"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?
Monday, November 16, 2009
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
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