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.

"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.

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