"He saw that Fatima's eyes were filled with tears. 'You're crying?' 'I'm a woman of the desert,' she said, averting her face. 'But above all I am a woman.'"
-Paulo Coelho
May 25, 2009
Sometimes, this blog may get too personal when i have no idea who is reading it. It is supposed to be about a Peace Corps in Tanzania but I find it really difficult to separate myself from that. Who I am is intricate to the experience. PCV life is not a great and blissful life, but it is also not a life of complete and utter despair. It is just a kind of life, with it's own ups and downs. Last week I coped okay with this life. This week I did not. And I committed the "great PC sin" of crying in front of Tanzanians. Tanzanians don't cry and are generally uncomfortable when Americans do. We are told to hold it in at all costs until behind the closed doors of our home. Unfortunately, I have never been one to hold much in...
This week I was just plain sad. I did not shirk on my work and showed up for everything I was supposed to, although usually I can be found hanging out with the village in my free time, this week I spent time alone. However, the other night I experienced that greatest act of love from practical strangers. I was home alone when there was a commotion at my door and I opened it to find my female teachers gathered. They told me to come with them and I tried to make excuses for why I couldn't go, but ended up following them to Jen's house. They had heated water for me to bathe and I took the bucket bath in her courtyard while they waited for me. Then Mama Latifah brushed my hair and they told me that we were headed to Mwalimu Mledwa's. I really didn't feel like going to the bar but they said that it was closed and that the Mwalimu Mkuu was waiting for me. When we got there, it turned out that all my male teachers had gathered. Mama Maki had been cooking and there was about every kind of Tanzanian food for us to eat. My Mwalimu Mkuu starts by telling me that they all feel that I am suddenly unhappy and did they do something because they are afraid that I will go home and not come back. I look around at these people who have made my life livable here. Who all look so sweet, so worried, so loving. I tell them everything- in a mixture of Swahili and English with someone always translating for someone else. I try to tell them what I have lost here, what I have gained, that I have thrown so much away and was it worth it?
They listen and nod and let me cry. They let me miss America, a country and a culture they don't understand. They let me miss my family, my friends, my "real" life... They let me miss myself. When I am finished, Mwalimu Mwalango says, "I guess we did not realize how hard it would be to come here. Thank you for coming. We are happy you are here." Then Mwalimu Mledwa talks to me, in a strange way channelling my Dad. He tells me that I should not have lost anything by being here to help people. He tells me about the need to risk it all to gain much. He tells me I am brave. Then he tells me that every morning his ten year old daughter, Maxillia, who is in my Darasa sita class, asks him if I will be teaching that day. Finally, the other day he asked her why she wants to know and she tells him because I am a good teacher (which is a total lie). He asked her what makes me so good. She told him, "Because she looks at me like I can do anything I want." (Which is a look I have tried to perfect with my students.) I tell him, "Well, she can do whatever she wants. Maybe she will be a teacher or a doctor or something." Then he says, "But Brie, what if she just gets married and has kids?" I look at him and tell him, "Well, I think she is going to be a pretty good wife and mom then, one who believes in herself and her choices, don't you think?" Mwalimu Mledwa just smiles at me and says "Yes, she will be, but take your own advice. I think you will be too. Believe in your choices, you are a special person and we are so lucky to know you." The next day my village chairperson comes to my house and tells me that it is mine and I can live in it for as long as I want to live here. Then I get a text from Juster that says, "Brie Mama, Please be brave and courageous. Our village loves you. We are with you for each and everything."
After that night, things changed. I made dates with everyone. I cooked with different Mamas, and learned to make Tanzanian dishes. A bunch of my women friends and I had a dance party. I played with kids. I went and drank beer and watched football with my guy friends who are my age. I helped Mama Lau who I have just found out is pregnant again and I could not be more excited. I helped people, I smiled at people, I made people food, I held people's hands, I told people that I loved them and they were important to me. I found resilience and I found love. Everywhere I looked, it was there.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
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.
"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.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Welcome to Image Village Part Moja
Thanks to my parents and sisters, I now have a camera! Thank you, best birthday present ever! Here is a preliminary introduction to some people in my village. It is important to remember that unlike Americans, many Tanzanians may have never seen a camera, and certainly have not had one pushed in their face since the time of their birth. So when I show up as the first white person, and now, a year into our relationship, start flashing pictures there is some surprises. I am hoping the more familiar they get with the camera being around the better the pictures will get (Also have to get familiar with a new camera!) So enjoy.
"To the people of poor nations, we pledge to work alongside you to make your farms flourish and let clean waters flow; to nourish starved bodies and feed hungry minds. And to those nations like ours that enjoy relative plenty, we say we can no longer afford indifference to suffering outside our borders; nor can we consume the world's resources without regard to effect. For the world has changed and we must change with it."
-President Obama
Kijijini Image (Ee-Ma-Gay)
Juster and my cat, Kimulimuli (Firefly)
Kimulimuli, also known as Batratcat or the holy terror. The most pathetic animal. It is a miracle his mouth is not open in this picture.
Mama Anna and Anna
Aggy, one of my primary school girls, doing what they do best: working
Mama Lau (Mwalimu Vaking) holding a chicken
Juster, dancing in front of the row of teacher's houses
Anna, looking mischevious
The most beautiful child
Anna, being serious
Anna and I
Anna, my village child
Mama Mary working at our village sewing machine
Main road in Image: What we do? Watch the corn grow... Exciting life.
My Little Sis, Mary
Me and my village Mama (Mama Mary, also known as Mama Brie, even though she is barely older than me...)
Kids doing what they do best in Africa: Sitting in the dirt
My Family: Mary (age 6, in purple), Anna (age 2, in yellow), random baby someone gave me (age brand new) and me.
Worried-looking, but beautiful child
Boy chewing grass
A Friend
One of my Mama's working on the shamba (farm)
One of my Village Mama's planting potatoes
A mama clearing for planting
Two of my Mama friend's hard at work
Average house in my village in Tanzania: 1-2 rooms, made of brick with grass roof, person count 6-12, chicken count 15, spider count 243 and rising...
Lau, Age 4, Son of Mwalimu Simon and Mwalimu Vakinga, Leader of the "Lost Boys"
Anna's foot and my hand
Image Primary School: Part of my Darasa Sita Class
Shule
Little bit of life in Primary School
Over my fence and into my village...
View off my back porch into Mlangali part of Image
My back porch. First door on the left goes into my bathing room, second door into my "kitchen", both windows look into my living room.
The nicest house in my village- also known as Nyumba Kwa Brie
My front porch looking out over the ravine into another part of the village.
Me at home
"To the people of poor nations, we pledge to work alongside you to make your farms flourish and let clean waters flow; to nourish starved bodies and feed hungry minds. And to those nations like ours that enjoy relative plenty, we say we can no longer afford indifference to suffering outside our borders; nor can we consume the world's resources without regard to effect. For the world has changed and we must change with it."
-President Obama
Kijijini Image (Ee-Ma-Gay)
Juster and my cat, Kimulimuli (Firefly)
Kimulimuli, also known as Batratcat or the holy terror. The most pathetic animal. It is a miracle his mouth is not open in this picture.
Mama Anna and Anna
Aggy, one of my primary school girls, doing what they do best: working
Mama Lau (Mwalimu Vaking) holding a chicken
Juster, dancing in front of the row of teacher's houses
Anna, looking mischevious
The most beautiful child
Anna, being serious
Anna and I
Anna, my village child
Mama Mary working at our village sewing machine
Main road in Image: What we do? Watch the corn grow... Exciting life.
My Little Sis, Mary
Me and my village Mama (Mama Mary, also known as Mama Brie, even though she is barely older than me...)
Kids doing what they do best in Africa: Sitting in the dirt
My Family: Mary (age 6, in purple), Anna (age 2, in yellow), random baby someone gave me (age brand new) and me.
Worried-looking, but beautiful child
Boy chewing grass
A Friend
One of my Mama's working on the shamba (farm)
One of my Village Mama's planting potatoes
A mama clearing for planting
Two of my Mama friend's hard at work
Average house in my village in Tanzania: 1-2 rooms, made of brick with grass roof, person count 6-12, chicken count 15, spider count 243 and rising...
Lau, Age 4, Son of Mwalimu Simon and Mwalimu Vakinga, Leader of the "Lost Boys"
Anna's foot and my hand
Image Primary School: Part of my Darasa Sita Class
Shule
Little bit of life in Primary School
Over my fence and into my village...
View off my back porch into Mlangali part of Image
My back porch. First door on the left goes into my bathing room, second door into my "kitchen", both windows look into my living room.
The nicest house in my village- also known as Nyumba Kwa Brie
My front porch looking out over the ravine into another part of the village.
Me at homeStill so Far Out of Reach
"I hid my soiled hands behind my back somewhere along the line I must have gone off track with you. Excuse me, I think I mistaken you for somebody else, somebody who gave a damn, somebody more like myself."
- Jewel
May 5-8, 2009
I don't have much of an update for this week. I am going to be honest, I spent a lot of it in bed. My mom told me before I left that she felt like there would be life before Africa and life after. I was not really sure what she meant at the time, but I think now I do. A great friend of mine who is from Tanzania told me that she feels like Americans are afraid to mourn the loss of themselves. That it is okay to let go. I think about how in a few weeks my Tanzania adventure will reach the year mark. I think about all of the horrible things I have experienced here. The raw pain that is still so deep in many ways that I don't even write about it here in my blog. I think about the things I have seen in Africa that I wish I hadn't and I mourn for the ordinary American girl who has left me never to be the same.
Then today I get an email from a friend from high school, totally out of the blue. I can really say that this email was the best thing that happened to me all week. Her life is the kind that I am giving up by being here: filled with friends and family, the life that I miss. She is reading my blog and wrote about how my experience has made her re-evaluate what is important to her and her family. And it causes me to remember all the amazing things that have happened here in the past year. All of the things that the average American will never experience first-hand. The pain in my chest subsides a bit and I wonder about this new person who is emerging.
"Well she was an American girl raised on promises and she couldn't help thinkin' that there was a little more to life somewhere else. After all it was a great big world with lots of places to run to... God it's so painful something that's so close and still so far out of reach."
- Tom Petty
- Jewel
May 5-8, 2009
I don't have much of an update for this week. I am going to be honest, I spent a lot of it in bed. My mom told me before I left that she felt like there would be life before Africa and life after. I was not really sure what she meant at the time, but I think now I do. A great friend of mine who is from Tanzania told me that she feels like Americans are afraid to mourn the loss of themselves. That it is okay to let go. I think about how in a few weeks my Tanzania adventure will reach the year mark. I think about all of the horrible things I have experienced here. The raw pain that is still so deep in many ways that I don't even write about it here in my blog. I think about the things I have seen in Africa that I wish I hadn't and I mourn for the ordinary American girl who has left me never to be the same.
Then today I get an email from a friend from high school, totally out of the blue. I can really say that this email was the best thing that happened to me all week. Her life is the kind that I am giving up by being here: filled with friends and family, the life that I miss. She is reading my blog and wrote about how my experience has made her re-evaluate what is important to her and her family. And it causes me to remember all the amazing things that have happened here in the past year. All of the things that the average American will never experience first-hand. The pain in my chest subsides a bit and I wonder about this new person who is emerging.
"Well she was an American girl raised on promises and she couldn't help thinkin' that there was a little more to life somewhere else. After all it was a great big world with lots of places to run to... God it's so painful something that's so close and still so far out of reach."
- Tom Petty
Monday, May 4, 2009
I am a Baobab Tree...
May 4, 2009
Sometimes, when life is rough, I meditate on myself becoming a Baobab Tree. I picture having a strong trunk with roots deeply attached into the African soil and spindly branches that reach for the blue sky, searching and grabbing to hold onto something real. It is a calming picture of strength in a world where the next few minutes is unknown. Now, after about a year in Tanzania, I realize that I walk a lonely road. I have chosen a path that no one understands very well. I am not sure very many people relate to my daily experience. Yet today, as never before, I look out on the Baobab Trees flying passed on the Tanzanian landscape and I take a deep breath of African air, and I realize that I am home. Never before have I known so strongly that this of all corners of the earth is where I belong at this moment in my life. I have gone back and forth with the issue: Do I really belong in Tanzania? Now I am sure of the answer. Yes. And as the Baobab Tree reaches toward the savanna's sun and stands strong against the dusty wind, I too, reach and stand for more.
Sometimes, when life is rough, I meditate on myself becoming a Baobab Tree. I picture having a strong trunk with roots deeply attached into the African soil and spindly branches that reach for the blue sky, searching and grabbing to hold onto something real. It is a calming picture of strength in a world where the next few minutes is unknown. Now, after about a year in Tanzania, I realize that I walk a lonely road. I have chosen a path that no one understands very well. I am not sure very many people relate to my daily experience. Yet today, as never before, I look out on the Baobab Trees flying passed on the Tanzanian landscape and I take a deep breath of African air, and I realize that I am home. Never before have I known so strongly that this of all corners of the earth is where I belong at this moment in my life. I have gone back and forth with the issue: Do I really belong in Tanzania? Now I am sure of the answer. Yes. And as the Baobab Tree reaches toward the savanna's sun and stands strong against the dusty wind, I too, reach and stand for more.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
My Falling of Faith
April 18th-24th, 2009
"Same old story not much to say- hearts are broken everyday."
- Jewel
I can remember when I used to dread coming back to my village, leaving town and my friends. That certainly is no longer the case. Somehow now coming back when I bump along the road and the village children scream to each other, "Brie Amerudi!" (Brie, she has returned.) Sometimes women shriek and run to hug me like I have been gone for years, children wave and the men shake my hand and I feel like a politician or a princess in the Rose Parade as I wave. This time upon returning I was told some disconcerting news. Juster told me that Mama Johnson was near to die. I should have introduced Mama Johnson earlier into my cast of characters but there are so many people in my life here now that it is hard for me to update about all of them. Mama Johnson I met a few months ago squished next to me in our village car. It was love at first site by both parties. For one thing, she is just someone that you want to be around. She has a huge smile with a cute gap between her front teeth. She laughs a lot and is so patient with my Swahili. She speaks no English and did not finish primary school. She is young (24, I found out today) and she has an almost 2 year old son (Johnson). Before to0day I had visited her a few times at her home. She is VERY poor and lives with her mother a younger siblings. She has come to visit me, always bearing some kind of fruit or vegetable as a gift. So naturally I was unhappy to find out that she was so sick.
I immediately set out for the 45 minute walk to her house, she lives at the far side of our village in a little thatched roof shack with no furniture. When I got there she told me that both she and Johnson were greatly improved and they might not die after all. I was relieved to hear this, of course. She was incredibly thin, however. (So thin that I was hoping to catch whatever she had as a diet plan... haha) Today we sat together on a grass mat in the shade of a banana tree and I heard her story. She decided to leave our village when she was 20. She has no education but she wanted to be in the big city, so she went to Dar es Salaam to be some family's house girl. The father of the family slept with her repeatedly and she was afraid to tell anyone and wanted to keep her job. When she became pregnant, he told his family that she was a liar and a prostitute and did not accept the child as his own. She then had no choice but to return to our village and give birth to Johnson. It is incredible to me how much she loves Johnson when this is the story of his conception. But she is so proud and loving toward him. So now she lives with her mother and has no work. The thing is that she has a building (brick and thatched roof) in our village that she owns and wants to open an mgahawa. There she is hoping to cook Tanzanian food and serve soda and chai. However, she tells me that she does not have the money to start it up and can I give her 200,000 TZ shillings (about $180 USD) to get it going. I get paid a stipend of this exact amount once a month by PC, so clearly I do not have money like that just laying around. This amount is actually a lot of money in TZ. This is the problem with being PC Africa, there are a million people like this. I can't just give her some money because I like her and I should not train Tanzanians to just take American hand outs. So I was thinking about how she could get a bank loan, but Juster says that there will be no way because she has no collateral, so I will have to sign with her and end up paying it anyways. Now i am thinking that there has to be some sort of NGO or something that is doing this because there are a million women who want to start something but have nothing. It should be said that I am not a business person and i do not have a business mind. But if you are reading this and have any idea how I can help Mama Johnson get this money without just handing it to her for nothing. Then please write to me and let me know. I don't get a lot of computer time to research these things. She is a good cause and a good person but I cannot just give her a hand-out. I need to be teaching responsibility. Please let me know if you have an idea! Thanks!
This week I was given 36 avocados. You think that i am exaggerating, but you would be wrong. Do not picture those crappy hass California avocados that are hard and then half rotten. TZ avocados are like butter and bigger than my fists put together. They are so big that when I first saw them I did not know what they were. Being a villager is great, you walk around and people give you things they are growing. So I eat guacamole everyday with a spoon, everything in it was picked that day from one of my neighbors farms from the lemon juice to that tomatoes and onions. It is all fresh. One of my least favorite things at church is people bring in produce instead of money to donate and then people bid on it at the end of church to raise money. The men are the only ones allowed to bid but they bid for there wives until now. Now all the men bid on everything for me. This week was given avocado, bananas, tomatoes, eggs, beans and pineapple. This is incredibly embarrassing when every man bids 'Kwa Brie'. I would think that all the women in my village would hate me because not only are their husbands bidding for me but I am also taking the food. This does not seem to be the case, however, I think in part because I split up what I am given. Because come on, one person cannot eat that much every week.
Everyday this week I have had to go to war... with the Siyafu, that is. I put on my uniform which is as little as I can possibly wear so that I can see when they start to attack my body. And I go in armed with kerosene. Usually there is all sorts of villagers helping me do battle but one day we lost and Kimulimuli and I had to evacuate.
I kicked off my AIDS education with the primary school students. We played a truth or false game which illustrated to me that they know nothing about AIDS. They all chose true when I asked "Wazungu have the cure to AIDS but they are just not sharing it." and "Only immoral or bad people get AIDS." What is funny about those "true" choices is that probably many of these kids parents have AIDS and a a few of them, yet they still think that bad morals is what causes it. Also when I asked why girls are infected more often then boys, the only answer that I got is that girls are more careless and more often morally bad. Really? After being here for almost a year, I would say that I strongly disagree with that statement.
Sometimes, in Tanzania, you have to let your morals go. Lately, I have been like a politician accepting tainted money for my campaign. Isn't the only thing that matters is that I win? Who cares where the money comes from. I know PCVs who refuse to do things with certain people in their villages because of the personal lives of those involved. I had always thought until this week that my villagers were fairly innocent in all the "bad moral" issues we heard Tanzanians practice behind closed doors. Maybe it is because I am more integrated or because each day my Swahili improves a bit, but I have discovered secrets that I wish I knew nothing about. I always knew that I disliked the school beatings but I still go to school because it is just a punishment to the students if I don't teach them. This week I discovered that most of my male teachers have gotten in trouble previously for propositioning dararsa saba girls (girls about the age of 13-14 at the school.) Still I go to school shake these teacher's hands and smile at them and in my stomach I feel disgusted. I have also discovered that Mjemah (Anna's father) does have a wife, she is in Makambako studying to be a nurse. However, while she is gone Mjemah is sleeping with Jen. So while Anna is on my back, apparently I am baby sitting for this adultery to go on. The worst part of it is Mjemah and Jen are my friends, they are two of the most educated people in the village. Yet culture runs so deep. No one is faithful in Tanzania, so while I am sitting there preaching about girls empowerment and being faithful to one partner, no one is really believing anything about this or that it is important at all. It is just me. I can teach all I want but behavior change? I cannot make anyone change unless they want to change themselves. Yet, I continue to go along, be friends with these people and yell about using condoms and having only one wife, but I wonder how effective this really all is. Am I really changing any one's mind? I feel pretty worthless.
"Same old story not much to say- hearts are broken everyday."
- Jewel
I can remember when I used to dread coming back to my village, leaving town and my friends. That certainly is no longer the case. Somehow now coming back when I bump along the road and the village children scream to each other, "Brie Amerudi!" (Brie, she has returned.) Sometimes women shriek and run to hug me like I have been gone for years, children wave and the men shake my hand and I feel like a politician or a princess in the Rose Parade as I wave. This time upon returning I was told some disconcerting news. Juster told me that Mama Johnson was near to die. I should have introduced Mama Johnson earlier into my cast of characters but there are so many people in my life here now that it is hard for me to update about all of them. Mama Johnson I met a few months ago squished next to me in our village car. It was love at first site by both parties. For one thing, she is just someone that you want to be around. She has a huge smile with a cute gap between her front teeth. She laughs a lot and is so patient with my Swahili. She speaks no English and did not finish primary school. She is young (24, I found out today) and she has an almost 2 year old son (Johnson). Before to0day I had visited her a few times at her home. She is VERY poor and lives with her mother a younger siblings. She has come to visit me, always bearing some kind of fruit or vegetable as a gift. So naturally I was unhappy to find out that she was so sick.
I immediately set out for the 45 minute walk to her house, she lives at the far side of our village in a little thatched roof shack with no furniture. When I got there she told me that both she and Johnson were greatly improved and they might not die after all. I was relieved to hear this, of course. She was incredibly thin, however. (So thin that I was hoping to catch whatever she had as a diet plan... haha) Today we sat together on a grass mat in the shade of a banana tree and I heard her story. She decided to leave our village when she was 20. She has no education but she wanted to be in the big city, so she went to Dar es Salaam to be some family's house girl. The father of the family slept with her repeatedly and she was afraid to tell anyone and wanted to keep her job. When she became pregnant, he told his family that she was a liar and a prostitute and did not accept the child as his own. She then had no choice but to return to our village and give birth to Johnson. It is incredible to me how much she loves Johnson when this is the story of his conception. But she is so proud and loving toward him. So now she lives with her mother and has no work. The thing is that she has a building (brick and thatched roof) in our village that she owns and wants to open an mgahawa. There she is hoping to cook Tanzanian food and serve soda and chai. However, she tells me that she does not have the money to start it up and can I give her 200,000 TZ shillings (about $180 USD) to get it going. I get paid a stipend of this exact amount once a month by PC, so clearly I do not have money like that just laying around. This amount is actually a lot of money in TZ. This is the problem with being PC Africa, there are a million people like this. I can't just give her some money because I like her and I should not train Tanzanians to just take American hand outs. So I was thinking about how she could get a bank loan, but Juster says that there will be no way because she has no collateral, so I will have to sign with her and end up paying it anyways. Now i am thinking that there has to be some sort of NGO or something that is doing this because there are a million women who want to start something but have nothing. It should be said that I am not a business person and i do not have a business mind. But if you are reading this and have any idea how I can help Mama Johnson get this money without just handing it to her for nothing. Then please write to me and let me know. I don't get a lot of computer time to research these things. She is a good cause and a good person but I cannot just give her a hand-out. I need to be teaching responsibility. Please let me know if you have an idea! Thanks!
This week I was given 36 avocados. You think that i am exaggerating, but you would be wrong. Do not picture those crappy hass California avocados that are hard and then half rotten. TZ avocados are like butter and bigger than my fists put together. They are so big that when I first saw them I did not know what they were. Being a villager is great, you walk around and people give you things they are growing. So I eat guacamole everyday with a spoon, everything in it was picked that day from one of my neighbors farms from the lemon juice to that tomatoes and onions. It is all fresh. One of my least favorite things at church is people bring in produce instead of money to donate and then people bid on it at the end of church to raise money. The men are the only ones allowed to bid but they bid for there wives until now. Now all the men bid on everything for me. This week was given avocado, bananas, tomatoes, eggs, beans and pineapple. This is incredibly embarrassing when every man bids 'Kwa Brie'. I would think that all the women in my village would hate me because not only are their husbands bidding for me but I am also taking the food. This does not seem to be the case, however, I think in part because I split up what I am given. Because come on, one person cannot eat that much every week.
Everyday this week I have had to go to war... with the Siyafu, that is. I put on my uniform which is as little as I can possibly wear so that I can see when they start to attack my body. And I go in armed with kerosene. Usually there is all sorts of villagers helping me do battle but one day we lost and Kimulimuli and I had to evacuate.
I kicked off my AIDS education with the primary school students. We played a truth or false game which illustrated to me that they know nothing about AIDS. They all chose true when I asked "Wazungu have the cure to AIDS but they are just not sharing it." and "Only immoral or bad people get AIDS." What is funny about those "true" choices is that probably many of these kids parents have AIDS and a a few of them, yet they still think that bad morals is what causes it. Also when I asked why girls are infected more often then boys, the only answer that I got is that girls are more careless and more often morally bad. Really? After being here for almost a year, I would say that I strongly disagree with that statement.
Sometimes, in Tanzania, you have to let your morals go. Lately, I have been like a politician accepting tainted money for my campaign. Isn't the only thing that matters is that I win? Who cares where the money comes from. I know PCVs who refuse to do things with certain people in their villages because of the personal lives of those involved. I had always thought until this week that my villagers were fairly innocent in all the "bad moral" issues we heard Tanzanians practice behind closed doors. Maybe it is because I am more integrated or because each day my Swahili improves a bit, but I have discovered secrets that I wish I knew nothing about. I always knew that I disliked the school beatings but I still go to school because it is just a punishment to the students if I don't teach them. This week I discovered that most of my male teachers have gotten in trouble previously for propositioning dararsa saba girls (girls about the age of 13-14 at the school.) Still I go to school shake these teacher's hands and smile at them and in my stomach I feel disgusted. I have also discovered that Mjemah (Anna's father) does have a wife, she is in Makambako studying to be a nurse. However, while she is gone Mjemah is sleeping with Jen. So while Anna is on my back, apparently I am baby sitting for this adultery to go on. The worst part of it is Mjemah and Jen are my friends, they are two of the most educated people in the village. Yet culture runs so deep. No one is faithful in Tanzania, so while I am sitting there preaching about girls empowerment and being faithful to one partner, no one is really believing anything about this or that it is important at all. It is just me. I can teach all I want but behavior change? I cannot make anyone change unless they want to change themselves. Yet, I continue to go along, be friends with these people and yell about using condoms and having only one wife, but I wonder how effective this really all is. Am I really changing any one's mind? I feel pretty worthless.
Monday, April 13, 2009
What Would You Change If You Could?
"There's things I'll remember. There's things I'll forget. I miss you- I guess that I should. Three- thousand five hundred miles away, What would you change if you could? I need a phone call. I need a plane ride. I need a raincoat... I wish it was a small world because I'm lonely for the big town."
-Counting Crows
Begining of April-ish, 2009
Brie in Tanzania Count: Ten Months
The last few days we have had awesome weather. I wake up and it is sunny with blue sky. It gets hotter and hotter, then around 4.30 dark clouds rolls in but somehow it is still sunny. They just encroach like a sudden night. Suddenly the sky opens up and it dumps huge drops of rain. Lighting and thunder put on a show together and unlike Oregon, we always have lightning in Tanzania. It flashes every night and sometimes all night and sometimes without rain even. It give a strobe effect to my room as I try to sleep. Rivers run down the divets in our main dirt road and I skip and jump over them on my way to run errands. The wind howels throwing water through every crack and crevice in my house- water pours through the windows and floods under the doors- until I am submerged in a wild ocean. Out the window, it is just green and grey colliding, as the grey mist sweeps through our valley having it's way with the brilliant emerald vegetation.
I am in my own wild ocean- still trying to figure out what I can do in my own little corner of Tanzania. My villagers have finally agreed to be tested for AIDS as long as I do the testing. PC prefers that we do not come into close contact with African blood and I don't know how to stab people with needles anyways, so I am working on other options. Still I am a bit floored that they prefer me to know their results insted of anyone they actually really know. My Swahili must be really bad since their main concern is people finding out that their postitive... maybe they figure that I could not tell anyone even if I wanted to. Now I am creating a short lesson plan that is going to be taught everywhere I go. I have started teaching it in a surprising way. I went to Maria's little bar one night with Anna on my back and all the village men were hanging out there. They bought me a beer and I realized that maybe forming a men's group is to constricting and formal to deal with the issues that I want to address. However, when I am at the bar with them they always want to discuss why I am there.... so now they are getting an earful. I am making an effort to go hang out with them once a week. Last week we talked about the importance of using a condom. I had nothing written out or any pictures, just sat casually with a beer in my hand and told them what I thought. To my surprise they were very open with their concerns and wanted to hear what I have to say. Maybe once they are more into it the teaching will get more formal but I felt like this was a good start to get the conversation going. I am going to try to find a way to get a ton of condoms to use as invitations to the eventual testing day. I think I will just walk around the village and give some to everyone, that way they won't feel uncomfortable having to ask for them. So now I am just getting ready for the big day, which I hope can be as soon as July.
School the other day was surprising. I went prepared to teach about AIDS transmission with all the pictures drawn. Pictures and charades work really well with the students. Also my diaherrea lesson through pictures went over really well. (PC might be the only job that you are able to perfect drawing a Tanzanian in the "Choo Position" having diaherra). Anyways, turns out that I am not teaching that day because the children are building speed bumps out of dirt on our main road. (Motorcycles are driving too fast.) So no teaching and no one told me but this is kama kawaida (Like normally). Us teachers are just supposed to supervise these activities. Then the Mwalimu Mkuu tells me that today no teacher will beat any of the kids. I am floored. I threw a big tantrum the day before in front of all the teachers and some kids where I screamed and stormed out of the school. There had already been two entire classes beaten (including Katherine's, who is now sitting next to me drawing innocently with crayons as I write this) and one little girl so much so that she heaved with tears. So apparently, I made a bit of a point and even though it is only one day, this is still some kind of progress. And my mom always told me that throwing fits never accomplishes anything. ;-)
In the afternoon, the entire school comes to my house because supposidly I am going to get bit by a snake unless they clear the surrounding area. Hundreds of students swarm my house like busy little bees armed with hoes and I wished I had a camera. Rebecca (Katherine's sister) cleans my room, including; making my bed, washing my windows, mopping and sweeping the floors and folding my clothes. Girls do dishes, plant flowers, sweep out spiders and wash clothes. All 15 of my teachers look on shouting orders from all parts of my house both inside and outside. Kimulimuli and are are both sort of at a loss of what to do. He weaves around my feet meowing and once when there are too many students in the room for him climbs into my fire place and halfway up the chimney. Now the floor is so clean I would eat off of it.
I have just discovered that 20% of my primary school students are OVCs (orphans and vulnerable children)- crazy. one fifth.
My village executive officer (VEO), who I am not a big fan of, wife just died- everyone is saying AIDS (although obviously we have not been tested.) He has two more wives, but this was his first wife. Anyways, I did not realize it but his eldest son is one of my students. He is a good boy with a nice smile, one of those kids that you know will be really attractive when he is older. He always raises his hand to answer my questions in class. It breaks my heart that now he has no mother. yet he just took some standard examination and did very well on it. Today he was trimming a tree by my house- just like nothing had happened. I wanted to go to him and give him a little hug, but I have no idea what grief is like in Africa. a tweleve year old boy might not be please to have the eccentric teacher go hug him in front of the others.
My school has requested that I write a grant for new choos (holes in the ground for toilets) for the students. Right now we have seven holes which is not enough for the thousand students. It should be said that I am not passionate about the idea of building toilets, however, obviously it is health related as so many of the issues that face our community are caused from feces in water or food. So I am writing to get money to help build the new buildings for the choos. But if I have to be know for building toilets, I am putting a little bit of 'brie' into this project: one side of the building I am hoping to paint a world map and on the other side a map of Tanzania. This will provide something to look at while the kids wait in line and also adds my interests of art and geography to the project. I am also hoping to add an AIDS mural of some sort to one wall. So building toilets might not be so bad after all, if it is helpful and being used and I am able to add some flare.
-Counting Crows
Begining of April-ish, 2009
Brie in Tanzania Count: Ten Months
The last few days we have had awesome weather. I wake up and it is sunny with blue sky. It gets hotter and hotter, then around 4.30 dark clouds rolls in but somehow it is still sunny. They just encroach like a sudden night. Suddenly the sky opens up and it dumps huge drops of rain. Lighting and thunder put on a show together and unlike Oregon, we always have lightning in Tanzania. It flashes every night and sometimes all night and sometimes without rain even. It give a strobe effect to my room as I try to sleep. Rivers run down the divets in our main dirt road and I skip and jump over them on my way to run errands. The wind howels throwing water through every crack and crevice in my house- water pours through the windows and floods under the doors- until I am submerged in a wild ocean. Out the window, it is just green and grey colliding, as the grey mist sweeps through our valley having it's way with the brilliant emerald vegetation.
I am in my own wild ocean- still trying to figure out what I can do in my own little corner of Tanzania. My villagers have finally agreed to be tested for AIDS as long as I do the testing. PC prefers that we do not come into close contact with African blood and I don't know how to stab people with needles anyways, so I am working on other options. Still I am a bit floored that they prefer me to know their results insted of anyone they actually really know. My Swahili must be really bad since their main concern is people finding out that their postitive... maybe they figure that I could not tell anyone even if I wanted to. Now I am creating a short lesson plan that is going to be taught everywhere I go. I have started teaching it in a surprising way. I went to Maria's little bar one night with Anna on my back and all the village men were hanging out there. They bought me a beer and I realized that maybe forming a men's group is to constricting and formal to deal with the issues that I want to address. However, when I am at the bar with them they always want to discuss why I am there.... so now they are getting an earful. I am making an effort to go hang out with them once a week. Last week we talked about the importance of using a condom. I had nothing written out or any pictures, just sat casually with a beer in my hand and told them what I thought. To my surprise they were very open with their concerns and wanted to hear what I have to say. Maybe once they are more into it the teaching will get more formal but I felt like this was a good start to get the conversation going. I am going to try to find a way to get a ton of condoms to use as invitations to the eventual testing day. I think I will just walk around the village and give some to everyone, that way they won't feel uncomfortable having to ask for them. So now I am just getting ready for the big day, which I hope can be as soon as July.
School the other day was surprising. I went prepared to teach about AIDS transmission with all the pictures drawn. Pictures and charades work really well with the students. Also my diaherrea lesson through pictures went over really well. (PC might be the only job that you are able to perfect drawing a Tanzanian in the "Choo Position" having diaherra). Anyways, turns out that I am not teaching that day because the children are building speed bumps out of dirt on our main road. (Motorcycles are driving too fast.) So no teaching and no one told me but this is kama kawaida (Like normally). Us teachers are just supposed to supervise these activities. Then the Mwalimu Mkuu tells me that today no teacher will beat any of the kids. I am floored. I threw a big tantrum the day before in front of all the teachers and some kids where I screamed and stormed out of the school. There had already been two entire classes beaten (including Katherine's, who is now sitting next to me drawing innocently with crayons as I write this) and one little girl so much so that she heaved with tears. So apparently, I made a bit of a point and even though it is only one day, this is still some kind of progress. And my mom always told me that throwing fits never accomplishes anything. ;-)
In the afternoon, the entire school comes to my house because supposidly I am going to get bit by a snake unless they clear the surrounding area. Hundreds of students swarm my house like busy little bees armed with hoes and I wished I had a camera. Rebecca (Katherine's sister) cleans my room, including; making my bed, washing my windows, mopping and sweeping the floors and folding my clothes. Girls do dishes, plant flowers, sweep out spiders and wash clothes. All 15 of my teachers look on shouting orders from all parts of my house both inside and outside. Kimulimuli and are are both sort of at a loss of what to do. He weaves around my feet meowing and once when there are too many students in the room for him climbs into my fire place and halfway up the chimney. Now the floor is so clean I would eat off of it.
I have just discovered that 20% of my primary school students are OVCs (orphans and vulnerable children)- crazy. one fifth.
My village executive officer (VEO), who I am not a big fan of, wife just died- everyone is saying AIDS (although obviously we have not been tested.) He has two more wives, but this was his first wife. Anyways, I did not realize it but his eldest son is one of my students. He is a good boy with a nice smile, one of those kids that you know will be really attractive when he is older. He always raises his hand to answer my questions in class. It breaks my heart that now he has no mother. yet he just took some standard examination and did very well on it. Today he was trimming a tree by my house- just like nothing had happened. I wanted to go to him and give him a little hug, but I have no idea what grief is like in Africa. a tweleve year old boy might not be please to have the eccentric teacher go hug him in front of the others.
My school has requested that I write a grant for new choos (holes in the ground for toilets) for the students. Right now we have seven holes which is not enough for the thousand students. It should be said that I am not passionate about the idea of building toilets, however, obviously it is health related as so many of the issues that face our community are caused from feces in water or food. So I am writing to get money to help build the new buildings for the choos. But if I have to be know for building toilets, I am putting a little bit of 'brie' into this project: one side of the building I am hoping to paint a world map and on the other side a map of Tanzania. This will provide something to look at while the kids wait in line and also adds my interests of art and geography to the project. I am also hoping to add an AIDS mural of some sort to one wall. So building toilets might not be so bad after all, if it is helpful and being used and I am able to add some flare.
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