woman who gives herself and her love with total freedom. And love without expectation is a rare and beautiful thing to find in another person- you are our blessing.” She holds my hand as we walk out of the kitchen toward the main bar, where I am about to come face to face with my fear. “You are brave, Brie, go in there and give them another chance. They love you, truly.” So I take a deep breath and walk into a crowed room of about 40 guys my age, ready to make amends.
My site visit from PC happened recently and my Tanzanian boss came to see how things were going in Image. I told him I should be replaced after I leave, but to make sure that it is someone really hard core, because this village is tough, which he said that he knew he had put me in a really hard village and thanked me for staying. “Why me?” I asked. “You are hard core,” he said. “No,” I said, “I mean replace me with someone who can do this.” Then he said, “Brie, you are doing this.” It dawned on me: I am, aren’t I?
I need to introduce some new characters- Felix is 35, he has one wife and three children. He just opened up a shop right next to my house. Right now he is campaigning to be our next village chairman, which it appears is a role that he will win. He is so awesome it is difficult to describe. He is so not creepy and wants to help me succeed here in everyway he possibly can. He speaks to me patiently and listens like I am important. After the break-in he upped my guards to two that are both older than 45 years. Felix has become one of my best friends and confidante, as he actually understands what I want to do here. Then there is Titu, upon first glace Titu looks fierce, plus his name sounds like an Italian mobster, however, I totally love him. He is also about 35, has two wives with five children among them. I didn’t really know Titu until I passed one of our village bars and he called me in to buy me a beer a few weeks ago. Since there were many people there, I turned the conversation towards AIDS education, like I have become an expert at turning conversations in this way. The weird thing is, I thought I was teaching but Titu was agreeing or adding even more detail to what I was saying. Finally, I was like, “Dude, who are you!?!” Surprise, surprise, he is a doctor! Unfortunately, he works in another village (the government determines who works where), but he technically lives in Image. He has helped infinitely this passed week. He is respected, he respects me, he does condom demos with me, we role-play for our village, and he has been amazing. Plus his youngest wife is an added benefit, as one of my new good friends. Mama Maria is 22 and had three little girls, Maria, Suze, and Osmonda. I love playing with them and there is something about their games that just reminds me of Shannon, Raeme and I.
So I have literally been n the campaign trail this week. As our village government gear up for voting new chair people and committees, I go along and teach about AIDS, condoms and testing. Each morning at 8 am we are in a new sub-village, we have six; the meetings take most of the day. At the meetings, I glance down at my “Fearless” bracelet, then I stand up and address crowds of Image villagers in the hundreds. I shake, I stumble, but I can feel my villagers holding out the net to catch me, tossing me a life saver- I feel the hundreds of eyes on me, but eyes who want me to succeed- when I falter, I find a villager to look to, usually, Felix, Titu, Mama Max, William, Mzee Ngoda… Someone who will silently nod me on, grab my hand before I drown. In a village so fearful of AIDS, I try to be confident as I talk about sex, semen, and demonstrate putting a condom on a soda bottle; I talk about things that are totally taboo to say out loud. But the weird thing is that they want to hear it. I get a million questions. They clap and cheer at the end and thank me for coming- I always close with, “I have now finished a year living here. Image is my home in Africa, you are all my family, I want you to be healthy because I love you.” I get cries back of love.
On the fourth day of campaigning, I am totally shocked when our village mama choir that has been traveling with us, comes out with a brand new song all about AIDS, almost word for word what I have been teaching. One of the mamas shyly tells me they wrote it for me, as a surprise. I invite them to come and sing and dance on the testing day. They are more than excited and tell me they are in the process of writing more songs for me. I can’t believe that they did this on their own, just for me.
Having no idea how many people will really show up to test, I call in for back up, in case I have to spend the night crying over my failure. Margaret and Tally come to hold my hand through it. I should not have worried. When we get to the health center in the morning, the line is out the door. I can’t believe it. All day the line is constant. People of all sorts crowd to get tested. The mama’s choir sings and dance. But I sit watching the line. This sounds stupid, but for some reason, I had only thought about getting that far. I watch people I know, my people, nervously standing in line, and suddenly I understand their fear to know. In one second your life can change. I am afraid. Two hundred and seventy-five people get tested that day before there are no more testing supplies. The line is still out the door. (I have agreed to get another one going in a few weeks.) Thirty-three people are positive. I find this encouraging, seems like a small number to me. However, Image is a village of 3,000 (a thousand are enrolled in primary school and then there are still the kids under 6), so 275 are really a very small portion. Plus the organization testing tells me this is probably not a very accurate picture of the village overall because people are more likely to get tested if they think they are negative. Also apparently this is a high number according to them.
But still I have done something. I have put something into motion here. I have started a dialogue, I have started a movement. It might be a small one, a huge planet, a giant continent filled with problems, a big country with many illnesses, a region plagued by AIDS, a small village in the middle of nowhere- but in that tiny corner of this planet the spark is trying to ignite. I did what I was afraid I could not do.
“You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop and look fear in the face. You must do the thing which you think you cannot do.” –Eleanor Roosevelt and my personal PC motto because each day I do what I think I cannot do.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
"When the Going Gets Tough, The Tough Get Going" and That's Just The Type of Person I Am
*Somewhat graphic entry
“They call me crazy if I fail, all the chance that I am in, one in a million they could call me brilliant if I succeed. Gravity is nothing to me moving at the speed of sound, just going to get my feet wet until I drown… ‘Cause I don’t care if they eat me alive, I’ve got better things to do than survive.” – Ani DiFranco
“I’m livin’ in an empty room though the window’s smashed, and I’ve got so little left to lose that it feels just like I’m walkin’ on broken glass.” –Annie Lennox
October 11, 2009- until today
I find myself on my back again with my teachers crowded around me with needles- and again the question, "Brie, How could you not know until now?" I am busy trying to keep my skirt down while still keeping one leg in the air to show off the dime-sized egg sack protrouding from the arch of my foot. Mary says, "This is going to hurt." Great, like the other times it was comfortable. Mjemah says, "Maybe this time we should use the Konyagi (TZ hard alcohol) it is a bad one." He pours me a glassful to drink straight. I take it in two gagging gulps. Then I am approached by Mary, Simon, Mwalongo, Mama Lau and Mama Max, each armed with their own needle. Yeah.. it hurt. Mjemah had another shot ready for me after my village surgury. My foot throbs as they rub Kerosene into it- This method seems weird to me but i am not about to question Tanzanians when it comes to egg sacks. I am proclaimed cured, even though every step I take hurts, but I walk anyways, because that's the kind of person I am. (On a side note: I am convinced that it has become gangrine and that my foot needs to be amputated with a machete. Margaret, who is a bit more realistic than I am, is convinced that it is just infected and I need neosporin, so maybe I will wait a bit for the amputation...
I spent 24 hours alone with Anna. I was convinced that this would rid me of any desire to ever have kids and I was shocked when it did the exact opposite. I was wary to take on two year old Anna when Mjemah had to travel for a night, but we had a blast. It was different than any babysitting I have ever done before. It was weird with no TV, no toys, no video games, we only had eachother to play with, and I learned a lot of swahili. It was weird but enjoyable to be the soul caretaker of a child, have her entirly dependant on me, call me mama and run to me when she was hurt of afraid. When you don't have anything to play with, you play with each other. We patted eatother, she played with my hair, my jewelry and nuzzled in my neck. We dance to Madonna, we napped together in the inspiration room, I painted her nails, I bathed her, I fed her... She sang until we fell asleep in some unknown Anna language, which sounded sort of like kiswahili or Kibena but was sort of something of her own. I awoke a million times in the night, Is she too hot? Is she cold? Can I feel her still breathing? I am going to be a crazy mom, but this is Africa and kids die suddenly every day, plus i am a worrier and that's just the kind of person I am. It did make me realize that this is the type of parent I want to be. One that doesn't just distract their child with TV and candy, but who is actually there to give their child what they really want a treasured adults attention and love.
The more I understand here, the less I wish I knew. I wish I was still in that blissful state of ignorance. There are hundreds of words that I understand but never use, mostly because I can't remember them until they are said. I overheard a conversation between Mary and a village woman that was spoken in quick Swahili- I think they were hoping I wouldn't catch it, I wish I hadn't. A six year old girl in my village was raped my a grown man who then inserted a knife into her vagina. She is still alive in the hopsital. The man is in Njombe in jail. I can't write anymore about this because it hurts too much, because that is the kind of person I am. So I will just use the words of Hilary Clinton, "Violence against women and child shreads the fabric that holds us together as human beings."
Each morning, as I awake to the heavy depression that weighs me down, the total helplessness, I choose to reject it. For what seems like the millionth time in Tanzania, i pick myself up. I don't give in to the urge to let it overtake me, because that is the kind of person I am. I have to fight. So I put on some upbeat music and slap on my silver "Fearless" bracelet and get ready to go kick some ass, because that is the kind of person I am. I have entirely re-vamped my AIDS training to be focused at a small group of men between the ages of 18-30 and be primarily focused on condoms. Since it is next to impossible to get them to all come to a meeting i hoof it to every hole in the wall beer shack and I teach. I follow them around, I join in their stupid gambling card games (In which I actually won all their money until they all had to drop out, they were shocked that a woman could play and then win...haha, I will get you guys.) and I teach and I teach and I teach.... Every fourth word out of my mouth is condom. I learn as much sex slang and dirty words, which cracks them up. With the testing days coming so soon, I refuse to let these guys win. I will win, because that is the kind of person I am. Maybe they won't get tested but at least they will know what options are out there. They have not beaten me yet. The sweet Brie of the first year in Image is gone, and this Brie means business.
Today I was in top form. I adressed about 30 Tanzanian guys at Mama Max's bar about AIDS and condoms. Only Mama Max knew I was coming and they were just there to drink...opps. For some unknown reason they are terrified of condoms. So i stood in front of guys my age and casually talked about sex. I hoped they could not see my hands shaking, luckily my Swahili did not fail me and after i had demonstrated puttng condom after condom on soda bottles, eventually some guys were willing to touch one. Once they saw that i would not judge them, the condoms went like a wildfire. Questions were asked an jokes made, most of them dirty so Mama Max put a lid on it. I love my Mama Max. All of the guys said they learned something, but now the most amazing part is every night there is a line outside my house... Guys waiting to collect condoms. The only rule is they have to see a demonstration again on how to correctly use one. So now everyday, I spend most of my time demonstrating correct useage, but somehow this is a small success. My hands permanently smell like latex, but now, I guess, that is the kind of person I am.
"What doesn't bend brakes, we are made to bleed and scab and heal and bleed again and turn every scar into a joke. We are made to fight and fuck and talk and fight again and sit around and laugh until we choke. I don't know who you were expecting, probably some bitch who does not budge wit eyes the size of snow. Well, I might get pissed off sometimes, but you seem like the type to hold a grudge and in the end I just let it go, in the end I just let it go.." -Ani DiFranco
“They call me crazy if I fail, all the chance that I am in, one in a million they could call me brilliant if I succeed. Gravity is nothing to me moving at the speed of sound, just going to get my feet wet until I drown… ‘Cause I don’t care if they eat me alive, I’ve got better things to do than survive.” – Ani DiFranco
“I’m livin’ in an empty room though the window’s smashed, and I’ve got so little left to lose that it feels just like I’m walkin’ on broken glass.” –Annie Lennox
October 11, 2009- until today
I find myself on my back again with my teachers crowded around me with needles- and again the question, "Brie, How could you not know until now?" I am busy trying to keep my skirt down while still keeping one leg in the air to show off the dime-sized egg sack protrouding from the arch of my foot. Mary says, "This is going to hurt." Great, like the other times it was comfortable. Mjemah says, "Maybe this time we should use the Konyagi (TZ hard alcohol) it is a bad one." He pours me a glassful to drink straight. I take it in two gagging gulps. Then I am approached by Mary, Simon, Mwalongo, Mama Lau and Mama Max, each armed with their own needle. Yeah.. it hurt. Mjemah had another shot ready for me after my village surgury. My foot throbs as they rub Kerosene into it- This method seems weird to me but i am not about to question Tanzanians when it comes to egg sacks. I am proclaimed cured, even though every step I take hurts, but I walk anyways, because that's the kind of person I am. (On a side note: I am convinced that it has become gangrine and that my foot needs to be amputated with a machete. Margaret, who is a bit more realistic than I am, is convinced that it is just infected and I need neosporin, so maybe I will wait a bit for the amputation...
I spent 24 hours alone with Anna. I was convinced that this would rid me of any desire to ever have kids and I was shocked when it did the exact opposite. I was wary to take on two year old Anna when Mjemah had to travel for a night, but we had a blast. It was different than any babysitting I have ever done before. It was weird with no TV, no toys, no video games, we only had eachother to play with, and I learned a lot of swahili. It was weird but enjoyable to be the soul caretaker of a child, have her entirly dependant on me, call me mama and run to me when she was hurt of afraid. When you don't have anything to play with, you play with each other. We patted eatother, she played with my hair, my jewelry and nuzzled in my neck. We dance to Madonna, we napped together in the inspiration room, I painted her nails, I bathed her, I fed her... She sang until we fell asleep in some unknown Anna language, which sounded sort of like kiswahili or Kibena but was sort of something of her own. I awoke a million times in the night, Is she too hot? Is she cold? Can I feel her still breathing? I am going to be a crazy mom, but this is Africa and kids die suddenly every day, plus i am a worrier and that's just the kind of person I am. It did make me realize that this is the type of parent I want to be. One that doesn't just distract their child with TV and candy, but who is actually there to give their child what they really want a treasured adults attention and love.
The more I understand here, the less I wish I knew. I wish I was still in that blissful state of ignorance. There are hundreds of words that I understand but never use, mostly because I can't remember them until they are said. I overheard a conversation between Mary and a village woman that was spoken in quick Swahili- I think they were hoping I wouldn't catch it, I wish I hadn't. A six year old girl in my village was raped my a grown man who then inserted a knife into her vagina. She is still alive in the hopsital. The man is in Njombe in jail. I can't write anymore about this because it hurts too much, because that is the kind of person I am. So I will just use the words of Hilary Clinton, "Violence against women and child shreads the fabric that holds us together as human beings."
Each morning, as I awake to the heavy depression that weighs me down, the total helplessness, I choose to reject it. For what seems like the millionth time in Tanzania, i pick myself up. I don't give in to the urge to let it overtake me, because that is the kind of person I am. I have to fight. So I put on some upbeat music and slap on my silver "Fearless" bracelet and get ready to go kick some ass, because that is the kind of person I am. I have entirely re-vamped my AIDS training to be focused at a small group of men between the ages of 18-30 and be primarily focused on condoms. Since it is next to impossible to get them to all come to a meeting i hoof it to every hole in the wall beer shack and I teach. I follow them around, I join in their stupid gambling card games (In which I actually won all their money until they all had to drop out, they were shocked that a woman could play and then win...haha, I will get you guys.) and I teach and I teach and I teach.... Every fourth word out of my mouth is condom. I learn as much sex slang and dirty words, which cracks them up. With the testing days coming so soon, I refuse to let these guys win. I will win, because that is the kind of person I am. Maybe they won't get tested but at least they will know what options are out there. They have not beaten me yet. The sweet Brie of the first year in Image is gone, and this Brie means business.
Today I was in top form. I adressed about 30 Tanzanian guys at Mama Max's bar about AIDS and condoms. Only Mama Max knew I was coming and they were just there to drink...opps. For some unknown reason they are terrified of condoms. So i stood in front of guys my age and casually talked about sex. I hoped they could not see my hands shaking, luckily my Swahili did not fail me and after i had demonstrated puttng condom after condom on soda bottles, eventually some guys were willing to touch one. Once they saw that i would not judge them, the condoms went like a wildfire. Questions were asked an jokes made, most of them dirty so Mama Max put a lid on it. I love my Mama Max. All of the guys said they learned something, but now the most amazing part is every night there is a line outside my house... Guys waiting to collect condoms. The only rule is they have to see a demonstration again on how to correctly use one. So now everyday, I spend most of my time demonstrating correct useage, but somehow this is a small success. My hands permanently smell like latex, but now, I guess, that is the kind of person I am.
"What doesn't bend brakes, we are made to bleed and scab and heal and bleed again and turn every scar into a joke. We are made to fight and fuck and talk and fight again and sit around and laugh until we choke. I don't know who you were expecting, probably some bitch who does not budge wit eyes the size of snow. Well, I might get pissed off sometimes, but you seem like the type to hold a grudge and in the end I just let it go, in the end I just let it go.." -Ani DiFranco
Monday, October 5, 2009
I Stumble, I Fall, I Fail
"What doesn't kill you, only makes you stronger." -I have no idea
October 4, 2009
Last night my worst childhood nightmare actually occurred. When I was in about fifth grade I had a dream so real that I would still almost say that it actually took place. I dreamed that I was in bed and a man's shadow appeared at my window. I could hear the window rattling as he tried to get in. I screamed so loudly that it brought both of my parents running into my room and landed me a spot in their bed.
I am an extremely light sleeper, my Dad jokes that I sleep with one eye open. Last night I awoke to a sound at one of my bedroom windows that I was willing to credit to rats. When I saw an arm reach up and grab on of the security bars that protect all my windows. I actually couldn't believe it when I heard the window rattling and the glass breaking. I didn't scream. Instead I grabbed my flashlight and aimed it at the window, I could only briefly see a man about my age as he jumped down and nimbly ran away. I lay frozen for a moment- did that really happen? Then I got up, got my largest kitchen knife and found cell service. I text the only person who I knew of who might be awake at 1.30 am and who I would trust with my life. It said (In Swahili)- "William, Are you awake? Someone just tried to come in through my bedroom window. I am afraid." I received a phone call immediately. Where I had not cried until I explained to him in broken sobbing Swahili. Then I said, "Please come." He does not live close to me, but is my best male friend, and drives a motorcycle, so he could get there in a matter of minutes and I was too afraid to go outside and run to the teachers or Mzee Ngoda in case the man was still out there. William spoke assuring words, that the man would not come back, but that there was no way he could visit me in the middle of the night. What would the villagers think? It is totally improper. I hate this country sometimes- I said "I don't give a damn what they think, or what is proper!" But I thought morbidly to myself at least if I am murdered tonight someone will know what happened to me. He told me he would come as soon as it got light, around 5.30. That is a long time to sit in ones living room wide-awake, white-knuckling a kitchen knife.
Luckily, I didn't have to wait until 5.30. William showed up at 3 and announced himself outside my door, he has a super recognizable voice, but I still answered the door prepared with the knife, but dropped it when I saw William and instead threw myself on him a sobbing mess. He obviously had no idea what to do with this woman/child, especially because men and women do not touch in Tanzania. But he patted my hair uncertainly, and lead me with his rough black hand into my living room, which I was shocked by even that amount of affection. I felt like I did after I was mugged, after the man tried to get into my car in Portland- like someone has taken my power away from me. I hate this feeling. It angers me when someone can make me feel afraid. I don't lack feeling weak and not in control. William asks if I would really use the knife on someone, and the weird thing is, I think I would. So there's a turn around from the sweet non-violent little Oregon girl. He sits across the room from me (we have to be proper) and tells me to sleep and he will keep watch. I do doze a bit and wake up at one point where he is adding wood to the fire, I feel nothing but love for him in that moment. A feeling of complete protection. I have no idea why he cares deeply about what happens to me, but I am glad he does. He leaves at 6 am to tell the village government the situation.
I am supposed to do an AIDS workshop that day. No one comes. That is one of the freaky things about the break-in is there are signs all over the village that I am doing it. I am believing that the man did not know I was home and was just hoping to steal things. Or I sleep in what a Tanzanian would consider the "backroom", so maybe he thought I was in the other one. William shatters these beliefs and says "Or maybe he knew you were there and was hoping to get in before you woke up." "Don't ever suggest that again," I firmly tell him. That is an option I refuse to think about. Anyways, no one comes, I am hurt, I am discouraged, I don't understand why I am here. They are happy if I just eat ugali with them, drink beer and shoot the shit. I could be doing that in America! (Minus the ugali). For the first time in over a year, I really want to throw in the towel and go home. I call my friend, Kate (PCV), sobbing, "I want to go home. I am failing." I picture my parents disappointment in their daughter who struggles to succeed at everything. I cry to Kate, who tells me all the things a best friend going through the same things can- you are brave, your village loves you, you are making a difference to some people.
I get off the phone with her to find out that the Mwalimu Mkuu's youngest child, one year old Isa, has died. He had a fever this morning and this evening he is dead. I cry silent tears, as I have cried all day. I imagine their little family, their joy over their young son, and it is unbelievable to me that this child no longer exists. I feel Anna's small breaths on my back and I curse myself that I have come love these people too much, too deeply. I cry for my mistake of coming here. I actually tell my villagers that I want to go home. They are deeply upset by this, and call a meeting. A guard is now positioned outside my house. No one is allowed to come near it after 6 pm unless they are with the Mary or Juster, (my two best female friends). I appreciate they care so much but it infuriates me that I am 25 and living like I am 15. I want freedom, I want safety, but apparently can't have both. My guard is supposed to check on me at 10 pm and again at 7 am, which is sort of ridiculous because if he is there the whole time what is there to check? I have been assured that nothing creepy will happen to me again here. But Image village was my "safe place", my love, my joy in Tanzania, now I see it as a place of insecurity, of death, of poverty, of no effort to make any changes... and I am lost between my love for it and my fear of it. The two things that made me happy today. Anna, who kissed tears off my cheek and laughed. And Kimulimuli, who rubbed and climbed all over me until he was exhausted, then he found and killed that rat that was living in my clothing wardrobe, I was a proud mom. But mostly, I try, I trip, I fall, I fail, I am drowning...
"The world is ruled by letting things take their course." - Lao-Tzu
October 4, 2009
Last night my worst childhood nightmare actually occurred. When I was in about fifth grade I had a dream so real that I would still almost say that it actually took place. I dreamed that I was in bed and a man's shadow appeared at my window. I could hear the window rattling as he tried to get in. I screamed so loudly that it brought both of my parents running into my room and landed me a spot in their bed.
I am an extremely light sleeper, my Dad jokes that I sleep with one eye open. Last night I awoke to a sound at one of my bedroom windows that I was willing to credit to rats. When I saw an arm reach up and grab on of the security bars that protect all my windows. I actually couldn't believe it when I heard the window rattling and the glass breaking. I didn't scream. Instead I grabbed my flashlight and aimed it at the window, I could only briefly see a man about my age as he jumped down and nimbly ran away. I lay frozen for a moment- did that really happen? Then I got up, got my largest kitchen knife and found cell service. I text the only person who I knew of who might be awake at 1.30 am and who I would trust with my life. It said (In Swahili)- "William, Are you awake? Someone just tried to come in through my bedroom window. I am afraid." I received a phone call immediately. Where I had not cried until I explained to him in broken sobbing Swahili. Then I said, "Please come." He does not live close to me, but is my best male friend, and drives a motorcycle, so he could get there in a matter of minutes and I was too afraid to go outside and run to the teachers or Mzee Ngoda in case the man was still out there. William spoke assuring words, that the man would not come back, but that there was no way he could visit me in the middle of the night. What would the villagers think? It is totally improper. I hate this country sometimes- I said "I don't give a damn what they think, or what is proper!" But I thought morbidly to myself at least if I am murdered tonight someone will know what happened to me. He told me he would come as soon as it got light, around 5.30. That is a long time to sit in ones living room wide-awake, white-knuckling a kitchen knife.
Luckily, I didn't have to wait until 5.30. William showed up at 3 and announced himself outside my door, he has a super recognizable voice, but I still answered the door prepared with the knife, but dropped it when I saw William and instead threw myself on him a sobbing mess. He obviously had no idea what to do with this woman/child, especially because men and women do not touch in Tanzania. But he patted my hair uncertainly, and lead me with his rough black hand into my living room, which I was shocked by even that amount of affection. I felt like I did after I was mugged, after the man tried to get into my car in Portland- like someone has taken my power away from me. I hate this feeling. It angers me when someone can make me feel afraid. I don't lack feeling weak and not in control. William asks if I would really use the knife on someone, and the weird thing is, I think I would. So there's a turn around from the sweet non-violent little Oregon girl. He sits across the room from me (we have to be proper) and tells me to sleep and he will keep watch. I do doze a bit and wake up at one point where he is adding wood to the fire, I feel nothing but love for him in that moment. A feeling of complete protection. I have no idea why he cares deeply about what happens to me, but I am glad he does. He leaves at 6 am to tell the village government the situation.
I am supposed to do an AIDS workshop that day. No one comes. That is one of the freaky things about the break-in is there are signs all over the village that I am doing it. I am believing that the man did not know I was home and was just hoping to steal things. Or I sleep in what a Tanzanian would consider the "backroom", so maybe he thought I was in the other one. William shatters these beliefs and says "Or maybe he knew you were there and was hoping to get in before you woke up." "Don't ever suggest that again," I firmly tell him. That is an option I refuse to think about. Anyways, no one comes, I am hurt, I am discouraged, I don't understand why I am here. They are happy if I just eat ugali with them, drink beer and shoot the shit. I could be doing that in America! (Minus the ugali). For the first time in over a year, I really want to throw in the towel and go home. I call my friend, Kate (PCV), sobbing, "I want to go home. I am failing." I picture my parents disappointment in their daughter who struggles to succeed at everything. I cry to Kate, who tells me all the things a best friend going through the same things can- you are brave, your village loves you, you are making a difference to some people.
I get off the phone with her to find out that the Mwalimu Mkuu's youngest child, one year old Isa, has died. He had a fever this morning and this evening he is dead. I cry silent tears, as I have cried all day. I imagine their little family, their joy over their young son, and it is unbelievable to me that this child no longer exists. I feel Anna's small breaths on my back and I curse myself that I have come love these people too much, too deeply. I cry for my mistake of coming here. I actually tell my villagers that I want to go home. They are deeply upset by this, and call a meeting. A guard is now positioned outside my house. No one is allowed to come near it after 6 pm unless they are with the Mary or Juster, (my two best female friends). I appreciate they care so much but it infuriates me that I am 25 and living like I am 15. I want freedom, I want safety, but apparently can't have both. My guard is supposed to check on me at 10 pm and again at 7 am, which is sort of ridiculous because if he is there the whole time what is there to check? I have been assured that nothing creepy will happen to me again here. But Image village was my "safe place", my love, my joy in Tanzania, now I see it as a place of insecurity, of death, of poverty, of no effort to make any changes... and I am lost between my love for it and my fear of it. The two things that made me happy today. Anna, who kissed tears off my cheek and laughed. And Kimulimuli, who rubbed and climbed all over me until he was exhausted, then he found and killed that rat that was living in my clothing wardrobe, I was a proud mom. But mostly, I try, I trip, I fall, I fail, I am drowning...
"The world is ruled by letting things take their course." - Lao-Tzu
Am I Fearless Yet?
"There is only one of you for all time. Fearlessly be yourself." -Anthony Rapp
September 30, 2009
We had a village wide discussion about how I am different than when I came. According to Stan, "I walk like if you touch me, I will kill you. But still somehow come off as friendly." Basically, according to my villagers I am pretty tough, which is good, because appearing fearless is something I work hard at.
I know I am not fearless at night. I have a re-occurring dream of loss. Usually I don't know who I am losing or how, but the few times I have known, it has been one of my parents and once a little white cat, known as Angel Baby. I wake up with a weight on my chest and unable to breath, a few times my own crying has woken me up. The sense of loss is so real and debilitating that I wonder how I will go on- the depression so crushing. And I wonder what is wrong with me that a grown woman wakes up crying in the night about nothing but an illusive dream. It occurs so often that I wonder what I am actually losing. The loneliness leaves an empty zone inside me that is there all the time now. And I wonder as I go fearlessly through my village life, what will fill it?
When I am not numbed by depression and my complete lack of ability to do anything to change the lives of people in Tanzania, I feel angry. Not at anyone in particular, just in general. I think of that bumper sticker in America that says, "If you are not outraged than you are not paying attention." I feel too greatly. I inherited this from my mom, who makes big changes in the world with small acts of love. We can't watch violence, we hurt for people and animals- probably the main reason why my whole family is vegetarian. But I thought that unlike my mom, I had learned like the Holocaust Museum says "Thou Shall Bear Witness", I felt like I was getting pretty good at that. That is more my Dad's approach, who is sensitive but able to detach himself. In Tanzania, I thought I had achieved this. It sounds stupid, but the first time I separated myself from the chickens and realized this is a different life- it was a big deal. (I still don't eat them or watch them get slaughtered, but I understand that they will be.) Now I realize that most of the time without realizing it there is a weight on my shoulders. If you know me well, you know I am sort of addicted to news radio, NPR was part of my daily life in America and BBC is here. I listen every morning to how many bombs have gone off, how many people have AIDS/Malaria and other weird tropical ailments, who is fighting who, which dictator is killing their country, how many people died... and I think about those people. Not as numbers or strangers, but people with eyes and voices, their own thoughts and ideas, their own dreams uncompleted.
Yesterday a baby died. It came too soon. I held her. She lived for a few moments, eyelids like tissue paper and a small mouth. Then she left this world. I pictured her using her tiny shoulder blades, like a baby bird's wings, to fly away from us. I named her Lark as I felt her spirit soar away. And I cried over her, until Jessica (my village nurse) finally asked me if I had lost a child because I was crying like a woman who had. No, I tell her. Why can't they understand me!?! Finally I pick myself up off the ground and say in English, which no one there understands, "I want my mom." Lark has already flown, and I think, like her, I might also be too afraid, too fragile for this world.
September 30, 2009
We had a village wide discussion about how I am different than when I came. According to Stan, "I walk like if you touch me, I will kill you. But still somehow come off as friendly." Basically, according to my villagers I am pretty tough, which is good, because appearing fearless is something I work hard at.
I know I am not fearless at night. I have a re-occurring dream of loss. Usually I don't know who I am losing or how, but the few times I have known, it has been one of my parents and once a little white cat, known as Angel Baby. I wake up with a weight on my chest and unable to breath, a few times my own crying has woken me up. The sense of loss is so real and debilitating that I wonder how I will go on- the depression so crushing. And I wonder what is wrong with me that a grown woman wakes up crying in the night about nothing but an illusive dream. It occurs so often that I wonder what I am actually losing. The loneliness leaves an empty zone inside me that is there all the time now. And I wonder as I go fearlessly through my village life, what will fill it?
When I am not numbed by depression and my complete lack of ability to do anything to change the lives of people in Tanzania, I feel angry. Not at anyone in particular, just in general. I think of that bumper sticker in America that says, "If you are not outraged than you are not paying attention." I feel too greatly. I inherited this from my mom, who makes big changes in the world with small acts of love. We can't watch violence, we hurt for people and animals- probably the main reason why my whole family is vegetarian. But I thought that unlike my mom, I had learned like the Holocaust Museum says "Thou Shall Bear Witness", I felt like I was getting pretty good at that. That is more my Dad's approach, who is sensitive but able to detach himself. In Tanzania, I thought I had achieved this. It sounds stupid, but the first time I separated myself from the chickens and realized this is a different life- it was a big deal. (I still don't eat them or watch them get slaughtered, but I understand that they will be.) Now I realize that most of the time without realizing it there is a weight on my shoulders. If you know me well, you know I am sort of addicted to news radio, NPR was part of my daily life in America and BBC is here. I listen every morning to how many bombs have gone off, how many people have AIDS/Malaria and other weird tropical ailments, who is fighting who, which dictator is killing their country, how many people died... and I think about those people. Not as numbers or strangers, but people with eyes and voices, their own thoughts and ideas, their own dreams uncompleted.
Yesterday a baby died. It came too soon. I held her. She lived for a few moments, eyelids like tissue paper and a small mouth. Then she left this world. I pictured her using her tiny shoulder blades, like a baby bird's wings, to fly away from us. I named her Lark as I felt her spirit soar away. And I cried over her, until Jessica (my village nurse) finally asked me if I had lost a child because I was crying like a woman who had. No, I tell her. Why can't they understand me!?! Finally I pick myself up off the ground and say in English, which no one there understands, "I want my mom." Lark has already flown, and I think, like her, I might also be too afraid, too fragile for this world.
October Book of the Month
Did anyone read September's? Is this a lame idea? I just read a lot.
October's book is written so uniquely, it is like poetry with beautiful descriptions and I loved it. It is "The God of Small Things" By Arundhati Roy.
Brief Plot Description:
The God of Small Things (1997) is a politically charged novel by Indian author Arundhati Roy. It is a story about the childhood experiences of a pair of fraternal twins who become victims of circumstance. The book is a description of how the small things in life build up, translate into people's behavior and affect their lives. The book won the Booker Prize in 1997.
October's book is written so uniquely, it is like poetry with beautiful descriptions and I loved it. It is "The God of Small Things" By Arundhati Roy.
Brief Plot Description:
The God of Small Things (1997) is a politically charged novel by Indian author Arundhati Roy. It is a story about the childhood experiences of a pair of fraternal twins who become victims of circumstance. The book is a description of how the small things in life build up, translate into people's behavior and affect their lives. The book won the Booker Prize in 1997.
Goals
September 26, 2009
"Just like a butterfly, I too, will awaken in my own time." -Deborah Chaskin
After Mid-Service Conference it is hard to believe that I will probably not be in Tanzania a year from now. Surprisingly, that scares me. When I return to America, I will have nothing, no money, no job, no house, no car and a few possessions... When I tell this to my Dad and say, "What should I do?" He says, "Play it by ear, some opportunity will present itself." This is one of the things I love about my parents- There are no "shoulds", "you have tos", or really direction of any kind besides, do what makes you happy. I remember fretting over my major in college and looking for my parents to direct me. There wasn't any direction besides pick something you are interested in and finish it. So my Humanities/Art History major with an ancient Greek life and culture emphasis, was not met with "What kind of job is that going to get you?" When I decided to go live in Africa for two years, there was no "Why would you do that?" When I was home and said that I was thinking about documentary film-making- they said, "That sounds interesting." It is not that my parents are uninterested in my choices, maybe it is that they know me so well that I can never surprise them. I just hope to become a parent like they are, where it is okay to let your child trip, stumble and sometimes fall, but to be their own person.
I have a million goals in this life, but none of them really lead to anything besides making my life more interesting. I found my "Life To Do List" in one of my old journals. I have added to it a bit, but thought I would post it to give me some direction. If you want to help or embark on any of these adventures then Karibu! (You are welcome to).
Brie's Life List:
-Visit every continent
-Hike the Pacific Crest Trail
-Join the Peace Corps (Joining was not the difficult part- 2 years in Tanzania is...)
-Get a Master's Degree
-Complete a Triathlon
-Write a book
-Learn how to rock climb
-Have a garden
-Sail around the Greek Islands
-Learn another language- Check. Not that my Kiswahili is entirely amazing, but it is as good as it is gonna get...
-Write family history/family tree
-Buy and use a kayak
-Learn how to knit and actually finish something
-Learn how to play the guitar
-Go on a long horseback adventure
-Have a child
-Learn about herbal medicine
-Live in the middle of nowhere/ live in the middle of somewhere (Former- check)
-Advocate for women/children and animal's rights
-Drive the East Coast- Canada to Florida
-Go on a yoga/health retreat
-Learn how to scuba dive
-Boat trip down the Amazon River
-Learn how to meditate
-Be less cluttered and messy (Yeah, right... Sorry, Mom.)
-Learn how to drive a motorcycle
-Make a Documentary Film
-Learn how to read Tarot Cards better
-Live as self-sufficiently as possible- grow own food, use minimal water/electricity, make soap and candles...
-Learn how to find happiness and contentment within myself no matter where I am or what I am doing.
-Tell people "I Love them" (Nawapenda) more often.
Does this add up to a job? I think not. Does this add up to a good life for me? I think so.
"Just like a butterfly, I too, will awaken in my own time." -Deborah Chaskin
After Mid-Service Conference it is hard to believe that I will probably not be in Tanzania a year from now. Surprisingly, that scares me. When I return to America, I will have nothing, no money, no job, no house, no car and a few possessions... When I tell this to my Dad and say, "What should I do?" He says, "Play it by ear, some opportunity will present itself." This is one of the things I love about my parents- There are no "shoulds", "you have tos", or really direction of any kind besides, do what makes you happy. I remember fretting over my major in college and looking for my parents to direct me. There wasn't any direction besides pick something you are interested in and finish it. So my Humanities/Art History major with an ancient Greek life and culture emphasis, was not met with "What kind of job is that going to get you?" When I decided to go live in Africa for two years, there was no "Why would you do that?" When I was home and said that I was thinking about documentary film-making- they said, "That sounds interesting." It is not that my parents are uninterested in my choices, maybe it is that they know me so well that I can never surprise them. I just hope to become a parent like they are, where it is okay to let your child trip, stumble and sometimes fall, but to be their own person.
I have a million goals in this life, but none of them really lead to anything besides making my life more interesting. I found my "Life To Do List" in one of my old journals. I have added to it a bit, but thought I would post it to give me some direction. If you want to help or embark on any of these adventures then Karibu! (You are welcome to).
Brie's Life List:
-Visit every continent
-Hike the Pacific Crest Trail
-Join the Peace Corps (Joining was not the difficult part- 2 years in Tanzania is...)
-Get a Master's Degree
-Complete a Triathlon
-Write a book
-Learn how to rock climb
-Have a garden
-Sail around the Greek Islands
-Learn another language- Check. Not that my Kiswahili is entirely amazing, but it is as good as it is gonna get...
-Write family history/family tree
-Buy and use a kayak
-Learn how to knit and actually finish something
-Learn how to play the guitar
-Go on a long horseback adventure
-Have a child
-Learn about herbal medicine
-Live in the middle of nowhere/ live in the middle of somewhere (Former- check)
-Advocate for women/children and animal's rights
-Drive the East Coast- Canada to Florida
-Go on a yoga/health retreat
-Learn how to scuba dive
-Boat trip down the Amazon River
-Learn how to meditate
-Be less cluttered and messy (Yeah, right... Sorry, Mom.)
-Learn how to drive a motorcycle
-Make a Documentary Film
-Learn how to read Tarot Cards better
-Live as self-sufficiently as possible- grow own food, use minimal water/electricity, make soap and candles...
-Learn how to find happiness and contentment within myself no matter where I am or what I am doing.
-Tell people "I Love them" (Nawapenda) more often.
Does this add up to a job? I think not. Does this add up to a good life for me? I think so.
Friday, September 25, 2009
The Tough Stuff
*This entry may be offensive to some people. I am sorry, but not that sorry, because it is my blog and you don't have to read it...
"For a long time it seemed to me that life was about to begin... But there was always some obstacle in the way, something to be gotten through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served, a debt to be paid. Then life would begin. At last it dawned on me that these obstacles were my life." -Alfred D. Souza
September 19-22, 2009
I spend 90% of this weekend pouting in my house, like a child. I had scheduled meetings with my village executive officer (VEO) and my village chairman (VC), so that we could arrange a schedule where I could talk to each of my six sub-villages about AIDS- What is it? How we can protect ourselves and why we are going to get tested. I am on some ridiculous sleep pattern where I can only sleep for about three hours then am awake for about six and then sleep for three again, so I spend a lot of "dark time" awake. So I spend these nights meticulously planning what I will teach in Swahili. Saturday morning is with my own sub-village- no one comes, not even late like usual, just no one comes. Juster says maybe it is the weather, cloudy and cold, but I am still annoyed. Sunday morning is with my furthest out sub-village. Juster doesn't even want to go because maybe no one will be there and then we will just be out in the middle of nowhere. I insist that we go- maybe this time will be different? We run into a woman from there while on our way. She tells us that no one is there for a meeting. I go home- I make a "depression bed" on my couch, prepare myself to only receive Katherine and Anna, because I am pissed at my entire village. I sit there and contemplate why in two days my entire village has decided that they hate me.
Finally, around two pm, I hear the motorcycle brigade pull up. I hear, Justice, William, Puce, and Osmond all yell "Hodi"- I yell at them to go away- as four of my best friends, and young men all my age who I have made my target audience for this presentation, their disloyalty hurts more than anything. William, the one who is always willing to put me in my place, yells "Open the door, Brie, you are being stupid." That pushes me over the edge so I fling the door opened prepared with my best glare. It turns into a half smile. You can't help but smile if you know these guys. Today they look like a Goodwill Store, meets the 1980s, meets Africa, as they fix me with goofy grins.
William: You wanna know what happened?
Me (Pissed): Yeah, what happened?
William: You met with the VEO and VC at the bar like usual right?
Me: Yeah, you know that is where all the government meetings are.
William: Who wrote down when you would go where, and I know you did, but which Tanzanian did?
Me: No one.
William: How much had you all had to drink?
Me: I didn't drink anything, no idea about them.
William: Brie, sorry. Wish I had been there to remember what they had told you. (William is the VEO's motorcycle driver because he is usually drunk, and apparently also his personal assistant if he has to keep track of all of his meetings.)
Puce: Everyone is at the bar, let's go, you can go yell at them then.
I do go but I walk into a huge conversation about feeling grateful to God because we were not handicapped this year, we have enough to eat, some money, we did not die like so many people, etc. This is proof of God's love and existence. Because I am still in a bad mood and feel like playing the devil's advocate (literally), I tell them that I think that this is proof of God's non-existence. If he loves us so much then why are some people hungry? Why was I born in America where you think life is perfect and you were left to struggle here? Why are there "haves" and "have-nots"? Clearly, no one in this bar has ever thought of that before. My PCV friend, Kate, once asked me on a long bus ride, "Don't you wonder what Tanzanians think about when they are just walking down the street?" The answer is clearly not what Brie thinks about. Eventually the bar conversation turns to Los Angeles, because they know that this is where Michael Jackson died. "Where in America is this place? You have been there! What is it like?" So I go to work explaining L.A. and say that the name is coming from Spanish. "Wait, but it is Canada that is below America?" No, Canada is above. "But Mexicans and Canadians are the same, right?" I find it surprisingly difficult to explain in Swahili their differences. Finally, Justice says, "But they are mostly the same." I am tired and it doesn't really matter, so I agree and laugh to myself.
My meeting is rescheduled for Tuesday after a chai meeting. This is good because a lot of people are there. This is bad because most of them are old men. However, they are really active in asking questions and interested. Juster, who is helping me, says it is good that they are there because they are wise and will spread the knowledge. Juster is a big help, until I get around to not being faithful to your wife or husband, then you need to be using condoms which you can get from me or the health center. Then Juster tells them that they should be faithful because the Pope is against condom use and it is not Christian to use them. Then she says to me in English, "Brie, you can't tell them to use condoms then everyone will just start having sex." I look at her like I want to kill her along with every missionary who brought their own religions into this country. And I wonder where this right-wing republican came from and how George W. Bush came to inhabit Juster's body. I tell her in English, "They are all already having sex! Open your eyes!" Luckily, before anyone can say anything, Mzee Ngoda stands up (Keeping his position as my favorite wizard along with Harry Potter,) and says, "But we are not really Catholic or Christian. We are Tanzanian. The Pope and the bible are against a lot of things we do. (Like beating your wife, I chime in.) I think that if we are to believe in God then we need to believe in a fair God, who understands our struggles and knows we need to protect ourselves and who we love." Finally, someone with some sense, an old man open to change- I could have kissed him. So I wonder to myself how many AIDS deaths the bible, the Pope, missionaries have been responsible for. How much brainwashing they have done, how many orphans and overpopulation they have caused by not opening their eyes to what Tanzanians really need. I feel ashamed for them. This "ever-loving God" that we should be so grateful to, I am sure would pity the stupidity of people who let a disease run rampant when we have a tool to stop it. You cannot change a culture, but you can slowly modify their behaviors.
"For a long time it seemed to me that life was about to begin... But there was always some obstacle in the way, something to be gotten through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served, a debt to be paid. Then life would begin. At last it dawned on me that these obstacles were my life." -Alfred D. Souza
September 19-22, 2009
I spend 90% of this weekend pouting in my house, like a child. I had scheduled meetings with my village executive officer (VEO) and my village chairman (VC), so that we could arrange a schedule where I could talk to each of my six sub-villages about AIDS- What is it? How we can protect ourselves and why we are going to get tested. I am on some ridiculous sleep pattern where I can only sleep for about three hours then am awake for about six and then sleep for three again, so I spend a lot of "dark time" awake. So I spend these nights meticulously planning what I will teach in Swahili. Saturday morning is with my own sub-village- no one comes, not even late like usual, just no one comes. Juster says maybe it is the weather, cloudy and cold, but I am still annoyed. Sunday morning is with my furthest out sub-village. Juster doesn't even want to go because maybe no one will be there and then we will just be out in the middle of nowhere. I insist that we go- maybe this time will be different? We run into a woman from there while on our way. She tells us that no one is there for a meeting. I go home- I make a "depression bed" on my couch, prepare myself to only receive Katherine and Anna, because I am pissed at my entire village. I sit there and contemplate why in two days my entire village has decided that they hate me.
Finally, around two pm, I hear the motorcycle brigade pull up. I hear, Justice, William, Puce, and Osmond all yell "Hodi"- I yell at them to go away- as four of my best friends, and young men all my age who I have made my target audience for this presentation, their disloyalty hurts more than anything. William, the one who is always willing to put me in my place, yells "Open the door, Brie, you are being stupid." That pushes me over the edge so I fling the door opened prepared with my best glare. It turns into a half smile. You can't help but smile if you know these guys. Today they look like a Goodwill Store, meets the 1980s, meets Africa, as they fix me with goofy grins.
William: You wanna know what happened?
Me (Pissed): Yeah, what happened?
William: You met with the VEO and VC at the bar like usual right?
Me: Yeah, you know that is where all the government meetings are.
William: Who wrote down when you would go where, and I know you did, but which Tanzanian did?
Me: No one.
William: How much had you all had to drink?
Me: I didn't drink anything, no idea about them.
William: Brie, sorry. Wish I had been there to remember what they had told you. (William is the VEO's motorcycle driver because he is usually drunk, and apparently also his personal assistant if he has to keep track of all of his meetings.)
Puce: Everyone is at the bar, let's go, you can go yell at them then.
I do go but I walk into a huge conversation about feeling grateful to God because we were not handicapped this year, we have enough to eat, some money, we did not die like so many people, etc. This is proof of God's love and existence. Because I am still in a bad mood and feel like playing the devil's advocate (literally), I tell them that I think that this is proof of God's non-existence. If he loves us so much then why are some people hungry? Why was I born in America where you think life is perfect and you were left to struggle here? Why are there "haves" and "have-nots"? Clearly, no one in this bar has ever thought of that before. My PCV friend, Kate, once asked me on a long bus ride, "Don't you wonder what Tanzanians think about when they are just walking down the street?" The answer is clearly not what Brie thinks about. Eventually the bar conversation turns to Los Angeles, because they know that this is where Michael Jackson died. "Where in America is this place? You have been there! What is it like?" So I go to work explaining L.A. and say that the name is coming from Spanish. "Wait, but it is Canada that is below America?" No, Canada is above. "But Mexicans and Canadians are the same, right?" I find it surprisingly difficult to explain in Swahili their differences. Finally, Justice says, "But they are mostly the same." I am tired and it doesn't really matter, so I agree and laugh to myself.
My meeting is rescheduled for Tuesday after a chai meeting. This is good because a lot of people are there. This is bad because most of them are old men. However, they are really active in asking questions and interested. Juster, who is helping me, says it is good that they are there because they are wise and will spread the knowledge. Juster is a big help, until I get around to not being faithful to your wife or husband, then you need to be using condoms which you can get from me or the health center. Then Juster tells them that they should be faithful because the Pope is against condom use and it is not Christian to use them. Then she says to me in English, "Brie, you can't tell them to use condoms then everyone will just start having sex." I look at her like I want to kill her along with every missionary who brought their own religions into this country. And I wonder where this right-wing republican came from and how George W. Bush came to inhabit Juster's body. I tell her in English, "They are all already having sex! Open your eyes!" Luckily, before anyone can say anything, Mzee Ngoda stands up (Keeping his position as my favorite wizard along with Harry Potter,) and says, "But we are not really Catholic or Christian. We are Tanzanian. The Pope and the bible are against a lot of things we do. (Like beating your wife, I chime in.) I think that if we are to believe in God then we need to believe in a fair God, who understands our struggles and knows we need to protect ourselves and who we love." Finally, someone with some sense, an old man open to change- I could have kissed him. So I wonder to myself how many AIDS deaths the bible, the Pope, missionaries have been responsible for. How much brainwashing they have done, how many orphans and overpopulation they have caused by not opening their eyes to what Tanzanians really need. I feel ashamed for them. This "ever-loving God" that we should be so grateful to, I am sure would pity the stupidity of people who let a disease run rampant when we have a tool to stop it. You cannot change a culture, but you can slowly modify their behaviors.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
"Where is my Corset?"
Mama Johnson, over a week after being beaten
Jen
Jen- she is always wearing red or pink and usually together..."when I was four years old, they tried to test my I.Q. they showed me a picture of 3 oranges and a pear they said, which one is different? it does not belong they taught me different is wrong but when I was 13 years old I woke up one morning thighs covered in blood like a war like a warning that I live in a breakable takeable body an ever-increasingly valuable body that a woman had come in the night to replace me deface me see, my body is borrowed yeah, I got it on loan for the time in between my mom and some maggots I don't need anyone to hold me I can hold my own I got highways for stretchmarks see where I've grown I sing sometimes like my life is at stake 'cause you're only as loud
as the noises you make I'm learning to laugh as hard as I can listen 'cause silence is violence in women and poor people if more people were screaming then I could relax but a good brain ain't diddley if you don't have the facts we live in a breakable takeable world an ever available possible world and we can make music like we can make do genius is in a back beat backseat to nothing if you're dancing especially something stupid like I.Q. for every lie I unlearn I learn something new I sing sometimes for the war that I fight 'cause every tool is a weapon - if you hold it right." -Ani DiFranco
September 12, 2009
"Life is full of suffering- and overcoming it." -Helen Keller
I have often said that I feel like I live in the middle ages. I walk around at night with a candle, I cook over a fire, I bathe rarely, I wear skirts, men run the world... It took an ugly turn this week when news got to me that Mama Johnson's face had been broken open. I was not sure what this exactly meant, but I finally got to see Mama Johnson and get the entire story. It should be said that I am an expert now at controlling my cringe/gag reflex. I am offered and shake filthy hands, or sometimes missing limbs, I watch facial sores full of pus, people who smell as if they are already half-way dead. I watch teeth rotting in people's heads, black or missing with breath like death. And I look sweetly back with big blue eyes, and smile understandingly with my straight, white American teeth. But I cringe when I see Mama Johnson's once beautiful face. The story goes that a drunk kijana (man between 18-30) came to her Cafe and was speaking offensively, when she asked him to leave he punched her hard enough that she hit the ground, so one side of the face is bruised, while the other side is broken open in three places from hitting the ground. Once she was on the ground he kicked her and it hurts her when she breaths. Finally some other village men saved her. The guy who did it then ran off into the bush. "What will happen to him when he gets back?" I ask. She tells me that because he is not her husband that he could be stoned. (That's right, stoned as in a public stoning...) Everyone who hears the story responds with how bad this is because he is not her husband. Finally, I ask the inevitable question, "What if he was her husband?" Every one looks at me like I am stupid and replies that then that is there business. So my new question to all the men I meet is, "Do you beat your wife?" I have asked about 50 men outright in my informal Brie-vey, and had not one yes answer. So I follow it up with, "Do a lot of men in Image beat their wives?" 100% of those questioned respond with yes... so clearly I am not getting the full picture. I did the only thing I could do for Mama Johnson- put antibiotic ointment on her wounds and told her I loved her.
Then I am greeted with more disturbing news. Both Jen and Juster are leaving Image. They are being transferred to other primary schools, Jen is going at the end of this month and Juster in December. I am not sure that I can convey this feeling of loss into words. No two women have been more impactful on my life outside of my family. No two women have loved me so unconditionally for no reason. They are my best friends. They are my family. They are the people who tell me everyday that I am a good person, that I am beautiful, that they love me. (When one is so far away and alone, this type of reinforcement cannot be underestimated.) They are the people who come in the morning to make sure that I am ok, who feed me when I am hungry, hold my hand when I am sick, who smooth my hair and speak English to me when I need a Kiswahili break... When they tell me, I cry. I can't help it. I can tell they feel horrible as they wipe tears from my face and tell me that they would never leave me but their fathers have requested transfers for them. Why? There is no opportunities in Image. I should know, but I ask anyways, "Opportunities for what?" Marriage. Juster says, "We are getting old, Brie, we must be married off soon." (She is 28) Jen sweetly says, "You are getting old too, isn't your father worried about your lack of opportunities here?" I laugh through my tears and try to picture my Dad calling Peace Corps and asking me to be relocated to a bigger village because of no marriage opportunities. But I tell them, "No, Americans believe in other opportunities. My Dad thinks that just living in Image is an opportunity." So I watch them prepare to sell their possessions, to pack up the sitting rooms that I have spent so much time in and I can't help but feel abandoned. Fathers attempting to marry off my Tanzanian sisters... I don't like it one bit.
If that didn't cap off a horrible Saturday than the four funerals I went to that day did. I paid respect to four bodies, their dark faces sleeping in make-shift coffins. I watched four villagers be lowered into the ground. Four times I listened to the women wail, men quietly singing hymns, someone drumming. Four times today I watched death. I still don't understand it. First an old man, his face lined with knowledge, next a baby in a casket barely larger than a shoebox, his face innocent to the harsh world. Then a small girl maybe eight years old with her black "protection" string still around her neck and dirt under her fingernails and I held it together. For the last funeral dusk was settling in. It was a mother who left behind five orphaned children. The oldest (maybe 12) had the youngest tied to her back. We trudged to the closest "cemetery" through a cornfield. I watched the five orphans drop a handful of dirt onto their mothers grave and i lost it. I retreated to the back of the cornfield and sat in the dirt, Anna, asleep on my back oblivious of the tears that I cried into my skirt. I cried for the orphaned children in my village. For orphans everywhere. I cried because people die, get sick and leave. I cried for my family and for people I don't know. I cried for all the woes of the world and because I am helpless in it. The next thing I knew the 2nd to youngest orphan girl was sitting next to me. I offered her my hand. She accepted it, dry-eyed. Maybe she doesn't understand. I held onto her hand but continued to cry into my lap. Eventually I looked up to find William standing there, who had apparently crossed the gender line when I went missing (women and men were standing separately, of course.) He has a quiet presence which I find comforting. We are exact opposites besides our age. He is educated through the seventh grade and is married with a child. We joke that he is my translator despite the face that he doesn't speak a word of English. Sometimes he just repeats what has been said with a different emphasis and I understand. Sometimes we don't talk at all and we just know. He doesn't ask me why I am crying. Instead he says, "I don't know what life is like in America, I am sure that their are problems, there are problems everywhere. You won't fix everything, Brie. Your heart is too big. This is our life. People die, people leave, people are sick and hurt, but somehow while we are alive, we stay happy. You are an African now, you need to learn how to hold your own hand." Just as I am about to object like a child and say "It is not fair!" The little orphan girl in rags puts my left hand into my right and clasps her own together. William gives and nod of approval and disappears back into the dark wailing masses. The little girls smiles up at me... little white teeth in the dark, like the stars that are starting to appear.
Juster and Jen are afraid of my tears and spend the night at my house. I sleep soundly between them and have an overwhelming presence of my own sisters, Shannon and Raeme. I wake up to them singing and playing with my hair.
"I will stay with you tonight, in case this corset gets too tight, and I will keep you company 'cause that's what a sister should be."
I go back to being a woman
"Don't go too fast, but I go pretty far. For someone who don't drive I've been all around the world. Some people say I've done alright for a girl." - Brand New Key Lyrics
September 8, 2009
It is time for Standard Seven's exams again, which for me is entirely different than it was last year. Last year I was shocked at being placed separate from the women and with the men, last year I didn't even know all my own teacher's names. This year I am told to go to the Mwalimu Mkuu's home, where I spend hours with the women slaving away over the fires to cook for our guests who facilitate the exams. Anna is brought to me and sleeps on my back while I cut tomatoes. When it is finally time for us, "Women" to serve out guests and the male teachers, Mama Lau tells me to go in with the washing bowl and wash their hand but to not forget to kneel in front of them and bow down before I do it. Being Brie, I plan on rebellimg amd not kneeling, but I watch the women for a momment and see how eagerly they serve the men and I wonder if there should be more ways of showing respect in American culture. Not just women to men and children to adults but everyone to everyone.
So I kneel on the floor an avert my eyes to our male guests and my male teachers, exactly as I have been shown, like I should be embaressed for being a woman. When I get to Mwalimu Mwalango, (one of my good friends who is about my age), He says, "You should be standing, African Queen." This causes a lot of laughter. Jen and Mary started calling me African Queen after this stupid song on the radio where that is the chourus and now the villagers have picked up on it along with the teachers. They also call me "Baby". which is a little more fitting because I am pretty helpless with out them.
A new person came to our village this week. He is a Tanzanian man about my age. He told me he is an extension officer working on our chai production. I instinctively feel a bit jealous. In one day he knows more than I have learned in a year, and being an attention seeking Aries, I am worried that this guy is going to steal my show. I should not have worried. A Tanzanian man, even a guest, doesn't hold a candle to a white woman for mystique. I still run the Image show. It is funny to me how possesive I am over Tanzania and it's people. I would love to have American visitors, but I worry that they will not be able to see the hidden beauty that this place embodies. In so many ways Tanzania is mine- my sanctuary, my fear, my success, my failure, my love and at the heart of it is Image Village. Today, I was homesick. (That is right, even after a year here, I still get homesick.) In so many ways I have set myself up in a contradiction of interests. I love Oregon, it will forever be my home. But when I was there I longed for africa, for the adventure, for the freedom, for the unknown. For the sun blazing through my window in the morning as the village comes to life. Totally alone, but never really alone. Conflicting thoughts- my whole life I have wanted to get here, but here is sometimes hard, here is far- where will I be happy? I am a walking contradiction- the girl who is refined enough to wear red fingernail polish, but careless enough that it is always chipped. A woman who wants someone to love and support her, but prides herself on her independance and sense of adventure. A person who wants to make the world a better place, but who has no idea where her place is in it. But I guess for now, I can just be satisfied to have the place of 'Miss Image' and somehow becoming Tanzanian royalty.
September 8, 2009
It is time for Standard Seven's exams again, which for me is entirely different than it was last year. Last year I was shocked at being placed separate from the women and with the men, last year I didn't even know all my own teacher's names. This year I am told to go to the Mwalimu Mkuu's home, where I spend hours with the women slaving away over the fires to cook for our guests who facilitate the exams. Anna is brought to me and sleeps on my back while I cut tomatoes. When it is finally time for us, "Women" to serve out guests and the male teachers, Mama Lau tells me to go in with the washing bowl and wash their hand but to not forget to kneel in front of them and bow down before I do it. Being Brie, I plan on rebellimg amd not kneeling, but I watch the women for a momment and see how eagerly they serve the men and I wonder if there should be more ways of showing respect in American culture. Not just women to men and children to adults but everyone to everyone.
So I kneel on the floor an avert my eyes to our male guests and my male teachers, exactly as I have been shown, like I should be embaressed for being a woman. When I get to Mwalimu Mwalango, (one of my good friends who is about my age), He says, "You should be standing, African Queen." This causes a lot of laughter. Jen and Mary started calling me African Queen after this stupid song on the radio where that is the chourus and now the villagers have picked up on it along with the teachers. They also call me "Baby". which is a little more fitting because I am pretty helpless with out them.
A new person came to our village this week. He is a Tanzanian man about my age. He told me he is an extension officer working on our chai production. I instinctively feel a bit jealous. In one day he knows more than I have learned in a year, and being an attention seeking Aries, I am worried that this guy is going to steal my show. I should not have worried. A Tanzanian man, even a guest, doesn't hold a candle to a white woman for mystique. I still run the Image show. It is funny to me how possesive I am over Tanzania and it's people. I would love to have American visitors, but I worry that they will not be able to see the hidden beauty that this place embodies. In so many ways Tanzania is mine- my sanctuary, my fear, my success, my failure, my love and at the heart of it is Image Village. Today, I was homesick. (That is right, even after a year here, I still get homesick.) In so many ways I have set myself up in a contradiction of interests. I love Oregon, it will forever be my home. But when I was there I longed for africa, for the adventure, for the freedom, for the unknown. For the sun blazing through my window in the morning as the village comes to life. Totally alone, but never really alone. Conflicting thoughts- my whole life I have wanted to get here, but here is sometimes hard, here is far- where will I be happy? I am a walking contradiction- the girl who is refined enough to wear red fingernail polish, but careless enough that it is always chipped. A woman who wants someone to love and support her, but prides herself on her independance and sense of adventure. A person who wants to make the world a better place, but who has no idea where her place is in it. But I guess for now, I can just be satisfied to have the place of 'Miss Image' and somehow becoming Tanzanian royalty.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Mid-Service Conference: Dar es Salaam
"Whoa, We're half-way there, whoa, we're livin' on a prayer, so take my hand and we'll make it I swear, whoa, we're livin' on a prayer." -Bon Jovi and the unofficial song of our MSC
August 29- September 5, 2009
Highlights of MSC:
-Seeing my entire group for the first time since training.
-Getting my hair done by Masai men who then cut it with a Masai Knife and I watched them jump... awesome.
-Swimming in the Indian Ocean.
-Dance Beach Volleyball... The same as regular but you can't stop dancing.
-Korie's 25th B-Day party, both parts one and two: where we ended up taking over for the band...
-Trivia Night at Irish Pub where my excessive knowledge about Zorro finally paid off... Thanks, Dad :-)
-Kate and Brie's Date Night: We danced until dawn...
-Nights out with Greta, Kate and Teri...
-Trip to the Tanzanian dentist... enough said. Luckily did not have any cavaties.
-Being re-inspired by Peace Corps.
-Realizing that I am half-way through completing something that I have always wanted to do... nothing could be sweeter.
Me
Kate and I: Date Night
With slightly better faces on...
Trivia Team: Ralph, Kate (our Recorder), Greta and I
Korie's Birthday Party: Greta, Meesh and Korie... I think singing Cher here...
Teri and I
Ash, Great and I
August 29- September 5, 2009
Highlights of MSC:
-Seeing my entire group for the first time since training.
-Getting my hair done by Masai men who then cut it with a Masai Knife and I watched them jump... awesome.
-Swimming in the Indian Ocean.
-Dance Beach Volleyball... The same as regular but you can't stop dancing.
-Korie's 25th B-Day party, both parts one and two: where we ended up taking over for the band...
-Trivia Night at Irish Pub where my excessive knowledge about Zorro finally paid off... Thanks, Dad :-)
-Kate and Brie's Date Night: We danced until dawn...
-Nights out with Greta, Kate and Teri...
-Trip to the Tanzanian dentist... enough said. Luckily did not have any cavaties.
-Being re-inspired by Peace Corps.
-Realizing that I am half-way through completing something that I have always wanted to do... nothing could be sweeter.
Me
Kate and I: Date Night
With slightly better faces on...
Trivia Team: Ralph, Kate (our Recorder), Greta and I
Korie's Birthday Party: Greta, Meesh and Korie... I think singing Cher here...
Teri and I
Ash, Great and IMonday, August 31, 2009
Book of the Month: September
Most people know that I am a crazy reader. I am going to guess that I read 12-15 books a month. Most Americans don't have much reading time, but I figured that every month I could post my favorite book for that month, because when you live alone in the middle of nowhere you have got a lot of time. I will post a book and a brief synopsis and if you read it than let me know what you thought. Sometimes the book might be old because we have limited book access. But the best book I read this month was....
"Learning to Breathe" By Alison Wright
Key Words- Photojournalism, Travel- Nepal, Thailand, Laos, India, Tibet, Tanzania, the Amazon and more, Buddhism, overcoming chronic pain, help to developing countries, meditation and natural medicine.
If you liked 'Eat, Pray, Love' than this book is way better. It has none of the chick flick qualities but is applicable to everyone. A fascinating true story about a female photojournalist who travels the world and her near death bus accident in Laos that lead her to re-evaluate her life and eventually climb Mount Kilimanjaro in Tanzania. A beautiful story about perseverance in the face of all odds, helping people around the world and finding peace within ones self. Highly recommended by me... Thanks, Mom, for the gift. I love you.
"Learning to Breathe" By Alison Wright
Key Words- Photojournalism, Travel- Nepal, Thailand, Laos, India, Tibet, Tanzania, the Amazon and more, Buddhism, overcoming chronic pain, help to developing countries, meditation and natural medicine.
If you liked 'Eat, Pray, Love' than this book is way better. It has none of the chick flick qualities but is applicable to everyone. A fascinating true story about a female photojournalist who travels the world and her near death bus accident in Laos that lead her to re-evaluate her life and eventually climb Mount Kilimanjaro in Tanzania. A beautiful story about perseverance in the face of all odds, helping people around the world and finding peace within ones self. Highly recommended by me... Thanks, Mom, for the gift. I love you.
Never Chose an East African For A Running Partner
"I was born a rebel, Down in Dixie on a Sunday morning, Yeah with one foot in the grave, And one foot on the pedal, I was born a rebel." -Tom Petty
August 24, 2009
So I am what would be categorized as slightly overweight or what I prefer as "curvy". This is a body type that is considered ideal in E. Africa. But after a visit to America I could not shake the feeling that I was hoping to Punguza (reduce) a bit in Tanzania. So I try to explain this concept to Mama Lau, Mama Latifah, Juster, Mama Johnson, Jen, and Mary this morning when we are all having chai together. I explain that I am actually hoping to be attractive to Americans when I return (which dashes all their hopes that I will marry and live in Image forever). I try to explain my unrealistic goals of hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, learning to rock climb or (yikes!) competing in a triathlon. Mama Lau stops me here. She doesn't understand: Are you looking for food? What is the point? That seems like a lot of wasted energy for nothing... I try to explain athleticism... they don't really get it but finally agree to stop stuffing food down my throat at every possible minute. I also suggest that I want to start running. No village Tanzanians run unless there is a hurry or something to get away from. But since I am always the weird girl anyways I decide to start. Since I will get stares anyways, I think I will feel better with someone else, so I ask Jen because we are of similar size and I figure it might be more fun to do with someone else. Let's just say that I must have forgotten that this is the same woman who can dance for 5 hours straight, carry a sack of potatoes on her head uphill and be not even fazed, this is a Tanzanian woman who apparently even though we are the same size is solid muscle. The Brie/Jen running date practically killed me. Plus I felt like it was unfair to be trying to lose 50lbs. while she should not lose an inch to stay beautiful in this culture.
So I decide to start helping with the farming on a more regular basis. The farms are on the outskirts of the village so the walk is long and I even go with Anna on my back for added weight. I dig until Mary notices that my palms are bleeding and my legs are covered in thorns and tells me that no American would want me looking like that and forbids me to continue digging. So I try to exercise by running around like a little ivory fairy gathering the potatoes that are being dug up into sacks. I am still set on farming but Mama Latifah suggests that we have an all female dance party for exercise instead.
So that night under the thatched roof of Juster's house I am instructed on how to move my behind in ways that an exotic dancer could not even imagine. The women can move every body part independently and I am like their little apprentice. Finally Mama Johnson tells me that I better not lose any weight because I am perfect now and if I lose anything there will be nothing left to shake and I will dance poorly. So I am what I am... so much for the triathlon, because if I can shake it than I am in with the Tanzanians.
August 24, 2009
So I am what would be categorized as slightly overweight or what I prefer as "curvy". This is a body type that is considered ideal in E. Africa. But after a visit to America I could not shake the feeling that I was hoping to Punguza (reduce) a bit in Tanzania. So I try to explain this concept to Mama Lau, Mama Latifah, Juster, Mama Johnson, Jen, and Mary this morning when we are all having chai together. I explain that I am actually hoping to be attractive to Americans when I return (which dashes all their hopes that I will marry and live in Image forever). I try to explain my unrealistic goals of hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, learning to rock climb or (yikes!) competing in a triathlon. Mama Lau stops me here. She doesn't understand: Are you looking for food? What is the point? That seems like a lot of wasted energy for nothing... I try to explain athleticism... they don't really get it but finally agree to stop stuffing food down my throat at every possible minute. I also suggest that I want to start running. No village Tanzanians run unless there is a hurry or something to get away from. But since I am always the weird girl anyways I decide to start. Since I will get stares anyways, I think I will feel better with someone else, so I ask Jen because we are of similar size and I figure it might be more fun to do with someone else. Let's just say that I must have forgotten that this is the same woman who can dance for 5 hours straight, carry a sack of potatoes on her head uphill and be not even fazed, this is a Tanzanian woman who apparently even though we are the same size is solid muscle. The Brie/Jen running date practically killed me. Plus I felt like it was unfair to be trying to lose 50lbs. while she should not lose an inch to stay beautiful in this culture.
So I decide to start helping with the farming on a more regular basis. The farms are on the outskirts of the village so the walk is long and I even go with Anna on my back for added weight. I dig until Mary notices that my palms are bleeding and my legs are covered in thorns and tells me that no American would want me looking like that and forbids me to continue digging. So I try to exercise by running around like a little ivory fairy gathering the potatoes that are being dug up into sacks. I am still set on farming but Mama Latifah suggests that we have an all female dance party for exercise instead.
So that night under the thatched roof of Juster's house I am instructed on how to move my behind in ways that an exotic dancer could not even imagine. The women can move every body part independently and I am like their little apprentice. Finally Mama Johnson tells me that I better not lose any weight because I am perfect now and if I lose anything there will be nothing left to shake and I will dance poorly. So I am what I am... so much for the triathlon, because if I can shake it than I am in with the Tanzanians.
Friday, August 28, 2009
A Year in Image Village
"When we walk to the edge of all light we have and take that first step into the darkness of the unknown we must believe one of two things will happen- There will be something solid to stand on. Or, we will be taught how to fly."
-Patrick Overton
August 22-23, 2009
Tonight is my first night back in my village since I returned from America. Coincidentally, tonight as the sun sets, it is also my one year anniversary since coming to Image Village. This makes it impossible for me not to reflect on what one year ago today was like.
First, let's look at what happened today. I navigated the way to my village car with ease, complete with a supply of toilet paper, coffee and candles. Hopped into the car and directed Stan, my driver, where to place my bags so that my bought items would not break. Then Stan goes "So what did you bring?" which is my cue to pull out bananas, oranges and passion fruit... Stan has brought sugar cane and pineapple cut into little pieces. We look over our goods like fifth graders in the lunch room ready to share what our moms have packed us. This is our ride home tradition talking and bonding over our common love of fruit as we bump along. Upon arriving to my house it is in tip-top shape with no break ins at all, which is sort of amazing since my entire village knew I was gone and for how long. There is a welcome back party complete with villagers from a few months old to Mzee Ngoda. I finally get to be alone and turn my house into my own romantic oasis, which I have learned to do every night to make myself happy, even though I am alone in the middle of nowhere. I effortlessly build a fire in the fireplace, make soup, heat water for me to bathe with my favorite lavender soap, put my clothes into my wardrobe and light about 18 candles (although I have supposedly had electricity for months, in reality it has worked for maybe five nights.) I put on a Tom Petty cd and settle into the evening sounds of Image- children laughing, owls hooting, bugs chirping, something scurrying through my ceiling boards- rats? snakes? bats? lizards? I don't know and I don't care as long as I can't see it. Someone walks by singing in a foreign tongue. And I think about a year ago- how these very same sounds terrified me.
I remember climbing into the car with Stan and being afraid. unable to say more than a greeting to him and he generously slid some sugar cane across the seat, (which really started the whole tradition.) When I got to Image no one was there to greet me, no one cared. I think about how I couldn't build a fire, I didn't know how to get water to bathe, I had no furniture to set up, no candles and only a flashlight to shine into the dark recesses of my house at the spiders laying in wait. I didn't eat. Instead I curled into a ball on the cement floor and thought what have I done while I cried myself to sleep. Who knew that only one year later my life would be like this? My house would be this beautiful? I would have a million Tanzanian friends? And although today I love Image, they really gave me a sink of swim option, a fall or fly- and I am very glad that I CHOSE the latter. And I must stress "chose" because being here was the hardest choice I have ever made, especially when the former could have been so easy to give up and go back to America. A year ago I took a step into the unknown and even though I still have a lot of time left, today I feel like I am on the top of the mountain and can see the other side. Next year at this time, I will officially be a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer after 27 months of service... It will feel good.
" 'Come to the edge'
'It is too high'
'Come to the edge'
'We might fall'
'Come to the edge'
So they came, and they pushed and they flew..."
(PC's unofficial motto in my opinion... drop me off in a village alone with nothing and I'll show you...)
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Going Home... Again
Dad and I
Wedding Day: Me, Mom and Raeme
Shannon and Erik's Wedding: Erik, Raeme, Shannon, me"Life is the art of drawing without an eraser." -Unknown
August 21, 2009
So after almost a month in America, endless plane rides re-routing all through Europe, a twelve hour bus ride ride Dar es Salaam, I am finally back to Njombe. It is amazing how easily you forget things and as I climb off the plane the smell of Africa hits me and I get the feeling of home. It is impossible to describe things like this smell. But as I get into the Tanzanian residents line, somehow Swahili comes back to me, and I look out into Dar es Salaam and the sea of beautiful dark faces that stare into mine with an innocent curiosity and I remember why I love this country. The Njombe air hits me like ice as the cold wind blows over the Southern Highlands and I once again greet in Kibena and America feels like a dream.
Less than a week ago, I was walking down Hawthorne, I was driving through the Dutch Brothers drive through, I was in a gown watching my sister get married... I saw people I love, people I have known my whole life who remind me of where I come from, which is important. For some reason it is easy to get caught up in who this "African Brie" is, and being in America, being with friends and family reminded me that I can be as tough as I want, I can be as "African" as I can be, but at the heart of it, I will never be a Tanzanian. I will never understand why men are allowed to beat their wives, why children do all the work, why nothing runs on time, at the real heart of it, I will never really understand Swahili and Bena, my skin will never be a beautiful chocolate color and I will never be able to think that the fatter you are the more beautiful you are. At the real depth of it, I am only a white girl from West Linn, Oregon. I am an American. No matter what I do, I will never be Tanzanian. I love this country. I love these people but going home reminded me where I belong.
Tanzania has changed my life. I will never be the same. This country's people will be important to me for as long as I live and will always be intertwined into my life no matter what I do. So today as I head back to my village, which happens to be the year anniversary of when I first moved into Image Village. I realize, how far I have come. And I return with love in my heart for my Image family, my African house and my annoying little cat. I remember a year ago today, the fear I felt, the loneliness... the unknown. Now I get to go back knowing. So "Brie's Tanzanian Vision Quest" continues as I begin my second year, living alone in the middle of nowhere, with people who have a culture and a language that are not my own, experiencing a life that most Americans wouldn't choose. But somehow, today, I feel at peace with it. Secretly, I know, I was always meant to do this, to put myself through this. And when you are following what you are supposed to be doing your heart is always at peace. Whatever happens will happen.
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