Life Lately...

May 17, 2009

"Sometimes when you have a bad crop it isn't always witchcraft, but maybe you are just a bad farmer." -Actual quote from TZ on BBC Radio Africa at which point I promptly turned my dial to Voices of America instead. Not witchcraft!?! That idea is outrageous!

In the morning when I wake up to the primary school bell ringing and the lizards sunning themselves on my bedroom walls, all I want to do is go back to sleep. It does not really matter that I got into bed at 8.30 the night before and did what any good PCV does and set my alarm clock for eleven and a half hours away. Sleep is the common coping mechanism for PCVs and most usually sleep 10+ hours a night and still are avid nappers. But unfortunately, as of late, sleep alludes me. Suddenly, for some reason unknown to me, I have become the baby Jesus trying to sleep in a manger. Let me explain: My bedroom is huge and hangs at the back of the house on the edge of a ravine. It is like a look-out where three walls have windows peering into my African world. The room is "nothing- proof" . I can feel the wind blow, the bugs come in, the rain runs down the walls, and when I lie at the right angle on my bed, I can see the stars- my very own sky light. So it is glorified camping and I might as well be outside. So for the last week or so all the village cows sleep outside my bedroom, surrounding me on three sides. Cows make noises that you didn't know they can make. For one thing they don't "moo" that is much too cute of a word and bellow would be more accurate. They can also do this snort/snore type of noise. They enjoy a midnight snack on occasion, which requires more munching noises than I would think necessary. The manger scene makes up about 12 cows, 20 goats and whatever chickens decide to RSVP. The real party "animal" is an insomniac rooster who enjoys a nightly crow around 2.30 each morning. The bats come in and out of the ceiling and the owls scritch and scratch as they land on the tin roof. From somewhere comes the shriek of a bush baby and I thank god that he doesn't know about the house party. So all in all, you can do the only thing that you can do most of the time in Tanzania: Force yourself to laugh. Then in my head I think, "You have got to be freakin' kidding me."

Many "weird and wondrous" things happened over the past few bits of time, as always. So here is the news- in no particular order:

Maybe the weirdest thing is that my village decided to give me electricity. It was like they said, "Ok, she has lived without it for a year now and proved that she can handle it, so let's mix things up and see what happens if we give it to her." So there now is a bulb hanging from the middle of my living room, (I don't have it in any other room.) The first night I forgot about it and lit the candles kama kawaida (Like normally). My teachers thought that this was hilarious. The second night I spent about 25 minutes turning the light off and on repeatedly and just staring at it in awe. This caused Mwalimu Mjemah to ask, "Brie, do they have electricity in America?" To which I responded, "Yes." "Okay," he said, "Because it seems like you have never seen it." I didn't respond and just carried on with my light switching. Now I have realized that having electricity just shines a light on all the dirt and spiders and I can live just fine without it. Luckily, it only rarely works, so life continues. Now I am wondering what the chances are that they will install a cell tower in my house so I might actually get some service.

I had a conversation with my teachers that was so ridiculous that I can't even believe that I had it. It would have been hard enough in English but in Kiswa with our cultural differences it was just ridic. It started with me explaining why right now in America it is night time. I drew pictures in the dirt to illustrate and all 15 of my interested teachers gathered around. Eventually, I was explaining lunar eclipses, why people on the equator have darker skin than on the poles, how Tanzania might be the birthplace of humanity, which lead to a conversation about genetics, which leads to them explaining to me why white women are more beautiful than black women, which causes me to explain why white women don't think that this is so, which leads to a conversation about anorexia, which they cannot even fathom (Why would someone not eat when being fat is so pretty? But, Brie, the food is available and they just won't eat it? Total nightmare trying to explain.) Somehow this leads to talking about bride price and American wedding rituals, which then goes to where all conversations must when I am there- when will I marry a Tanzanian, which then leads to the other place all conversations must go if I am there- because I am here to teach about AIDS and I wrap up the convo with a nice little AIDS education bit. Then I go home hoping to take an eight hour nap.

Katherine, Anna and some random kids and I spent the better part of a day blowing bubbles...

Margaret (one of my closest PCV neighbors and friend from my group) came to my site this week. Basically so she could hold my hand and I wouldn't have to spend this week alone. We ended up going to my village bar which turned into a loud crazy hilarious party. Where my village nurse actually told Margaret that I am the descendant of angels... haha. We think that it is the blue eyes... Tanzanians have no idea what to think about them. The next day Margaret and I walk 30-40 K to her village. This is a far distance and takes us about 6-7 hours. As we walk we realize that we live in the middle of nowhere. Every Tanzanian in both of our villages thinks that we are absolutely crazy for making this walk.

I spend a lot of time at our village bar this week. It is run by Mama Maki, she is our village Oprah Winfry, minus the talk show, magazine, book clubs... but she does have a monopoly on almost everything in the village. She is married to Mwalimu Mledwa and they have three children together. He also has four more from other random women in the village. (This is totally normal here...) Together they own our village car (Stan works for them), our village bar, our village TV, four motorcycles, and two houses. They also have his teacher's salary, so by and large they are the richest people in our village. They are really sweet and parental though. The village bar is just fun. All of the men gather there every evening and just drink, watch TV and hang out. Jen usually comes with me because it is not acceptable for a woman to go to the bar alone. (Also she wants to carry on her affair with Mwalimu Mjemah, that I pretend to not know about and I want to speak Swahili and have something to do on these long evenings I usually spend alone in my house.) I like to talk with my male teachers, my village baba (a guy that I call my father because he always talks to me in Swahili I know, he has good energy and he looks after me), and surprisingly the vijana (Tanzanian men aged 18-30). This last category is most commonly hated by female PCVs. They can be just plain annoying, rude, somewhat aggressive, they have no work and no education, just overall most female PCVs avoid them like the plague. Since being mugged by vijana in Dar es Salaam, I have decided to go toward what i resist and face the "vijana-fear". So I have made a big show of being friends with them. I figure the friendlier I am, the more likely that this group will do me no harm. The guys totally don't know what to do with me. They all try to propose at first, but give up after a bit. Then we just start talking - they correct my Swahili mistakes and are all fascinated about my life in America. Strangely, I have begun to feel comfortable and safe with them. One of my good vijana friends, Puce, I was forced to trust early on. I was totally lost on the way to Tally's village- I had been wandering through nothing for hours when I see this youth approaching me and of course he is carrying a machete. So I brace myself to get thrown to the ground and robbed, but at least he will be putting me out of my endless walking misery. Instead he says "Shikamoo" (Greeting of respect to elders or people of a higher status than you) to which I give a tentative reply. "You're lost, huh?" (He says in Swahili) "Yep" I reply. "Ok, let me carry your bag and I will take you there." Then he proceeds to take my backpack. I ask him what his name is. "Puce", he says. And I tell him that my name is Brie. "Yeah, I know," he says and looks at me like I am an idiot and then walks with me two hours in the right direction to Tally's house. So begins our friendship. Today he loves to tell the story about how we met and all the vijana laugh because they think that it is hilarious that I thought he was going to rob me... This makes me feel good actually, that this is a joke in my village. My friend, William, wants to take me to a neighboring village and Stan, my driver, wants to teach me how to drive the village car. I like to hang out with all of them because they have next to nothing to do so they are always loitering around and I think that they are a group that is difficult for most female PCVs to reach. At the end of every evening, Mwalimu Mledwa walks me home and waits while I unlock my door. He tells me that if any of those guys are bothering me than to let him know. to which I reply, "Nashukuru, Baba. Uskiu mwema." (I am grateful, Father. Goodnight.) And as the richest, most respected man in my village, I figure he is a good person to have on my side.

Yesterday, I spent almost an entire day laying on a mat in the middle of a corn field eating pineapple with about six mamas. (This is what your tax dollars are going to- but at least it is not a war right?) I was with Mama Johnson, but the rest of the mamas I did not know real well. Most of them were very pregnant but still working on the farm. So we laid a grass mat down in the shade of the corn field to rest, eat and talk. Mama Johnson has started teaching me Kibena in earnest and it is sort of funny to pick up a language with no books and when it is being taught to you in Kiswahili. It has been great for my Kiswa though. So they teach me for a while, but eventually it gets old so I just lay back on the mat and watch the emerald green corn blow in the wind against a brilliant blue sky. I listen to the mamas babble away in Kibena and i breath in the smell that I have come to associate with Tanzanians, Tanzania and my whole PC experience. A distinct smell of soil on skin, of sun on skin. Of sweat, of wood smoke, of cooking oil. Of people who work hard to survive. It is a smell of family, community and peace. And I give thanks again that I have come to a corn field in the African Continent. I live here- Africa. Sometimes, I have to remind myself.

On the way home, an incredibly weird thing happens. I am walking with Mama Johnson and an older woman dressed in rags comes up to us. She gets on her knees in front of me, bows down and takes my hand. I figure she is getting ready to beg for money, which is weird because my villagers don't generally beg from me. But instead she tells me her story. She tells me: Mama, God has blessed you, so I am hoping that in turn you will bless me. I need your help. I have AIDS. I have never been tested but I know that deep in my heart I have it. My husband died and two of my children are dead and I know we all have it. I am sure. The story goes on a bit longer and into more horrific detail about the deaths of all the members of her family. When I teach at the primary school I always ask if you can tell someone has AIDS just by looking at them. (The answer is no, of course.) But all the kids say yes and then proceed to list accurate AIDS symptoms. I can see know why they think that they can tell. The way the disease progresses here, it is very obvious that this woman is sick. I am thankful that PC introduced us to many people living with AIDS (PLWAs) at various points during training. Coming to Tanzania was my first experience coming face to face with Africa's most dreaded disease. So I think I am able to hide my shock the shock is not that a person in my village is positive, because I just sort of assume that they all are. I figure that the village has a high percentage because of our location in Iringa region (14.7%), the fact we haven't been tested and a number of other factors and observations. The shock comes from that she is telling me at all in a place where the stigma is so high no one will even say the name of the disease. She wants to be tested and wants medicine to be available at our dispensary because she cannot afford to go into town and get it. I take her hand, look her in the eye, thank her for her bravery of coming forth and promise to try to help her. Now, suddenly and unexpectedly, AIDS has a face for me. I hope that I can make the rest of her life a bit easier.