The Tough Stuff

*This entry may be offensive to some people. I am sorry, but not that sorry, because it is my blog and you don't have to read it...

"For a long time it seemed to me that life was about to begin... But there was always some obstacle in the way, something to be gotten through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served, a debt to be paid. Then life would begin. At last it dawned on me that these obstacles were my life." -Alfred D. Souza

September 19-22, 2009

I spend 90% of this weekend pouting in my house, like a child. I had scheduled meetings with my village executive officer (VEO) and my village chairman (VC), so that we could arrange a schedule where I could talk to each of my six sub-villages about AIDS- What is it? How we can protect ourselves and why we are going to get tested. I am on some ridiculous sleep pattern where I can only sleep for about three hours then am awake for about six and then sleep for three again, so I spend a lot of "dark time" awake. So I spend these nights meticulously planning what I will teach in Swahili. Saturday morning is with my own sub-village- no one comes, not even late like usual, just no one comes. Juster says maybe it is the weather, cloudy and cold, but I am still annoyed. Sunday morning is with my furthest out sub-village. Juster doesn't even want to go because maybe no one will be there and then we will just be out in the middle of nowhere. I insist that we go- maybe this time will be different? We run into a woman from there while on our way. She tells us that no one is there for a meeting. I go home- I make a "depression bed" on my couch, prepare myself to only receive Katherine and Anna, because I am pissed at my entire village. I sit there and contemplate why in two days my entire village has decided that they hate me.

Finally, around two pm, I hear the motorcycle brigade pull up. I hear, Justice, William, Puce, and Osmond all yell "Hodi"- I yell at them to go away- as four of my best friends, and young men all my age who I have made my target audience for this presentation, their disloyalty hurts more than anything. William, the one who is always willing to put me in my place, yells "Open the door, Brie, you are being stupid." That pushes me over the edge so I fling the door opened prepared with my best glare. It turns into a half smile. You can't help but smile if you know these guys. Today they look like a Goodwill Store, meets the 1980s, meets Africa, as they fix me with goofy grins.

William: You wanna know what happened?
Me (Pissed): Yeah, what happened?
William: You met with the VEO and VC at the bar like usual right?
Me: Yeah, you know that is where all the government meetings are.
William: Who wrote down when you would go where, and I know you did, but which Tanzanian did?
Me: No one.
William: How much had you all had to drink?
Me: I didn't drink anything, no idea about them.
William: Brie, sorry. Wish I had been there to remember what they had told you. (William is the VEO's motorcycle driver because he is usually drunk, and apparently also his personal assistant if he has to keep track of all of his meetings.)
Puce: Everyone is at the bar, let's go, you can go yell at them then.

I do go but I walk into a huge conversation about feeling grateful to God because we were not handicapped this year, we have enough to eat, some money, we did not die like so many people, etc. This is proof of God's love and existence. Because I am still in a bad mood and feel like playing the devil's advocate (literally), I tell them that I think that this is proof of God's non-existence. If he loves us so much then why are some people hungry? Why was I born in America where you think life is perfect and you were left to struggle here? Why are there "haves" and "have-nots"? Clearly, no one in this bar has ever thought of that before. My PCV friend, Kate, once asked me on a long bus ride, "Don't you wonder what Tanzanians think about when they are just walking down the street?" The answer is clearly not what Brie thinks about. Eventually the bar conversation turns to Los Angeles, because they know that this is where Michael Jackson died. "Where in America is this place? You have been there! What is it like?" So I go to work explaining L.A. and say that the name is coming from Spanish. "Wait, but it is Canada that is below America?" No, Canada is above. "But Mexicans and Canadians are the same, right?" I find it surprisingly difficult to explain in Swahili their differences. Finally, Justice says, "But they are mostly the same." I am tired and it doesn't really matter, so I agree and laugh to myself.

My meeting is rescheduled for Tuesday after a chai meeting. This is good because a lot of people are there. This is bad because most of them are old men. However, they are really active in asking questions and interested. Juster, who is helping me, says it is good that they are there because they are wise and will spread the knowledge. Juster is a big help, until I get around to not being faithful to your wife or husband, then you need to be using condoms which you can get from me or the health center. Then Juster tells them that they should be faithful because the Pope is against condom use and it is not Christian to use them. Then she says to me in English, "Brie, you can't tell them to use condoms then everyone will just start having sex." I look at her like I want to kill her along with every missionary who brought their own religions into this country. And I wonder where this right-wing republican came from and how George W. Bush came to inhabit Juster's body. I tell her in English, "They are all already having sex! Open your eyes!" Luckily, before anyone can say anything, Mzee Ngoda stands up (Keeping his position as my favorite wizard along with Harry Potter,) and says, "But we are not really Catholic or Christian. We are Tanzanian. The Pope and the bible are against a lot of things we do. (Like beating your wife, I chime in.) I think that if we are to believe in God then we need to believe in a fair God, who understands our struggles and knows we need to protect ourselves and who we love." Finally, someone with some sense, an old man open to change- I could have kissed him. So I wonder to myself how many AIDS deaths the bible, the Pope, missionaries have been responsible for. How much brainwashing they have done, how many orphans and overpopulation they have caused by not opening their eyes to what Tanzanians really need. I feel ashamed for them. This "ever-loving God" that we should be so grateful to, I am sure would pity the stupidity of people who let a disease run rampant when we have a tool to stop it. You cannot change a culture, but you can slowly modify their behaviors.