November 26, 2008
I have been mugged in the Port of Peace. It feels a bit weird to even write that. I guess I will just launch into the story, but I am still sort of in shock that it actually happened. My last entry about finding gratitude in your everyday experience couldn't have been more right on for advice I need to take at this moment as I alternate emotions from anger, to fear, to gratitude, to deep sadness. But overall, I can't catch a break here, even on vacation.
I go to Dar es Salaam to meet up with my friends Josh and Benja, both who are there for close of service before they return to the states. I am having a good time having them show me around the big city. We are eating good food, enjoying being on vacation, and seeing the sites of our capital city. I feel good because I am with two guys, both of who speak Swahili and know there way around Dar. The second night I am there Josh and I make plans to meet up with Benja at where he is staying with some expats. He is going to cook everyone a big dinner and we are going to watch movies. Josh and I leave around 6.00 PM. We are walking, it gets dark in Tanzania between 6.30-7, so it is still light. I am walking along enjoying the sight of the Indian Ocean, which I have waited my whole life to see. We take a wrong turn, but Josh knows where we are so I feel fine. It is dusk now, about 6.30.
I hear yelling behind me, I turn as three guys come running out of the bushes. Then everything happens really fast. They are on us before I can even think to run or do anything. (And they are Tanzanian, so obviously I would have been outrun immediately.) Two of them grab Josh, around the arms/neck whatever. The third one grabs me. The next thing I know, I am on the ground. I am unsure of how exactly I got there. He is ripping my cloth Iringa bag off me, but I have it crossed over my body. He is yelling obscenities at me in broken English and Kiswahili. I can hear Josh telling them in Kiswahili that we will give them anything, if they don't hurt me. I am pretty sure I am making no sound. I have always wondered what I will do in a situation like this. It is happening so fast though that it is difficult to know what to do. How much do I struggle? There is something unknown about being from different cultures also- I don't know the kind of desperation that they are acting on. About this time, since I am on the ground, I see the Panga (Tanzanian machete) in front of my face. I am not sure how sharp they are but I know they can cause some damage. A few years ago a PCV was in Arusha, she was robbed, and then took a panga to the back of the head. She was hospitalized and had to shave her head and get stitches, but heroically she finished her service. I think about her while I am on the ground. That is the most clear thought I have. Then I hear Josh telling me to give them my bag. So I stop struggling and pull it over my head. Then I watch for a second as my beautiful earthtone Iringa bag goes off into the night inside enclosing the most expensive things I own in my life here: My Peace Corps identification, my mini-med kit, my camera, my cell phone with every number of anyone important in my life on both sides of the world, my Washington Mutual bank card which I have just used to pull out $300 of my hard earned money from home to buy Christmas gifts for my family- that money is also all in there. My Tanzania NBC bank card, as well as about $100 worth of money from that account. And lastly; 2 of my favorite American lip glosses.
I can't think of that stuff now because Josh grabs my hand and yells "Brie, run!" The first thing I can remember saying is begging him not to leave me behind, which was sort of silly because he wasn't going to but fear of being caught again made me scared. We ran into the street which is a stupid thing to do any where but particularly here, but a car stopped for us and we got in. It was a Tanzanian couple who drove us to the police station. In the car, I got a bit hysterical, honestly. I was so focused on my material loss. Josh had had his phone stolen out of his pocket and his shirt had been ripped but apparently these Tanzanians didn't realize that American men keep their wallets in their back pockets because miraculously that was still there. So we still had his PC ID and his money. He is feeling thankful I am okay and we are not going to the hospital. So while I am crying, he is telling me that none of that matters because I am alive, but I don't feel thankful, yet.
We walk into Dar's Central Police Station just in time for the electricity to go out. The officer lights a candle which we do business by. I am afraid of Tanzania's police as they are notoriously corrupt. But this officer is kind and tells me not to cry. I could not be more thankful to be with Josh, who holds it together. So that while I sit crying, mosquitos flocking about me (If I get malaria from this, that is icing on the cake), covered in dirt (From being on the ground), and sweat (You cannot get any hotter in Tanzania than Dar es Salaam), I survey my damage- only some scratches and bruises. Josh files a police report, he calls the PC officer on duty, he calls our Safety and Security personnel at PC (All calls made from the police phone). He makes sure PC will call Benja, who we are sure is worried. Then he gets us a taxi, so we can go home.
We are starving, so we go to Indian food next to our hotel. Throughout the evening I ride on ups and downs. "It is only material possessions." "I am lucky to be okay." " My camera... My phone..." But there is also this anger, like I felt when the guy tried to get in my car in Downtown Portland- "How dare they make me feel fear." It is funny while it was happening I was more worried about my stuff, there was never really a moment I thought anything would happen to me. Josh says that me on the ground was what he was worried about and he didn't think about our stuff and only making sure I wasn't hurt. It is only later I have some Post Traumatic Stress from the situation of having guys with machetes jump on you. Today, I am suddenly afraid of Tanzanian men, which I wasn't before. When they run, move quickly or talk to me, I am scared. It is a difficult thing to be afraid of fifty percent of the country you live in. I haven't gotten six inches away from Josh, which isn't a very sustainable solution as he leaves the country in five days. I hate that I feel like this. I worked so hard to get over any fear or worry over Africans. I believed that they are safe, warm people who are happy to have us here. That night I wanted to go home. I didn't like this country, I didn't like these people. I hate that these men decided to prove Americans fears about Africans right, as I have tried so hard to trust and love them. I cried and cried. Josh reminded my that these men are not my service and maybe they are the reason why we serve to keep kids in school to help people in the developing world have other options besides desperation. We focused on that we are safe, our parents, siblings and partners in the states are safe (as far as we know), the other volunteers we love are safe. We recalled all the Tanzanians who love us, who will be appalled that this happened to us: Juster, Roma, and so many other friends we have in our villages and Njombe. We spent moments appreciating Njombe- it's cool climate, small town atmosphere where we are never harassed and run into someone we know every few feet. This is my service: Njombe, my village and my villagers.
We are now in Moshi. I have no money or way to get it, no ID, no phone, and no camera to photograph Kilimanjaro. I have nothing. I will be back in Dar on Tuesday, where PC will help me figure all this out, where I will buy a new phone. In the meantime- please send me your phone number- brienneblacklidge@gmail.com. I will post my new number once I have it. Please be patient as I put my life back together. I am just a stupid girl who had too many important things together in an African city capital. Never a good idea. So this Thanksgiving, I learn a lesson and I try to remain thankful for my health and the health of those I love.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Thanksgiving Wishes
"Celebrate we will. Because life is short but sweet, for certain."
-DMB
Dear Family and Friends,
I hope you are all happy and healthy this Thanksgiving. Just a little note to say how thankful I am for having each of you in my life. The past six months have been pretty rough, but rewarding for me. Tanzania has provided me with multiple challenges, but we all knew it would. Even so, I am still grateful to have the experience of living in Africa as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Sometimes it is important to see the beauty in what is difficult. I have appreciated all the love and support that has been sent to me over this period of time by all of you!
Tanzania is a country where people are thankful for whatever blessings they receive- good food, rain, safe transport, friendship... As Americans, I think we get busy and forget to find wonder and appreciation in our everyday experience. I hope this holiday allows you to rekindle gratitude for the small blessings in each day. Happy Thanksgiving!
I love and miss all of you so much,
Brie
-DMB
Dear Family and Friends,
I hope you are all happy and healthy this Thanksgiving. Just a little note to say how thankful I am for having each of you in my life. The past six months have been pretty rough, but rewarding for me. Tanzania has provided me with multiple challenges, but we all knew it would. Even so, I am still grateful to have the experience of living in Africa as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Sometimes it is important to see the beauty in what is difficult. I have appreciated all the love and support that has been sent to me over this period of time by all of you!
Tanzania is a country where people are thankful for whatever blessings they receive- good food, rain, safe transport, friendship... As Americans, I think we get busy and forget to find wonder and appreciation in our everyday experience. I hope this holiday allows you to rekindle gratitude for the small blessings in each day. Happy Thanksgiving!
I love and miss all of you so much,
Brie
Monday, November 24, 2008
Finding Purpose
"He who is able, thinks he is able."
- Buddha
November 23, 2008
I try to figure out my village's need this week. My village is poor. This might sound like an obvious statement, but I have gotten used to thatched roofs, barefoot children and bad roads- but I think we might really be poor. I went to two village meetings, one at the ungodly hour of 6.30 am so that it doesn't interfere too much with a day of farming. I stand in front with the community leaders and introduce myself. It is intimidating but people are kind.
Then I decide to hold my own interview with Mzee Ngoda (Lit. Old Man Ngoda)- he is my neighbor, one of the founders of the village and the one who everyone believes is a wizard. Most people are afraid of him but treat him with respect. I figure he will be a good person to know what the village needs. I make Juster come along because I need her help translating. She doesn't want to go but agree because "we are best friends". Along the way we meet the village driver, Stanley, the one with the crush on me, however, he is a totally innocent boy. Juster asks him to accompany us, because she is scared. She crosses herself as we go into his home. I feel a bit like a brat for making her go, but we could do with a little village adventure. Katherine walks by on her way to visit me, so she tags along too. Pretty soon we are joined by an out of school youth friend of Stanley's, the head teacher's wife and two other women (all with babies strapped to their backs) and Mzee Ngoda's son who is also the leader of our sub-village. (Turns out most of the village is related to Mzee, as he has 15 kids). So as you can tell this is an eclectic group of villagers, with Juster running the show in her high pitched, loud, lively voice. Oh, how I love that woman. The house is filthy and most people have to sit on the floor. But I start asking questions: What is the biggest problem in the village? What are the health issues? What resources could we use? And amazingly, everyone is really open to sharing their views. Katherine is even encouraged to talk about issues for children.
I find out my village is 3,500 people. Now about 1,000 are enrolled in primary school more are that age and not going, almost every woman has a baby on her back, so I would say all in all there can't be more that 1,000 villagers over the age of 27. I am waiting for the exact break down though. I find out that transport is a big problem (Obviously- I know this) The roads are bad and we have no cars for people and during the rainy season our one village car might not run (Gasp!What!?!) How will I get to Njombe? My saving grace when I am tired of being a Tanzanian Villager! Luckily at the end of this month a new volunteer is going in only 9 K from me. She is along the main road so she has good transport. I can walk 9k in the rain- I am an Oregonian, after all. My village is the only PCV village I know of without regular transport. When I ask why, they tell me money. So we are sort of isolated, no wonder people stare at me. For school a big problem is kids who finish primary school and do well on their exams cannot afford to go to secondary school, so they stop going to school all together. For the first year of secondary school it costs about $150 USD, which is expensive by TZ standards. Our village health center has no microscope, the critical ingredient in checking to see if one has Malaria as well as any number of illnesses. So villagers must go to town to get tested and you can see how easy that is.
The most shocking moment is when I ask what they know about HIV/AIDS and prevention methods- they answer "Nothing." What? I am afraid I didn't hear right? Who has known nothing about this since 1986? So I ask again. Katherine says, "Nothing". Okay, she is seven. Stanley's friend says he knows one is supposed to use condoms, but they are expensive and don't work. All the women shake their heads "No". Juster says- "I know, Brie." So, great, the most educated person who is not from our village and studies in Uganda knows how to prevent AIDS.
So-Plan: Easy Stuff: Health class through art at Primary School for girls and boys, Girls Empowerment and Life Skills group at my home after school, a few weekend seminars at the village dispensary- ideas: Nutrition and Children (For Mothers), HIV/AIDS Education- For community... more to come. Write grant for a microscope at dispensary. Hard Stuff: Start some kind of sustainable scholarship program for Primary School students who do well on their exams but cannot afford Secondary School. Write grant for village library (probably won't see the results but maybe the next volunteer at my site would continue it.) Figure out how to make a bus come down our road- (Yeah, Right. Have you seen our road? I am afraid of walking on our road.) The next day Juster says she had nightmares all the night before and thinks we were bewitched at Mzee Ngoda's- I thank her profusely for going.
So I am finally getting a cat- if it lives until I get back from Dar es Salaam. I wanted the two that the Mwalimu Mkuu had, but he told me they ran away. I waited too long, but I was not ready to be a good cat owner before now. I was sad, the next day he tells me he has a cat for me. I go to his home. In the kitchen curled up in a tiny ball next to the cooking fire is the boniest, dirtiest, homeliest, little kitten I have ever seen. It is tiny, hips and vertebrae protruding through matted white and orange blotchy fur. It puts up no fight when I try to hold it. And I think: Do I really want this cat? But I remember Timon- and we all thought he was homely, now he is the love of my family's life. I think it will be so hard if I take this cat and he dies. But I feel drawn to him- plus what other option does he have? He looks like an outcast and an underdog- so of course, I love him, but not too much because I have to make sure he is still there when I return from my Thanksgiving break.
I spent most of the day at a teacher's home, Mama Latifah. She was very sick. Tanzanians do this weird thing, where when someone is sick they all go and visit them and cram into the same room with them. It is maybe the exact opposite of what Americans do, which is wanting to be mostly alone and watch TV or sleep and visitors shy away from the sick. But sickness is a part of life here and hard to avoid. Since Tanzanians mostly don't have TVs, I guess they need company for their entertainment. So we crowd around Mama Latifah, curled up on her couch. There was a huge thunder/lightning and rainstorm that day while I was there. Let's just say the thatched roofing works to an extent but we started to get pretty wet. We had a lively discussion about marriage and children over Mama Latifah's sleeping head. Tanzanians find it fascinating that Americans will get married but not have any children. "What kind of marriage is that? You are not a real woman if you do not have children, Brie." They are always very happy when they discover how many kids my parents have. I don't try to explain adoption. When they find out I am the oldest this is always met with a "Hongera" (Congrats). I am not sure why being the oldest deserves this response.
One of my most memorable moments in Tanzania happened today. Imelda, the orphan who lives with Juster, has just finished Primary School. She got into Secondary School, but Juster cannot afford to send her, as she is already paying for two of her younger sisters to attend. Juster told me that Imelda will have to be married (She is 15) and maybe her husband will agree to send her. They have talked about this and she understands that this will be her fate. Imelda is a good girl, she is good in school, kind, and has had a hard life. I told Juster I would put her through her first year. I know PCVs putting multiple kids through secondary school on our small stipend, so I know it is possible. I know there are dozens more like her in my village, but I know her and it will make a difference in her life. Juster called Imelda in and told her that I had agreed to pay for this as long as she got good grades and that she would not have to find a husband. The girl's eyes welled up with tears, she dropped to her knees in front of where I was sitting, clasped her hands together almost like she was praying and said, "Asante sana, Mama Mdogo." (Thank you, young aunt) She looked shocked overwhelmed and happy. I asked if she wanted to go to school and she nodded. I think I have never given a better gift, than the gift of education. It is not really sustainable to be giving these hand outs and not really what we as PCVs are supposed to be doing. We don't really have any money. But I don't know one PCV who hasn't believed in a Tanzanian and given them money, put them through school, put money toward them starting a business, etc. I think it goes against our nature to not share what we have to offer on all levels. And if she is really inspired to learn, than education in itself is sustainable. Selfishly, it was a pretty good feeling to give it. Really, I think it was a gift for both of us- she needs to go to school and I need to find some purpose in Tanzania. It was nice in all of my difficulties to be important to and loved by someone.
- Buddha
November 23, 2008
I try to figure out my village's need this week. My village is poor. This might sound like an obvious statement, but I have gotten used to thatched roofs, barefoot children and bad roads- but I think we might really be poor. I went to two village meetings, one at the ungodly hour of 6.30 am so that it doesn't interfere too much with a day of farming. I stand in front with the community leaders and introduce myself. It is intimidating but people are kind.
Then I decide to hold my own interview with Mzee Ngoda (Lit. Old Man Ngoda)- he is my neighbor, one of the founders of the village and the one who everyone believes is a wizard. Most people are afraid of him but treat him with respect. I figure he will be a good person to know what the village needs. I make Juster come along because I need her help translating. She doesn't want to go but agree because "we are best friends". Along the way we meet the village driver, Stanley, the one with the crush on me, however, he is a totally innocent boy. Juster asks him to accompany us, because she is scared. She crosses herself as we go into his home. I feel a bit like a brat for making her go, but we could do with a little village adventure. Katherine walks by on her way to visit me, so she tags along too. Pretty soon we are joined by an out of school youth friend of Stanley's, the head teacher's wife and two other women (all with babies strapped to their backs) and Mzee Ngoda's son who is also the leader of our sub-village. (Turns out most of the village is related to Mzee, as he has 15 kids). So as you can tell this is an eclectic group of villagers, with Juster running the show in her high pitched, loud, lively voice. Oh, how I love that woman. The house is filthy and most people have to sit on the floor. But I start asking questions: What is the biggest problem in the village? What are the health issues? What resources could we use? And amazingly, everyone is really open to sharing their views. Katherine is even encouraged to talk about issues for children.
I find out my village is 3,500 people. Now about 1,000 are enrolled in primary school more are that age and not going, almost every woman has a baby on her back, so I would say all in all there can't be more that 1,000 villagers over the age of 27. I am waiting for the exact break down though. I find out that transport is a big problem (Obviously- I know this) The roads are bad and we have no cars for people and during the rainy season our one village car might not run (Gasp!What!?!) How will I get to Njombe? My saving grace when I am tired of being a Tanzanian Villager! Luckily at the end of this month a new volunteer is going in only 9 K from me. She is along the main road so she has good transport. I can walk 9k in the rain- I am an Oregonian, after all. My village is the only PCV village I know of without regular transport. When I ask why, they tell me money. So we are sort of isolated, no wonder people stare at me. For school a big problem is kids who finish primary school and do well on their exams cannot afford to go to secondary school, so they stop going to school all together. For the first year of secondary school it costs about $150 USD, which is expensive by TZ standards. Our village health center has no microscope, the critical ingredient in checking to see if one has Malaria as well as any number of illnesses. So villagers must go to town to get tested and you can see how easy that is.
The most shocking moment is when I ask what they know about HIV/AIDS and prevention methods- they answer "Nothing." What? I am afraid I didn't hear right? Who has known nothing about this since 1986? So I ask again. Katherine says, "Nothing". Okay, she is seven. Stanley's friend says he knows one is supposed to use condoms, but they are expensive and don't work. All the women shake their heads "No". Juster says- "I know, Brie." So, great, the most educated person who is not from our village and studies in Uganda knows how to prevent AIDS.
So-Plan: Easy Stuff: Health class through art at Primary School for girls and boys, Girls Empowerment and Life Skills group at my home after school, a few weekend seminars at the village dispensary- ideas: Nutrition and Children (For Mothers), HIV/AIDS Education- For community... more to come. Write grant for a microscope at dispensary. Hard Stuff: Start some kind of sustainable scholarship program for Primary School students who do well on their exams but cannot afford Secondary School. Write grant for village library (probably won't see the results but maybe the next volunteer at my site would continue it.) Figure out how to make a bus come down our road- (Yeah, Right. Have you seen our road? I am afraid of walking on our road.) The next day Juster says she had nightmares all the night before and thinks we were bewitched at Mzee Ngoda's- I thank her profusely for going.
So I am finally getting a cat- if it lives until I get back from Dar es Salaam. I wanted the two that the Mwalimu Mkuu had, but he told me they ran away. I waited too long, but I was not ready to be a good cat owner before now. I was sad, the next day he tells me he has a cat for me. I go to his home. In the kitchen curled up in a tiny ball next to the cooking fire is the boniest, dirtiest, homeliest, little kitten I have ever seen. It is tiny, hips and vertebrae protruding through matted white and orange blotchy fur. It puts up no fight when I try to hold it. And I think: Do I really want this cat? But I remember Timon- and we all thought he was homely, now he is the love of my family's life. I think it will be so hard if I take this cat and he dies. But I feel drawn to him- plus what other option does he have? He looks like an outcast and an underdog- so of course, I love him, but not too much because I have to make sure he is still there when I return from my Thanksgiving break.
I spent most of the day at a teacher's home, Mama Latifah. She was very sick. Tanzanians do this weird thing, where when someone is sick they all go and visit them and cram into the same room with them. It is maybe the exact opposite of what Americans do, which is wanting to be mostly alone and watch TV or sleep and visitors shy away from the sick. But sickness is a part of life here and hard to avoid. Since Tanzanians mostly don't have TVs, I guess they need company for their entertainment. So we crowd around Mama Latifah, curled up on her couch. There was a huge thunder/lightning and rainstorm that day while I was there. Let's just say the thatched roofing works to an extent but we started to get pretty wet. We had a lively discussion about marriage and children over Mama Latifah's sleeping head. Tanzanians find it fascinating that Americans will get married but not have any children. "What kind of marriage is that? You are not a real woman if you do not have children, Brie." They are always very happy when they discover how many kids my parents have. I don't try to explain adoption. When they find out I am the oldest this is always met with a "Hongera" (Congrats). I am not sure why being the oldest deserves this response.
One of my most memorable moments in Tanzania happened today. Imelda, the orphan who lives with Juster, has just finished Primary School. She got into Secondary School, but Juster cannot afford to send her, as she is already paying for two of her younger sisters to attend. Juster told me that Imelda will have to be married (She is 15) and maybe her husband will agree to send her. They have talked about this and she understands that this will be her fate. Imelda is a good girl, she is good in school, kind, and has had a hard life. I told Juster I would put her through her first year. I know PCVs putting multiple kids through secondary school on our small stipend, so I know it is possible. I know there are dozens more like her in my village, but I know her and it will make a difference in her life. Juster called Imelda in and told her that I had agreed to pay for this as long as she got good grades and that she would not have to find a husband. The girl's eyes welled up with tears, she dropped to her knees in front of where I was sitting, clasped her hands together almost like she was praying and said, "Asante sana, Mama Mdogo." (Thank you, young aunt) She looked shocked overwhelmed and happy. I asked if she wanted to go to school and she nodded. I think I have never given a better gift, than the gift of education. It is not really sustainable to be giving these hand outs and not really what we as PCVs are supposed to be doing. We don't really have any money. But I don't know one PCV who hasn't believed in a Tanzanian and given them money, put them through school, put money toward them starting a business, etc. I think it goes against our nature to not share what we have to offer on all levels. And if she is really inspired to learn, than education in itself is sustainable. Selfishly, it was a pretty good feeling to give it. Really, I think it was a gift for both of us- she needs to go to school and I need to find some purpose in Tanzania. It was nice in all of my difficulties to be important to and loved by someone.
Choices
"When it is dark enough, you can see the stars"
-Persian Proverb
November 20, 2008
Everyday I tell myself that life will get easier and then for a minute it does, but that time is always short lived. This week I think I lost the love and support of someone very important to me. As I sit here in my living room I didn't know it was possible to feel more lonely, but apparently it is. If I was home right now I would start watching "Gone With The Wind"- sort of a weird comfort movie, but it is mine anyways. As I sit here in the dark without Clark Gable, I contemplate once again- why am I here? Ah, the great question. Yesterday I didn't get out of bed. Today I did because ants invaded my house and when ants are coming through every crevice of a home, you sort of have to get up. Katherine brought me six bouquets of flowers today, it is like she instinctively knows my life sucks. What am I doing here?
I have this memory of being young and invited two different places with different friends. I remember whining to my mom that "I didn't want to choose" between the parties. I expected that maybe the world would re-arrange itself for me. My mom responded that I had to choose because life's about choices and I will always have to choose something over something else. This is how she disciplines my siblings too- "You have a choice". One is always a good behavior with a positive outcome, the other is to act the way you are acting and suffer the consequences. It always sucked to be given that choice because your fate was in your own hands. Then there is my Dad, who believes in making things happen for yourself. I can remember talking to him about addiction, which runs so rampantly in our family. He said something that has always stuck with me, "I don't believe in addiction, I believe in choices." Because when it comes down to it you are the decision maker for your life. There are so many excuses that one can make for anything. Sometimes I think we need to believe these excuses to protect our fragile selves. I think of all the excuses I could make right now to go home- and I am not sure anyone would blame me. I think of all the excuses I heard from people before I came- "I wanted to join the PC, but... (Fill in the blank)"
Luckily, in the midst of my emotional week my PC magazine came. The year after I finish my service will be PC's 50th Anniversary. Many Americans have served and helped promote a sense of peace and understanding in our global community. Reading about these volunteers of the past , I felt honored to be among this great group of citizens. When I think of my fellow PCVs in TZ as well as RPCVs I know, like my friends Nate and Laura- working tirelessly to help people in Africa after years of PC service, I feel lucky to be included as one of them. I know all of these people who are hopeful, ambitious, intelligent and able to find fun and appreciate the living in difficult places- I feel glad to know them and privileged to be part of a this common goal. In my choice to be here, I am missing things at home, I am changing the course of my life possibly in a dramatic way. I am a quarter of the way through service already if I COS at the earliest possible date, which I might if I get into graduate school. The life path I take may be changed through this, but I can change other people's too.
I was interviewing the primary school's head teacher for my village's needs assessment. I asked what one thing was that he wanted for our village? His response: "I want our village to have a library, so my daughter can learn to read great books." What a great idea- I would like that too. Although in the mean time I get to think about the nightmare of writing a grant to get that built, stocking it with Kiswahili books, and then who manages it? etc. But I haven't entirely written off the idea because I think by definition is hopeful, idealistic, and ambitious which causes one to take on more than they should.
These days I am just trying to distract myself and Africa is a great distraction. Something weird, fascinating, beautiful, funny... is always going on. I remind myself that I live here- how amazing. I live in a small community and uniquely I am choosing it despite the fear for what I might be losing is a hope for what might be gained.
"There is a candle in your heart ready to be kindled,
There is a void in your soul ready to be filled.
You feel it, don't you?"
-Rumi
-Persian Proverb
November 20, 2008
Everyday I tell myself that life will get easier and then for a minute it does, but that time is always short lived. This week I think I lost the love and support of someone very important to me. As I sit here in my living room I didn't know it was possible to feel more lonely, but apparently it is. If I was home right now I would start watching "Gone With The Wind"- sort of a weird comfort movie, but it is mine anyways. As I sit here in the dark without Clark Gable, I contemplate once again- why am I here? Ah, the great question. Yesterday I didn't get out of bed. Today I did because ants invaded my house and when ants are coming through every crevice of a home, you sort of have to get up. Katherine brought me six bouquets of flowers today, it is like she instinctively knows my life sucks. What am I doing here?
I have this memory of being young and invited two different places with different friends. I remember whining to my mom that "I didn't want to choose" between the parties. I expected that maybe the world would re-arrange itself for me. My mom responded that I had to choose because life's about choices and I will always have to choose something over something else. This is how she disciplines my siblings too- "You have a choice". One is always a good behavior with a positive outcome, the other is to act the way you are acting and suffer the consequences. It always sucked to be given that choice because your fate was in your own hands. Then there is my Dad, who believes in making things happen for yourself. I can remember talking to him about addiction, which runs so rampantly in our family. He said something that has always stuck with me, "I don't believe in addiction, I believe in choices." Because when it comes down to it you are the decision maker for your life. There are so many excuses that one can make for anything. Sometimes I think we need to believe these excuses to protect our fragile selves. I think of all the excuses I could make right now to go home- and I am not sure anyone would blame me. I think of all the excuses I heard from people before I came- "I wanted to join the PC, but... (Fill in the blank)"
Luckily, in the midst of my emotional week my PC magazine came. The year after I finish my service will be PC's 50th Anniversary. Many Americans have served and helped promote a sense of peace and understanding in our global community. Reading about these volunteers of the past , I felt honored to be among this great group of citizens. When I think of my fellow PCVs in TZ as well as RPCVs I know, like my friends Nate and Laura- working tirelessly to help people in Africa after years of PC service, I feel lucky to be included as one of them. I know all of these people who are hopeful, ambitious, intelligent and able to find fun and appreciate the living in difficult places- I feel glad to know them and privileged to be part of a this common goal. In my choice to be here, I am missing things at home, I am changing the course of my life possibly in a dramatic way. I am a quarter of the way through service already if I COS at the earliest possible date, which I might if I get into graduate school. The life path I take may be changed through this, but I can change other people's too.
I was interviewing the primary school's head teacher for my village's needs assessment. I asked what one thing was that he wanted for our village? His response: "I want our village to have a library, so my daughter can learn to read great books." What a great idea- I would like that too. Although in the mean time I get to think about the nightmare of writing a grant to get that built, stocking it with Kiswahili books, and then who manages it? etc. But I haven't entirely written off the idea because I think by definition is hopeful, idealistic, and ambitious which causes one to take on more than they should.
These days I am just trying to distract myself and Africa is a great distraction. Something weird, fascinating, beautiful, funny... is always going on. I remind myself that I live here- how amazing. I live in a small community and uniquely I am choosing it despite the fear for what I might be losing is a hope for what might be gained.
"There is a candle in your heart ready to be kindled,
There is a void in your soul ready to be filled.
You feel it, don't you?"
-Rumi
Friday, November 14, 2008
Five Months Without My Tribe
November 12, 2008
Five months in Africa. Am I a different person? No, definitely not. Am I more hardcore than I thought before? Of course. Five months is really no time at all and in months I will probably be laughing at this entry and that I viewed this as an accomplishment at all. But I am almost finished with the part of service that PCVs agree is the most difficult part (first 6-9 months). Five months without running water, with a pit latrine, living with cockroaches and hundreds of spiders- so I might be a slightly tougher person when I get home. All of this makes me miss my sisters- I wish they were here to make disgusted faces with over daily life. I have lived for five months as a minority, which as an Oregonian, you have no idea what this feels like. I have not really understood what was going on for almost half a year, as a language I only barely speak is uttered all around me. And yet, somehow I have formed some real relationships. My host family, Roma (Who called me yesterday to say, "Ninakupenda"- "I like/love you" and told me to come visit his family again soon), Katherine, Juster (Who calls herself my African sister), the rest of the teachers, and many more community members.
Yesterday, half joking but mostly serious, I told the teachers that during my time here I am planning on taking the train to Kigoma, visiting Jane Goodall's Reserve, and then going through Burundi and into the DRC, where I hope to see some Mountain Gorillas. Suddenly, all the 15 teachers I work with were talking loudly at once in Kiswahili. Finally, Jen pulls herself together and yells at me in English, "Brie, there is war there! Those people are crazy. Tanzania is the only safe country in Africa. No, you will not cross any of our lakes. Don't you think that they will not realize that you are part of a Tanzanian tribe? They will think you are American and kill you." I remind her that I am American, but I am touched just they same that they believe now I am really Tanzanian. So, there is acceptance.
A note about tribalism in Tanzania- It is here, very strongly, but not like the DRC or Sudan. One of the first questions Tanzanians ask each other is the question of tribe, but I think it is more to decide if they have to speak Kiswahili or not. I live with the Bena tribe, so they speak Kibena (language of the Bena people) to each other. Not sure how Kiswahili won out as the national language. Juster comes from the Haya tribe, who live way up north on the border with Uganda. Yet she receives no unfair treatment now living with the Bena people. They know she is Haya but have no bad feelings toward her for it. I am not sure how Tanzania gets away with being so accepting, but there is none of that "tribal warfare" that so many Americans feared for me. People have a sort of kinship with their own tribe as they are known for certain things and speak the same language, so they are excited to meet one and other. I am often asked which tribe I am from in America. Since tribes in Tanzania mostly group together regionally, I usually answer this question with "The Portland, Oregon Tribe." It is a good one, we are known for good beer and coffee, Birkenstocks, and tirelessly working to get a Democrat in the White House (Yay us!) When they talk about how it is odd that I don't eat meat, I explain that this is very common for my tribe. So I must say that if I met someone else from my tribe, I would be excited too. But we have much more warfare going on with the Texas tribes than any of the tribes do here. :-)
Five months in Africa. Am I a different person? No, definitely not. Am I more hardcore than I thought before? Of course. Five months is really no time at all and in months I will probably be laughing at this entry and that I viewed this as an accomplishment at all. But I am almost finished with the part of service that PCVs agree is the most difficult part (first 6-9 months). Five months without running water, with a pit latrine, living with cockroaches and hundreds of spiders- so I might be a slightly tougher person when I get home. All of this makes me miss my sisters- I wish they were here to make disgusted faces with over daily life. I have lived for five months as a minority, which as an Oregonian, you have no idea what this feels like. I have not really understood what was going on for almost half a year, as a language I only barely speak is uttered all around me. And yet, somehow I have formed some real relationships. My host family, Roma (Who called me yesterday to say, "Ninakupenda"- "I like/love you" and told me to come visit his family again soon), Katherine, Juster (Who calls herself my African sister), the rest of the teachers, and many more community members.
Yesterday, half joking but mostly serious, I told the teachers that during my time here I am planning on taking the train to Kigoma, visiting Jane Goodall's Reserve, and then going through Burundi and into the DRC, where I hope to see some Mountain Gorillas. Suddenly, all the 15 teachers I work with were talking loudly at once in Kiswahili. Finally, Jen pulls herself together and yells at me in English, "Brie, there is war there! Those people are crazy. Tanzania is the only safe country in Africa. No, you will not cross any of our lakes. Don't you think that they will not realize that you are part of a Tanzanian tribe? They will think you are American and kill you." I remind her that I am American, but I am touched just they same that they believe now I am really Tanzanian. So, there is acceptance.
A note about tribalism in Tanzania- It is here, very strongly, but not like the DRC or Sudan. One of the first questions Tanzanians ask each other is the question of tribe, but I think it is more to decide if they have to speak Kiswahili or not. I live with the Bena tribe, so they speak Kibena (language of the Bena people) to each other. Not sure how Kiswahili won out as the national language. Juster comes from the Haya tribe, who live way up north on the border with Uganda. Yet she receives no unfair treatment now living with the Bena people. They know she is Haya but have no bad feelings toward her for it. I am not sure how Tanzania gets away with being so accepting, but there is none of that "tribal warfare" that so many Americans feared for me. People have a sort of kinship with their own tribe as they are known for certain things and speak the same language, so they are excited to meet one and other. I am often asked which tribe I am from in America. Since tribes in Tanzania mostly group together regionally, I usually answer this question with "The Portland, Oregon Tribe." It is a good one, we are known for good beer and coffee, Birkenstocks, and tirelessly working to get a Democrat in the White House (Yay us!) When they talk about how it is odd that I don't eat meat, I explain that this is very common for my tribe. So I must say that if I met someone else from my tribe, I would be excited too. But we have much more warfare going on with the Texas tribes than any of the tribes do here. :-)
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Pagan Girl Attends Mass
"Tell us if there is was one thing we could do for your village what would it be?"
"With all respect, Sahib, you have little to teach us in strength and toughness. And we don't envy your restless spirits. Perhaps we are happier than you? But we would like our children to go to school. Of all the things you have, learning is what we most desire for our children."
- Conversation between Sir Edmund Hilary and Urkien Sherpa from Schoolhouse in the Clouds
November 9, 2008
My village became a much less scary place today- so why am I crying now? I think out of relief and because my mom was with me so strongly today. Sometimes I feel my dad or one of my sisters, but today was definitely my mom. I saw her in the look of each mamas eyes, in little Mary twirling in her pink dress, in the leaves that coated the walls of the Catholic Church- but I will get to all that later. Today was a roller coaster. I am exhausted, I tried so hard, I was accepted. Every minute I have a new thought, idea, confusion, frustration, happiness. There are minutes I decide I could live here forever- I love the people, the environment, how simple life is. The next minute, if there was a plane right here I would be on it. This is not because anything bad happens, but just because I get frustrated with myself or homesick. Today I forced myself to be brave and resolved to spend my entire day with my village, not just the teachers, but the village. If you haven't spent an entire day with an African village than it is an experience that is terrifying and rewarding. It was fascinating and beautiful and they loved that I did it. My village is remote to say the least. I remind myself that I wanted this. I wanted to be out in the bush and they gave it to me. I wanted to work hard for my relationships and I will have to.
Except Katherine, there is always Katherine who, I think, loves me unconditionally no matter how badly I speak or silly I act. So when she hodied at my door at six thirty am on this Sunday morning, I had to get up and let her in. Now if I show too much interest in her she gets embarrassed and won't talk to me. She is like a cat, ignore her a bit and she will come to you. I think this comes from kids here having little to no positive adult attention. I have made cinnamon rolls the night before- she eats one, I can tell she loves it. I get ready for church and we walk to Juster's home. I am wearing a full on African outfit and my nicest shoes. Juster is in one of her great wigs and a similar outfit. We get to church and it is every stereo-type you might picture of a Catholic Church in the heart of Africa. It is one of the few buildings with a tin roof, the walls are made of concrete and mud, there are windows with no glass. I don't know the last time I was in a church and have probably only been in one a handful of times in my life which is fine with me. I am more likely to believe in "Magenie" than anything that will be taught here. But somehow going to mass in a language you barely understand with a bunch of Tanzanians makes it more appealing. So I go in.
There are basic wooden benches made into pews. At the alter is a technicolor picture of a white- skinned, blue-eyed, Jesus. The dirty walls and ceiling are decorated with scraps of African fabric that look similar to Tibetan prayer flags, as well as leaves and vines that have been woven into garlands. It is already crowded but in typical African fashion, people trickle in late. Women sit on one side, men on the other. There are no little black dresses or suits in this service- the colors are vibrant and the patterns busy, I am maybe one of ten people wearing shoes. Babies are strapped to mamas back and sleep or breast feed through the service. I notice that most of the congregation spend the service turned around staring at me. The young children all sit up in the front. Oh the dancing- if God ever presented himself in a church it would be here in those children. They drum like crazy, people dance in a circle, the children weave in and out- arms, legs, and heads flail independently of bodies. Women whoop and call, men chant and I assume it is all about God and Jesus, yet the means of worship is so African, so Pagan, it is so uncontrolled and against organized religion-I love it. And I wonder, as I have so many times before, how Africans believe in God and why he is there if their lives are so fraught with challenges. It is no wonder Africans were all originally pagan, their continent demands it. I think maybe no where else in the world is good and evil, beauty and horror, dark and light- found so readily in one thing or place. It is a place of extreme contrast.
After church we go to a burial- a child has died. We go to the home, mats decorate the yard, here we will sit to mourn. But first I must go around and greet all of the elders. I shake hands with maybe thirty of the most ancient looking people I have ever seen. I sit and am served ugali, beans and cabbage- as I eat with my hand, I try not to think of everyone's hands I just touched...ewww. At the burial I run into the Mama who sat next to me on the drive into town where I was sick. She goes by "Mama David" which is also Roma's wife's "Name" but different person. Juster knows her- not a big surprise. Mama David goes to Juster's home to fix her hair. Mary comes along too. She is Mama David's youngest child. She is six, wears a pink flowered dress with a broken zipper and is missing her two front teeth. I play a bit with her, she is shy but not really afraid of me. A woman comes over named Angel- who is friendly and offers to teach me Kibena in exchange for English lessons. We talk a bit and once Juster's hair is finished we go to walk to Mama David's home. We go to a part of the village I have never walked through before.
This girl runs up to us and says "Hi" to me. She is wearing a Barak Obama t-shirt, capri jeans, heels, as much jewelry as I am wearing, and has her hair cut short and gelled into spikes. Am I back in America? Her name is Vicky, she is from my village but is studying business in Dar es Salaam. She is marrying a man from Holland next month which is not surprising because she is beautiful, vivacious and charismatic. She walks with us and I learn of of this information. (I walk with her everyday now, although she is just here for a brief visit. I love walking with her, Juster blends in a bit but Vicky warrants almost as many stares as I do. She knows everyone but greets them with a scream or a "Ciao Bella". One day she wore a bright orange sweatsuit to go walking, she always wears pants. I love her energy.) I need to figure out the key to Vicky's success and I don't think it is money. Once I know it I can figure out how to replicate it for Katherine and Mary so that they have the same opportunities.
Anyways, I walk through the village with my new best friends, we stop at houses and greet people who then invite us in for rice, beans, chai, soda or some combo of all. I eat maybe a dozen meals- great, so much for the weight loss... Finally we reach Mama David's home. She invites me to come whenever I want, so I am glad to finally have a village Mama friend. I met so many people today, shook so many hands. My Villagers are curious and shy around me but I think that they will come around. I will have to put in a lot of time getting them used to me- but I think the pay off of having them as life long friends will be tremendous.
"With all respect, Sahib, you have little to teach us in strength and toughness. And we don't envy your restless spirits. Perhaps we are happier than you? But we would like our children to go to school. Of all the things you have, learning is what we most desire for our children."
- Conversation between Sir Edmund Hilary and Urkien Sherpa from Schoolhouse in the Clouds
November 9, 2008
My village became a much less scary place today- so why am I crying now? I think out of relief and because my mom was with me so strongly today. Sometimes I feel my dad or one of my sisters, but today was definitely my mom. I saw her in the look of each mamas eyes, in little Mary twirling in her pink dress, in the leaves that coated the walls of the Catholic Church- but I will get to all that later. Today was a roller coaster. I am exhausted, I tried so hard, I was accepted. Every minute I have a new thought, idea, confusion, frustration, happiness. There are minutes I decide I could live here forever- I love the people, the environment, how simple life is. The next minute, if there was a plane right here I would be on it. This is not because anything bad happens, but just because I get frustrated with myself or homesick. Today I forced myself to be brave and resolved to spend my entire day with my village, not just the teachers, but the village. If you haven't spent an entire day with an African village than it is an experience that is terrifying and rewarding. It was fascinating and beautiful and they loved that I did it. My village is remote to say the least. I remind myself that I wanted this. I wanted to be out in the bush and they gave it to me. I wanted to work hard for my relationships and I will have to.
Except Katherine, there is always Katherine who, I think, loves me unconditionally no matter how badly I speak or silly I act. So when she hodied at my door at six thirty am on this Sunday morning, I had to get up and let her in. Now if I show too much interest in her she gets embarrassed and won't talk to me. She is like a cat, ignore her a bit and she will come to you. I think this comes from kids here having little to no positive adult attention. I have made cinnamon rolls the night before- she eats one, I can tell she loves it. I get ready for church and we walk to Juster's home. I am wearing a full on African outfit and my nicest shoes. Juster is in one of her great wigs and a similar outfit. We get to church and it is every stereo-type you might picture of a Catholic Church in the heart of Africa. It is one of the few buildings with a tin roof, the walls are made of concrete and mud, there are windows with no glass. I don't know the last time I was in a church and have probably only been in one a handful of times in my life which is fine with me. I am more likely to believe in "Magenie" than anything that will be taught here. But somehow going to mass in a language you barely understand with a bunch of Tanzanians makes it more appealing. So I go in.
There are basic wooden benches made into pews. At the alter is a technicolor picture of a white- skinned, blue-eyed, Jesus. The dirty walls and ceiling are decorated with scraps of African fabric that look similar to Tibetan prayer flags, as well as leaves and vines that have been woven into garlands. It is already crowded but in typical African fashion, people trickle in late. Women sit on one side, men on the other. There are no little black dresses or suits in this service- the colors are vibrant and the patterns busy, I am maybe one of ten people wearing shoes. Babies are strapped to mamas back and sleep or breast feed through the service. I notice that most of the congregation spend the service turned around staring at me. The young children all sit up in the front. Oh the dancing- if God ever presented himself in a church it would be here in those children. They drum like crazy, people dance in a circle, the children weave in and out- arms, legs, and heads flail independently of bodies. Women whoop and call, men chant and I assume it is all about God and Jesus, yet the means of worship is so African, so Pagan, it is so uncontrolled and against organized religion-I love it. And I wonder, as I have so many times before, how Africans believe in God and why he is there if their lives are so fraught with challenges. It is no wonder Africans were all originally pagan, their continent demands it. I think maybe no where else in the world is good and evil, beauty and horror, dark and light- found so readily in one thing or place. It is a place of extreme contrast.
After church we go to a burial- a child has died. We go to the home, mats decorate the yard, here we will sit to mourn. But first I must go around and greet all of the elders. I shake hands with maybe thirty of the most ancient looking people I have ever seen. I sit and am served ugali, beans and cabbage- as I eat with my hand, I try not to think of everyone's hands I just touched...ewww. At the burial I run into the Mama who sat next to me on the drive into town where I was sick. She goes by "Mama David" which is also Roma's wife's "Name" but different person. Juster knows her- not a big surprise. Mama David goes to Juster's home to fix her hair. Mary comes along too. She is Mama David's youngest child. She is six, wears a pink flowered dress with a broken zipper and is missing her two front teeth. I play a bit with her, she is shy but not really afraid of me. A woman comes over named Angel- who is friendly and offers to teach me Kibena in exchange for English lessons. We talk a bit and once Juster's hair is finished we go to walk to Mama David's home. We go to a part of the village I have never walked through before.
This girl runs up to us and says "Hi" to me. She is wearing a Barak Obama t-shirt, capri jeans, heels, as much jewelry as I am wearing, and has her hair cut short and gelled into spikes. Am I back in America? Her name is Vicky, she is from my village but is studying business in Dar es Salaam. She is marrying a man from Holland next month which is not surprising because she is beautiful, vivacious and charismatic. She walks with us and I learn of of this information. (I walk with her everyday now, although she is just here for a brief visit. I love walking with her, Juster blends in a bit but Vicky warrants almost as many stares as I do. She knows everyone but greets them with a scream or a "Ciao Bella". One day she wore a bright orange sweatsuit to go walking, she always wears pants. I love her energy.) I need to figure out the key to Vicky's success and I don't think it is money. Once I know it I can figure out how to replicate it for Katherine and Mary so that they have the same opportunities.
Anyways, I walk through the village with my new best friends, we stop at houses and greet people who then invite us in for rice, beans, chai, soda or some combo of all. I eat maybe a dozen meals- great, so much for the weight loss... Finally we reach Mama David's home. She invites me to come whenever I want, so I am glad to finally have a village Mama friend. I met so many people today, shook so many hands. My Villagers are curious and shy around me but I think that they will come around. I will have to put in a lot of time getting them used to me- but I think the pay off of having them as life long friends will be tremendous.
Going
"I get the urge for going but I never seem to go.
I get the urge for going when the meadow grass is turning brown
and summertime is falling down and winter's closing in."
- Joni Mitchell
November 6, 2008
You have some sort of weird guilt or something you are trying to prove when you are an American living in Africa, or at least when you are a PCV. I think this is what has led me to live for two months with only one fork-just to see if I can. When you come from the land of plenty you are used to every comfort, and so of course living with one fork is not a sustainable way to live when you know what's out there. Two years of living like this would cause you to be unhappy- but in the beginning it is something you need to grapple with. PCVs who have been here for two years treat themselves. They spend more money at the nice shop on things like olive oil because they know just how much better it makes life. And I wonder- is this why they are happy living here for so long? Because there is some semblance of American life in Africa? Since I have only been here for five months, I am still practicing going without which I think is what led me to give up my front seat position in our village pick-up truck on the way home from town. I know I have complained a lot about the transport here- but there is more.
I gave up my seat under the condition that a mother with a baby sit there, not some man. Our village car is an old green toyota pick-up. In the back is everything my village will need for a time- sodas, chickens, boxes of sugar and flour, tiles, veggies and then the villagers who have come to town sit on top of all of it. The bed is covered with some canvas that is attached to some iron rods that come from the cab ceiling. I climb into the back, along with 15 other villagers- this is not including three babies and two toddlers. It is already packed with luggage but I find some room on top of some metal pipes and curl into a tight ball while trying to keep my skirt over my knees so as not to be "indecent." I am uncomfortable immediately. I have to hold myself up with one foot at a weird angle to keep my head from bumping into the guy's crotch who is standing over me- and I am probably in the mostly comfortable position of anyone. It is bumpy back there and I bounce around on the pipes and think of lazy-boy chairs because it has to be mind over matter to not think about all the bruises I am getting. In a way, though, I welcome it- "Bring it", I think, "I can handle this and I deserve this, this is how my village travels and I am a villager." After the first hour of it though, I have to convince myself to not call "Uncle" and have them put me in the front again. I look around at my villagers faces, they all must be horribly uncomfortable, yet none of them is complaining. On their faces is a look of total acceptance- "This is how we get to town, might be uncomfortable, but this is what we know."
I still can't believe no one complains. When PCVs travel together we complain loudly in English. That is a great thing about Tanzania- even though some people speak English, they speak more of a British version, they don't know our slang and they don't understand sarcasm- making American English entirely confusing to them. If you speak quickly enough running your words together, even the best English speakers don't get it. I have become good at this and don't feel bad about it because they talk about us all the time in Kiswahili. So it makes us PCVs feel better to put it out there-"Could they get anymore people on this bus?" or "Yeah, stop again for no apparent reason." But this time I am travelling alone so I complain loudly in English in my head. I space out for a bit- thinking about this blog entry and how everyone who reads it will also have to listen to my English complaining, when there is a loud noise, things get bumpier, my head finally hits the guy's crotch and my patient TZ companions start yelling. The truck stops and people start jumping out- so I jump out too. We have blown a tire, but this has never happened to me in America, so it takes a minute for me to realize what is up. Now I am on the side of the road, there is no villages around, so I wonder what will happen next. I know in everyone's life they don't know what will happen next, but it is more true here. It is weird to have such little control over anything. So I watch with interest where I will end up, who will help me, what will I eat, when will I get there, etc every day of my life here.
A big semi type vehicle comes along eventually. A man gets out of the cab in a clean khaki outfit and a hat-he has eyelashes that curl past his eyebrows and white straight teeth. He looks me up and down and then says in great English- "What is someone like you doing somewhere like here?" I say, "I am an American." As if that answers his question-I am an American we do what we want. But really I am surprised at the way he is speaking to me when he says, "I know". Americans tend to be fairly easy to pick out of a crowd of Europeans, haven't exactly figured out why yet... So I say, "I live here". He tells my villagers to start putting the luggage in the back of his truck- he will take us home, but he tells them in Kiswahili, "She will sit in front" motioning toward me. My village agrees and I think "thanks guys for offering me up, what does this guy want?" But he has clean fingernails and a nice smile and sometimes that is all you can go on. So I climb into the cab to a captain's seat (I conjured up a lazy-boy!) David, the driver, says he rarely gets to speak English and wants me to tell him all about America. I tell him things and finally he says, "It sounds like you have a lot of things, but do you think you are any happier?" I say, "No, Tanzanians seem very happy and content." He says "Yes, you are searching for something here, what is it?" I really can't answer him still.
I get the urge for going when the meadow grass is turning brown
and summertime is falling down and winter's closing in."
- Joni Mitchell
November 6, 2008
You have some sort of weird guilt or something you are trying to prove when you are an American living in Africa, or at least when you are a PCV. I think this is what has led me to live for two months with only one fork-just to see if I can. When you come from the land of plenty you are used to every comfort, and so of course living with one fork is not a sustainable way to live when you know what's out there. Two years of living like this would cause you to be unhappy- but in the beginning it is something you need to grapple with. PCVs who have been here for two years treat themselves. They spend more money at the nice shop on things like olive oil because they know just how much better it makes life. And I wonder- is this why they are happy living here for so long? Because there is some semblance of American life in Africa? Since I have only been here for five months, I am still practicing going without which I think is what led me to give up my front seat position in our village pick-up truck on the way home from town. I know I have complained a lot about the transport here- but there is more.
I gave up my seat under the condition that a mother with a baby sit there, not some man. Our village car is an old green toyota pick-up. In the back is everything my village will need for a time- sodas, chickens, boxes of sugar and flour, tiles, veggies and then the villagers who have come to town sit on top of all of it. The bed is covered with some canvas that is attached to some iron rods that come from the cab ceiling. I climb into the back, along with 15 other villagers- this is not including three babies and two toddlers. It is already packed with luggage but I find some room on top of some metal pipes and curl into a tight ball while trying to keep my skirt over my knees so as not to be "indecent." I am uncomfortable immediately. I have to hold myself up with one foot at a weird angle to keep my head from bumping into the guy's crotch who is standing over me- and I am probably in the mostly comfortable position of anyone. It is bumpy back there and I bounce around on the pipes and think of lazy-boy chairs because it has to be mind over matter to not think about all the bruises I am getting. In a way, though, I welcome it- "Bring it", I think, "I can handle this and I deserve this, this is how my village travels and I am a villager." After the first hour of it though, I have to convince myself to not call "Uncle" and have them put me in the front again. I look around at my villagers faces, they all must be horribly uncomfortable, yet none of them is complaining. On their faces is a look of total acceptance- "This is how we get to town, might be uncomfortable, but this is what we know."
I still can't believe no one complains. When PCVs travel together we complain loudly in English. That is a great thing about Tanzania- even though some people speak English, they speak more of a British version, they don't know our slang and they don't understand sarcasm- making American English entirely confusing to them. If you speak quickly enough running your words together, even the best English speakers don't get it. I have become good at this and don't feel bad about it because they talk about us all the time in Kiswahili. So it makes us PCVs feel better to put it out there-"Could they get anymore people on this bus?" or "Yeah, stop again for no apparent reason." But this time I am travelling alone so I complain loudly in English in my head. I space out for a bit- thinking about this blog entry and how everyone who reads it will also have to listen to my English complaining, when there is a loud noise, things get bumpier, my head finally hits the guy's crotch and my patient TZ companions start yelling. The truck stops and people start jumping out- so I jump out too. We have blown a tire, but this has never happened to me in America, so it takes a minute for me to realize what is up. Now I am on the side of the road, there is no villages around, so I wonder what will happen next. I know in everyone's life they don't know what will happen next, but it is more true here. It is weird to have such little control over anything. So I watch with interest where I will end up, who will help me, what will I eat, when will I get there, etc every day of my life here.
A big semi type vehicle comes along eventually. A man gets out of the cab in a clean khaki outfit and a hat-he has eyelashes that curl past his eyebrows and white straight teeth. He looks me up and down and then says in great English- "What is someone like you doing somewhere like here?" I say, "I am an American." As if that answers his question-I am an American we do what we want. But really I am surprised at the way he is speaking to me when he says, "I know". Americans tend to be fairly easy to pick out of a crowd of Europeans, haven't exactly figured out why yet... So I say, "I live here". He tells my villagers to start putting the luggage in the back of his truck- he will take us home, but he tells them in Kiswahili, "She will sit in front" motioning toward me. My village agrees and I think "thanks guys for offering me up, what does this guy want?" But he has clean fingernails and a nice smile and sometimes that is all you can go on. So I climb into the cab to a captain's seat (I conjured up a lazy-boy!) David, the driver, says he rarely gets to speak English and wants me to tell him all about America. I tell him things and finally he says, "It sounds like you have a lot of things, but do you think you are any happier?" I say, "No, Tanzanians seem very happy and content." He says "Yes, you are searching for something here, what is it?" I really can't answer him still.
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