At 6:00 a.m., I woke up to the sounds of pigs being slaughtered. Welcome to Farmer's Day in Moshi. Celebrating farmers. Killing goats and pigs for nom-noms. I saw a man walking down the road in front of CCS Karanga, dragging a sheep behind him on a rope tether. Where they were heading, I have only a vague idea, but that sheep did NOT want to go.
Sad. And a little gross.
12:15 p.m.
Went to CCS driver and rafiki (friend) Dani's church this morning, with Mama Joan, Katie and Melanie. After several years of avoiding them, the first time I set foot inside a church is in Karanga, Tanzania. Go figure.
I don't completely know where I stand on the existence or nonexistance of a God, and I may not believe in organized religion--but after this morning, I know I believe in music, and in people.
10:45 p.m.
Also, met the new volunteers today. A mother-daughter duo from Scotland, a girl from Kentucky, and a woman from New Hampshire. They are nice, but I am still heartbroken over the loss of my friends from Calgary, Staten Island, and Washington state.
Drove with Joan to the airport tonight. It really is the beginning of the end. I have 6 more days in Tanzania. That is it, and that is all.
I'm dreading Saturday. I'm dreading that this week is going to be one long, steady goodbye.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Saturday, August 7.
10:00 a.m.
Woke up with the spins this morning. Thanks to three Tusker beers and a shot of Tanzanian "tequila" (I have no idea if it was actually tequila or some strange Tanzanian version of tequila--either way, it burned), and I am moving a little slowly.
Last night was a blast! We wanted to go out as a big group, as a sort of last hurrah for Julia and Rosaria, and ended up at Glacier--an outdoor bar and restaurant in Shantytown (which, despite the name, is actually the wealthy neighborhood in Moshi Town). A lot of mzungus frequent Glacier. We enjoyed our adult beverages while listening to a slightly out-of-tune band playing cover songs (Bob Marley, Lil John and the Eastside Boyz, Cher, and Michael Bolton, e.g.). We danced with local boys, some of them turning out to be major creepers. One of them shook my hand and did the finger-scratch-in-the-palm signal (the Tanzanian proposition for sex)... needless to say, dude got a big "ATCHA!" (stop it!) and a cold shoulder. Ick. I'd known him for all of 60 seconds.
Woke up with the spins this morning. Thanks to three Tusker beers and a shot of Tanzanian "tequila" (I have no idea if it was actually tequila or some strange Tanzanian version of tequila--either way, it burned), and I am moving a little slowly.
Last night was a blast! We wanted to go out as a big group, as a sort of last hurrah for Julia and Rosaria, and ended up at Glacier--an outdoor bar and restaurant in Shantytown (which, despite the name, is actually the wealthy neighborhood in Moshi Town). A lot of mzungus frequent Glacier. We enjoyed our adult beverages while listening to a slightly out-of-tune band playing cover songs (Bob Marley, Lil John and the Eastside Boyz, Cher, and Michael Bolton, e.g.). We danced with local boys, some of them turning out to be major creepers. One of them shook my hand and did the finger-scratch-in-the-palm signal (the Tanzanian proposition for sex)... needless to say, dude got a big "ATCHA!" (stop it!) and a cold shoulder. Ick. I'd known him for all of 60 seconds.
12:30 p.m.
Just came from outside the gate. The kids were in chaos over a hot air balloon. None of them had ever seen one--they were scared that they were about to be bombed. That confuses me a little bit, since Tanzania has never been bombed to my knowledge, but... panic, nonetheless. The littlest kids were in tears, and poor Beep Beep was terrified. He suction-cupped himself into my arms and cried and cried. What pissed me off was that the adults who were present thought it was funny. Little kids in a panic over a strange thing in the sky--really, all you're gonna do is point and laugh? You could at least explain it to them. Yeesh.
6:30 p.m.
Just got back from bringing Julia and Rosaria to the airport. We were all in tears for most of the trip. We are permanently linked together by this experience, but that didn't make the drive any easier. We have to repeat the process with Mama Joan, tomorrow evening.
Goodbyes are impossible.
I don't know how I'm going to be able to do this next week, when it's my turn.
Just came from outside the gate. The kids were in chaos over a hot air balloon. None of them had ever seen one--they were scared that they were about to be bombed. That confuses me a little bit, since Tanzania has never been bombed to my knowledge, but... panic, nonetheless. The littlest kids were in tears, and poor Beep Beep was terrified. He suction-cupped himself into my arms and cried and cried. What pissed me off was that the adults who were present thought it was funny. Little kids in a panic over a strange thing in the sky--really, all you're gonna do is point and laugh? You could at least explain it to them. Yeesh.
6:30 p.m.
Just got back from bringing Julia and Rosaria to the airport. We were all in tears for most of the trip. We are permanently linked together by this experience, but that didn't make the drive any easier. We have to repeat the process with Mama Joan, tomorrow evening.
Goodbyes are impossible.
I don't know how I'm going to be able to do this next week, when it's my turn.
Wednesday, August 4. Arusha.
Today our group got back to the homebase early, and took a van to Arusha, Tanzania's third-largest city, about an hour away from Moshi. I was excited to see the hustle and bustle of a large African city, but it turns out we didn't see a whole lot of hustle, or bustle. Or much of the city. What was originally planned as a day trip ended up being crammed into two-and-a-half hours. Enough time for a trip to Shop-Rite (the grocery store where all the mzungus in northern Tanzania shop) and the Maasai Market.
Which is an entirely different planet. Endless alleyways that aren't even wide enough for two people to pass through shoulder-to-shoulder. Entering (more like getting sucked in by your wallet) one such alleyway, you are bombarded instantaneously by the glorious-yet-terrifying sights and sounds of local commerce: vendors flashing colorful shiny things in your face, vendors yelling "Karibu! Karibu! Come in, sister! Looking is for free!" They know you have money to burn, and they are ready to overcharge you if they can get away with it. And they do, often.
Thus, we enter into the intricate, complicated song-and-dance called bartering for a better deal. First rule of thumb: avoid making comments about how beautiful the object in question is, at least right off. I made this mistake because my parents taught me to be polite and offer compliments when I mean them. Do it, and the price will automatically increase by 10,000 shillings.
Second rule of thumb: have in mind the maximum price you're willing to pay for an object before asking, "How much?" In fact, if at all possible, avoid that question. Instead, try: "I'll give you... (insert a price LOWER than your price limit here)." The surest way to ensure the price you want is to simply walk out of the stall.
Okay, it really is understandable that they ask for a lot from mzungus--we DO have the means to pay whatever price they ask, in the context of Tanzania's economy and value of its currency. I get that. But I'm a little tired of having "Mzungu" branded on my forehead, even though my skin is white. I'm a volunteer, and back at home I'm a graduate student without a job who can barely afford to buy groceries, and I'm NOT going to buy the contents of your entire stall. Sorry. I just can't do it.
All in all, a bit anticlimactic. I think, as is the case with anywhere you travel, that in order to tap into the pulse of a place you need to be really in it for awhile. At least, longer than two-and-a-half hours.
Which is an entirely different planet. Endless alleyways that aren't even wide enough for two people to pass through shoulder-to-shoulder. Entering (more like getting sucked in by your wallet) one such alleyway, you are bombarded instantaneously by the glorious-yet-terrifying sights and sounds of local commerce: vendors flashing colorful shiny things in your face, vendors yelling "Karibu! Karibu! Come in, sister! Looking is for free!" They know you have money to burn, and they are ready to overcharge you if they can get away with it. And they do, often.
Thus, we enter into the intricate, complicated song-and-dance called bartering for a better deal. First rule of thumb: avoid making comments about how beautiful the object in question is, at least right off. I made this mistake because my parents taught me to be polite and offer compliments when I mean them. Do it, and the price will automatically increase by 10,000 shillings.
Second rule of thumb: have in mind the maximum price you're willing to pay for an object before asking, "How much?" In fact, if at all possible, avoid that question. Instead, try: "I'll give you... (insert a price LOWER than your price limit here)." The surest way to ensure the price you want is to simply walk out of the stall.
Okay, it really is understandable that they ask for a lot from mzungus--we DO have the means to pay whatever price they ask, in the context of Tanzania's economy and value of its currency. I get that. But I'm a little tired of having "Mzungu" branded on my forehead, even though my skin is white. I'm a volunteer, and back at home I'm a graduate student without a job who can barely afford to buy groceries, and I'm NOT going to buy the contents of your entire stall. Sorry. I just can't do it.
All in all, a bit anticlimactic. I think, as is the case with anywhere you travel, that in order to tap into the pulse of a place you need to be really in it for awhile. At least, longer than two-and-a-half hours.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Tuesday, August 3.
12:30 p.m.
Some good things about today:
1. One of the troublemaker kids at Kiwodea actually listened to me. Kiddo got a big ol' High Five and a "Nzuri sana!"
2. Rusty (the seamstress at Kiwodea) is almost done with Dress #1--just some sizing adjustments. And she's already half done with Dress #2. Hooray for pretty clothes and sustainable economic enterprises!
3. Found jalepeno-flavored Pringles at the Highway Supermarket. Yes!!!
4. On the way home, I met a Tanzanian man whose normal voice sounds exactly like if Louis Armstrong spoke Swahili. "What a wonderful world, asante sana bwana."
5. I just took a hot shower. It was my first hot shower in 6 days.
6. Tonight we eat, drink, dance and celebrate!
Some not-so-good things about today:
1. Teacher Joyce still loves to use her cane. Sometimes I think she's being mean to the kids just because she can.
2. First Africa-related injury this afternoon. On the walk home, I stepped on a twig. Two seconds later, something stabbed me in the foot. Turns out it was a big thorn. Through the sole of my shoe. Into my foot.
3. No matter how much or how hard I scrub them, my feet seem to have a permanent coat of dirt on them. It looks like I have weird tan lines, but it's not tan. It's dirt. And it won't come off.
4. Some new, good friends are leaving on Saturday.
Some good things about today:
1. One of the troublemaker kids at Kiwodea actually listened to me. Kiddo got a big ol' High Five and a "Nzuri sana!"
2. Rusty (the seamstress at Kiwodea) is almost done with Dress #1--just some sizing adjustments. And she's already half done with Dress #2. Hooray for pretty clothes and sustainable economic enterprises!
3. Found jalepeno-flavored Pringles at the Highway Supermarket. Yes!!!
4. On the way home, I met a Tanzanian man whose normal voice sounds exactly like if Louis Armstrong spoke Swahili. "What a wonderful world, asante sana bwana."
5. I just took a hot shower. It was my first hot shower in 6 days.
6. Tonight we eat, drink, dance and celebrate!
Some not-so-good things about today:
1. Teacher Joyce still loves to use her cane. Sometimes I think she's being mean to the kids just because she can.
2. First Africa-related injury this afternoon. On the walk home, I stepped on a twig. Two seconds later, something stabbed me in the foot. Turns out it was a big thorn. Through the sole of my shoe. Into my foot.
3. No matter how much or how hard I scrub them, my feet seem to have a permanent coat of dirt on them. It looks like I have weird tan lines, but it's not tan. It's dirt. And it won't come off.
4. Some new, good friends are leaving on Saturday.
INTERMISSION
Some Favorite Things about Tanzania (and Moshi, and Karanga):
-The friendliness. When people greet you, for the most part the smiles are genuine, and when they welcome you into their home/shop/workplace, they mean it.
-The clarity, hugeness and brightness of the night sky.
-The neighborhood kids in Karanga, who wait at the end of the road every day at noon, when we return from our placements.
-The fact that you can stand in the middle of anywhere, turn around 360 degrees, and be blown away by the view in any direction.
-The people I've met here. The CCS Mamas (Lillian and Fatuma), the CCS Babas (Fulgence and John), Dani the driver, Rosie and Mary the housekeepers, fellow volunteers-turned-friends (Julia, Rosaria, Joan, Melanie, Katie, Spencer, Regina)... it's like my Tanzanian family. Mama Nancy and Sophia at Kiwodea. Hussein and Edward and the Pristine Safari peeps. Mama Valeria at WEECE.
Some Less-Than-Favorite Things about Tanzania/Moshi/Karanga:
-Squat pots (although my aim is getting pretty good).
-Sometimes the stares and cries of "Mzungu!" make me uncomfortable. Especially when groups of men do it.
-Corporal punishment in almost every school I've come across.
-Showers that feel like the water is pumped directly from the glaciers on Kilimanjaro.
-Pushy vendors on the street who follow you for blocks, trying to guilt you into spending your vast hoards of Mzungu Moolah on their crafty crafts, because you=$$$ in their eyes.
-The neighbor's goat and the pukey noises he makes, usually right around lunchtime.
-The friendliness. When people greet you, for the most part the smiles are genuine, and when they welcome you into their home/shop/workplace, they mean it.
-The clarity, hugeness and brightness of the night sky.
-The neighborhood kids in Karanga, who wait at the end of the road every day at noon, when we return from our placements.
-The fact that you can stand in the middle of anywhere, turn around 360 degrees, and be blown away by the view in any direction.
-The people I've met here. The CCS Mamas (Lillian and Fatuma), the CCS Babas (Fulgence and John), Dani the driver, Rosie and Mary the housekeepers, fellow volunteers-turned-friends (Julia, Rosaria, Joan, Melanie, Katie, Spencer, Regina)... it's like my Tanzanian family. Mama Nancy and Sophia at Kiwodea. Hussein and Edward and the Pristine Safari peeps. Mama Valeria at WEECE.
Some Less-Than-Favorite Things about Tanzania/Moshi/Karanga:
-Squat pots (although my aim is getting pretty good).
-Sometimes the stares and cries of "Mzungu!" make me uncomfortable. Especially when groups of men do it.
-Corporal punishment in almost every school I've come across.
-Showers that feel like the water is pumped directly from the glaciers on Kilimanjaro.
-Pushy vendors on the street who follow you for blocks, trying to guilt you into spending your vast hoards of Mzungu Moolah on their crafty crafts, because you=$$$ in their eyes.
-The neighbor's goat and the pukey noises he makes, usually right around lunchtime.
Monday, August 2.
I've been thinking a lot about malaria lately.
When I went to the travel clinic before coming here, my drill sergeant of a nurse related to me the horror stories of malaria and the utter diligence I, as a vulnerable traveler, must employ to defend myself from the malaria-riddled bloodthirsty African mosquito. I was terrified of being bitten. I've been taking my Doxycyclene religiously after every breakfast, and applying my 30 percent DEET every evening. My mosquito net is my safe house, protecting me from the vicious hordes of six-legged bloodsuckers as I sleep.
I haven't seen more than ten mosquitoes since I've been here. I think half of those skeeters have dined on my blood, because I've acquired a whopping total of five mosquito bites (each that itched like hell for half an hour and then disappeared). Two weeks in, I realize my chances of coming down with aches and a fever are slim to none. I also realize that I'm not the only overseas volunteer with malaria paranoia. The CCS volunteers have a running joke:
"I have a headache." "That's probably malaria."
"I'm cold." "Ooh, that can be a symptom of malaria."
"My ankles are swollen." "Whoa, that's gotta be malaria." "But I hiked Kilimanjaro today." "Yeah, but you have aches in your legs, too."
"I stubbed my toe." "TOTALLY malaria. You're done."
In other words, if you take precautions, you will more than likely be just fine. But the sliver of doubt is still there. Partly because every local you meet has either had malaria, or knows someone who's had it. It is here, prevalent like the common cold, just not always overtly obvious. Not everyone has a mosquito net--some volunteers handed them out to the neighborhood kids a few days ago. A lot of people don't have access to medications that treat it, let alone the means to prevent it.
So I don't know what to think about that. Except that every person should have a net, for free. What's crazy is that I think a certain former U.S. president from Texas made an initiative out of that one at some point. Hrmm...
P.S. From the waist down, it's all one solid ache. I'm walking like a sailor with scurvy. Mt. Kilimanjaro: 1, Out-of-Shape Wannabe Mountain Climber: 0.
But, it's probably malaria, in any case.
When I went to the travel clinic before coming here, my drill sergeant of a nurse related to me the horror stories of malaria and the utter diligence I, as a vulnerable traveler, must employ to defend myself from the malaria-riddled bloodthirsty African mosquito. I was terrified of being bitten. I've been taking my Doxycyclene religiously after every breakfast, and applying my 30 percent DEET every evening. My mosquito net is my safe house, protecting me from the vicious hordes of six-legged bloodsuckers as I sleep.
I haven't seen more than ten mosquitoes since I've been here. I think half of those skeeters have dined on my blood, because I've acquired a whopping total of five mosquito bites (each that itched like hell for half an hour and then disappeared). Two weeks in, I realize my chances of coming down with aches and a fever are slim to none. I also realize that I'm not the only overseas volunteer with malaria paranoia. The CCS volunteers have a running joke:
"I have a headache." "That's probably malaria."
"I'm cold." "Ooh, that can be a symptom of malaria."
"My ankles are swollen." "Whoa, that's gotta be malaria." "But I hiked Kilimanjaro today." "Yeah, but you have aches in your legs, too."
"I stubbed my toe." "TOTALLY malaria. You're done."
In other words, if you take precautions, you will more than likely be just fine. But the sliver of doubt is still there. Partly because every local you meet has either had malaria, or knows someone who's had it. It is here, prevalent like the common cold, just not always overtly obvious. Not everyone has a mosquito net--some volunteers handed them out to the neighborhood kids a few days ago. A lot of people don't have access to medications that treat it, let alone the means to prevent it.
So I don't know what to think about that. Except that every person should have a net, for free. What's crazy is that I think a certain former U.S. president from Texas made an initiative out of that one at some point. Hrmm...
P.S. From the waist down, it's all one solid ache. I'm walking like a sailor with scurvy. Mt. Kilimanjaro: 1, Out-of-Shape Wannabe Mountain Climber: 0.
But, it's probably malaria, in any case.
Sunday, August 1. Kilimanjaro-Ho!!!
Today I hiked the Roof of Africa. Or--at least to the top of the stairs at the second story of Africa.
Honestly, it was probably one of the most difficult and demanding things I've ever done in my life. 3-1/2 hours up the mountain, from the Kilimanjaro National Park gates, following the Marangu Route to Mandara (the first of 3 base camps for climbers attempting to summit). Mandara sits at 2720 meters above sea level, or about 8,000 feet. While the altitude change is only about 1 kilometer, the Marangu Route is approximately 9 kilometers to Mandara. I walked approximately 9 kilometers up Mt. Kilimanjaro. Cool. :-)
They tell you to pack several items for very good reasons (I'm glad I listened):
1. Rain gear. (It rained. The whole way.)
2. An extra T-shirt. (By the time we got to Mandara, I felt like I'd taken a shower in the one I was wearing--I'd sweated completely through it.)
3. An extra sweatshirt. (2720 meters above sea level is COLD. My lips were blue. You need to get as warm and dry as you can, with no heat or fire.)
4. Salty snacks and extra water. (For those of you who don't know what an electrolyte is, you'll still know when you lose a lot of them. It sucks.)
After lunch, it was about a 2-1/2 hour hike back down. Slightly easier than up. Through cold mountain moorland near Mandara, back into mountain rainforest as we descended. I felt like I was in a scene straight out of Avatar (and yes, I did just use a James Cameron reference in my blog. That one's for you, Alex Maki!), trekking through the Pandoran jungle. Instead of 10-foot-tall blue cat-people, we saw colobus monkeys and porters with huge sacks on their heads, full of lazy hikers' shit (juuuuust kidding, those belong to the people who summit... they are the anti-lazy people). The porters were passing us on the trail in either direction. Carrying 50 to 100 pounds on your head, walking up the equivalent of about 19,000 stairs, earns you hardcore status, in my opinion.
It's pretty rad to be able to say I climbed to the almost-halfway point on Kilimanjaro. Someday, after months (years?!) of training and preparation, maybe I'll be back to attempt the summit. But right now, I'm just fine with what I did do. It was hard and painful, and my legs did not thank me a few days later, but not unbearable. Especially since Gorgeous Adam was there.*
*Sidenote about Gorgeous Adam. We did the hike with the same company who took us on safari. In fact, one of the guys who came with us was Hussein, our safari guide... who is quickly becoming a good friend of mine. The other mountain guide was Adam. And he is gorgeous. Perfectly gorgeous. And as nice as he is pretty. Insta-Crush material.
Anyway, at one point, Adam took my hand to help me up a steep couple of meters, and didn't let go for a little while. I know it's totally 5th grade, but it almost didn't matter that all my hair was pulled under a sweaty bandana or that my face was beet red or that I was covered in mud and probably smelled. I hiked Kili with a dreamboat guide and some quickly-getting-to-be-good friends. Self confidence is up 100 points today.
"I hiked Mt. Kilimanjaro."
Absolutely fun to say. :-)
Honestly, it was probably one of the most difficult and demanding things I've ever done in my life. 3-1/2 hours up the mountain, from the Kilimanjaro National Park gates, following the Marangu Route to Mandara (the first of 3 base camps for climbers attempting to summit). Mandara sits at 2720 meters above sea level, or about 8,000 feet. While the altitude change is only about 1 kilometer, the Marangu Route is approximately 9 kilometers to Mandara. I walked approximately 9 kilometers up Mt. Kilimanjaro. Cool. :-)
They tell you to pack several items for very good reasons (I'm glad I listened):
1. Rain gear. (It rained. The whole way.)
2. An extra T-shirt. (By the time we got to Mandara, I felt like I'd taken a shower in the one I was wearing--I'd sweated completely through it.)
3. An extra sweatshirt. (2720 meters above sea level is COLD. My lips were blue. You need to get as warm and dry as you can, with no heat or fire.)
4. Salty snacks and extra water. (For those of you who don't know what an electrolyte is, you'll still know when you lose a lot of them. It sucks.)
After lunch, it was about a 2-1/2 hour hike back down. Slightly easier than up. Through cold mountain moorland near Mandara, back into mountain rainforest as we descended. I felt like I was in a scene straight out of Avatar (and yes, I did just use a James Cameron reference in my blog. That one's for you, Alex Maki!), trekking through the Pandoran jungle. Instead of 10-foot-tall blue cat-people, we saw colobus monkeys and porters with huge sacks on their heads, full of lazy hikers' shit (juuuuust kidding, those belong to the people who summit... they are the anti-lazy people). The porters were passing us on the trail in either direction. Carrying 50 to 100 pounds on your head, walking up the equivalent of about 19,000 stairs, earns you hardcore status, in my opinion.
It's pretty rad to be able to say I climbed to the almost-halfway point on Kilimanjaro. Someday, after months (years?!) of training and preparation, maybe I'll be back to attempt the summit. But right now, I'm just fine with what I did do. It was hard and painful, and my legs did not thank me a few days later, but not unbearable. Especially since Gorgeous Adam was there.*
*Sidenote about Gorgeous Adam. We did the hike with the same company who took us on safari. In fact, one of the guys who came with us was Hussein, our safari guide... who is quickly becoming a good friend of mine. The other mountain guide was Adam. And he is gorgeous. Perfectly gorgeous. And as nice as he is pretty. Insta-Crush material.
Anyway, at one point, Adam took my hand to help me up a steep couple of meters, and didn't let go for a little while. I know it's totally 5th grade, but it almost didn't matter that all my hair was pulled under a sweaty bandana or that my face was beet red or that I was covered in mud and probably smelled. I hiked Kili with a dreamboat guide and some quickly-getting-to-be-good friends. Self confidence is up 100 points today.
"I hiked Mt. Kilimanjaro."
Absolutely fun to say. :-)
Monday, August 9, 2010
Friday, July 30.
5:00 p.m.
We are painting at Kiwodea.
The rooms used to be dark and bare, with dirty beige walls and cobwebs everywhere. Now, they are cheerful yellow and baby blue, with two new chalkboards (thanks to Regina's successful reconnaissance for chalkboard paint!). Also, Mama Nancy is letting me loose on one of the walls, to paint a mural. Whooooeeeee... I am covered in paint today, but the wall halfway displays a Tanzanian safari sunset. Yes!
Yesterday was Regina's last day in the program. We spent the morning painting and revisiting the 90's on her iPod. Britney Spears and the Spice Girls REALLY do help you paint faster! Katie also found some Cokes, taro chips, and peanut M&Ms at the nearby supermarket--I didn't realize how much I miss caffeine and chocolate and salt. Coke! Potato chips! M&Ms! Simple things.
After work, Mama Nancy invited us to her home for lunch--her famous mushroom pilau (rice and veggies) made from mushrooms she grows in her yard. DELICIOUS! Mama also surprised us with a cake she baked--with all of our names in pink icing, surrounded by an icing heart: "This is my heart, and all of you are in it." No joke. These are the kinds of things Mama says all the time, but she is absolutely genuine about it. It isn't cheesy... it is true. We all got a little teary at that. Mama gave each of us a blessing (in Swahili), and we ate until we were stuffed (pilau, baked pumpkin, wilted greens, avocado salad) and drank her fabulous tea (black chai with LOTS of lemon). Mama is a truly special person. I'm not sure I've met anyone else with as much selflessness and love for fellow human beings, not as much as this woman has. And that statement is absolutely genuine.
11:15 p.m.
We are painting at Kiwodea.
The rooms used to be dark and bare, with dirty beige walls and cobwebs everywhere. Now, they are cheerful yellow and baby blue, with two new chalkboards (thanks to Regina's successful reconnaissance for chalkboard paint!). Also, Mama Nancy is letting me loose on one of the walls, to paint a mural. Whooooeeeee... I am covered in paint today, but the wall halfway displays a Tanzanian safari sunset. Yes!
Yesterday was Regina's last day in the program. We spent the morning painting and revisiting the 90's on her iPod. Britney Spears and the Spice Girls REALLY do help you paint faster! Katie also found some Cokes, taro chips, and peanut M&Ms at the nearby supermarket--I didn't realize how much I miss caffeine and chocolate and salt. Coke! Potato chips! M&Ms! Simple things.
After work, Mama Nancy invited us to her home for lunch--her famous mushroom pilau (rice and veggies) made from mushrooms she grows in her yard. DELICIOUS! Mama also surprised us with a cake she baked--with all of our names in pink icing, surrounded by an icing heart: "This is my heart, and all of you are in it." No joke. These are the kinds of things Mama says all the time, but she is absolutely genuine about it. It isn't cheesy... it is true. We all got a little teary at that. Mama gave each of us a blessing (in Swahili), and we ate until we were stuffed (pilau, baked pumpkin, wilted greens, avocado salad) and drank her fabulous tea (black chai with LOTS of lemon). Mama is a truly special person. I'm not sure I've met anyone else with as much selflessness and love for fellow human beings, not as much as this woman has. And that statement is absolutely genuine.
11:15 p.m.
Just caught a ride back from town with Drunken Cab Driver from Hell. That was possibly the sketchiest cab ride I've ever experienced, anywhere.
I went out to eat with Katie from Kiwodea and Beth, another CCS-Karanga volunteer. We ate at a mzungu restaurant in Moshi called Indoitaliano (all one word), which serves, oddly enough, Indian and/or Italian food, sometimes together. In the middle of East Africa, that seems interestingly weird (colonialism x Eastern influence?). I ate an entire 12-inch pizza (with mozzarella cheese and everything!) and a Coke in an old glass bottle that they undoubtedly refill after each customer use. Pizza and Coke! I think I'm starting to crave food that I've been eating all my life. When I get back stateside, the first thing I want to eat is my mom's homemade enchiladas (take note, Mom. Hehe.).
But I digress. After dropping Katie off at a hotel in town, where she'll stay until she leaves for safari tomorrow, Beth and I began the Tanzanian version of Russian Roulette, otherwise known as finding a cab.
Let's pause for a moment to talk about public transportation here. During the day in Moshi, the streets are full of taxis, busses, and smaller dala-dalas (public vans that usually are crammed full of people--I've seen them careening down the highway with two or three people hanging out the doors, with decal images of either God, Jesus or Barack Obama gracing their rear windows). The sidewalks, curbs and streets are also packed with people on foot. At night, however, Moshi is a different city. The streets are nearly deserted at sundown, and cabs are elusive.
I'm not sure about other parts of the country, but in Moshi and other parts of the Kilimanjaro region, licensed cab drivers operate white sedans with a blue stripe painted on the exterior and a "taxi" sign on top. We were first approached by a guy who spoke no English but gestured to a white sedan with a conspicuously absent blue stripe. Trying to charge us 14,000 shillings for a 5,000-shilling cab ride was clearly not his first mistake. His car was the only one on the block for a solid five minutes, so imagine our relief when a blue-stripe pulled up behind him.
Big oops. Here's some advice.
First, when choosing a cab in Tanzania, refrain from those with gasoline or alcohol-scented interiors. Second, speak up when your driver decides to pull into a gas station mid-trip and disappears for 10 minutes without telling you what's going on. Also speak up when he wobbles all over the road, cuts off other cars, and decides to pass cars in the immediate path of oncoming traffic. Finally, when at the destination, he tries to renegotiate the rate you mutually agreed on prior to leaving FOR A LARGER FEE, politely but firmly decline. And whatever you do, kindly remove your white-knuckled strangle grip from the headrest in front of you so you can exit your Death Cab as soon as possible.
Wednesday, July 28
Marangu Region.
This morning, those of us in the new group didn't go to our placements. Instead, Baba John (one of the CCS drivers) took us on a cultural exploration of Marangu, home to a large population of the Chagga people, the tribe that predominantly inhabits the Kilimanjaro region. They are also the tribe to which Baba John belongs. You could see it in his face: pride, that he was going to get to share aspects of his culture with us, for the entire day.
We stopped at a blacksmith and tinsmith cooperative in Marangu, which was interesting because the men use techniques that are considered archaic by Western standards. However, I have trouble imagining that the works of art produced by these "archaic" practices could ever be reproduced by a machine. Hand bellows to heat the metal, hammer and chisel to shape it. Result? Chagga warrior spear, knife, hammer head, cowbell, noisemaker for dances, etc. They also shape wood in the same careful, artistic way they shape metal. Avocado, ebony, and rosewood trees reshaped into bowls, spoons, masks, candleholders, sculptures. The smiths graciously allowed this mzungu to try her hand at the bellows. Apparently I did all right, because they went right on with their work as I sat in the dirt and soot next to them, pumping air into the fire by hand.
We also visited the Marangu Chagga market, where everyone who was selling something greeted us with "Karibu! Karibu sana!" (Welcome! You're very welcome!) in a frenzied attempt to lure us into their stalls. The kanga lady--with a little hut filled floor to ceiling with eye-popping fabric--was hilarious. When I bought 3 kangas from her, her response was somewhat bizarre--she dropped her chin and gently head-butted my chest. Just a split second, but so odd! Not sure if it's a Chagga thing or what, but I think I'll ask Baba John about it.
Next stop was to a replica Chagga fortified hut, a complex of underground caves and tunnels so tight you had to crawl on your hands and knees, or "squat-walk" (squalk?) from room to room.
The event of the day, by far, was the hike down to Kilasiya Falls. To get to the falls, we had to hike into this valley with crazy steep walls. Stretches of it felt like rock climbing (or rather, crumbly muddy hillside climbing), but we were able to hike right up to the base of the falls. Our guide, August, saw my hiking boots and gave me his flip flops instead, as we had to wade through the river at one point. I'm not sure if it was a good idea to wade, and the warning from my travel clinic nurse telling me to avoid fresh water at all costs still lingers in the back of my mind, but the view was awesome. Probably worth the schistosomiasis or tapeworm or some other nasty bug I'll undoubtedly acquire from the lovely scenery.
Beautiful and fun experiences trump parasites. That's my motto for the rest of my stay in Tanzania.
This morning, those of us in the new group didn't go to our placements. Instead, Baba John (one of the CCS drivers) took us on a cultural exploration of Marangu, home to a large population of the Chagga people, the tribe that predominantly inhabits the Kilimanjaro region. They are also the tribe to which Baba John belongs. You could see it in his face: pride, that he was going to get to share aspects of his culture with us, for the entire day.
We stopped at a blacksmith and tinsmith cooperative in Marangu, which was interesting because the men use techniques that are considered archaic by Western standards. However, I have trouble imagining that the works of art produced by these "archaic" practices could ever be reproduced by a machine. Hand bellows to heat the metal, hammer and chisel to shape it. Result? Chagga warrior spear, knife, hammer head, cowbell, noisemaker for dances, etc. They also shape wood in the same careful, artistic way they shape metal. Avocado, ebony, and rosewood trees reshaped into bowls, spoons, masks, candleholders, sculptures. The smiths graciously allowed this mzungu to try her hand at the bellows. Apparently I did all right, because they went right on with their work as I sat in the dirt and soot next to them, pumping air into the fire by hand.
We also visited the Marangu Chagga market, where everyone who was selling something greeted us with "Karibu! Karibu sana!" (Welcome! You're very welcome!) in a frenzied attempt to lure us into their stalls. The kanga lady--with a little hut filled floor to ceiling with eye-popping fabric--was hilarious. When I bought 3 kangas from her, her response was somewhat bizarre--she dropped her chin and gently head-butted my chest. Just a split second, but so odd! Not sure if it's a Chagga thing or what, but I think I'll ask Baba John about it.
Next stop was to a replica Chagga fortified hut, a complex of underground caves and tunnels so tight you had to crawl on your hands and knees, or "squat-walk" (squalk?) from room to room.
The event of the day, by far, was the hike down to Kilasiya Falls. To get to the falls, we had to hike into this valley with crazy steep walls. Stretches of it felt like rock climbing (or rather, crumbly muddy hillside climbing), but we were able to hike right up to the base of the falls. Our guide, August, saw my hiking boots and gave me his flip flops instead, as we had to wade through the river at one point. I'm not sure if it was a good idea to wade, and the warning from my travel clinic nurse telling me to avoid fresh water at all costs still lingers in the back of my mind, but the view was awesome. Probably worth the schistosomiasis or tapeworm or some other nasty bug I'll undoubtedly acquire from the lovely scenery.
Beautiful and fun experiences trump parasites. That's my motto for the rest of my stay in Tanzania.
Tuesday, July 27
The butterflies are out today.
It's a little after noon and they are soaking up the sunshine, I think. I am, too. They are the small butter-yellow variety that seems to be everywhere here; one is resting on my toe as I write this. I have seen dozens of fantastically colorful butterflies here! Blue and iridescent, brown and white polka-dots, fragile black and red. Little vivid spots of color by the dusty road.
I am feeling more and more comfortable in front of the class at Kiwodea. Today we learned some English clothing words, reviewed body parts and colors in English, and read some stories. The kids are so sweet--at least, to the new mzungu teacher... not so much to each other, really. And they seem enthusiastic about what we're doing there. I guess it's not too difficult to impress a three-year-old. Their enthusiasm, plus the hugely helpful presence of my placement veteran volunteer partners, have made this week a little easier than last week. I think I was still adjusting to the differences and just the reality that I was going to be living in Africa for four weeks.
We are going to be doing some maintenance projects for Mama Nancy, using the money earned from the Dessert Night fundraiser. The plan is to hire an electrician to fix the lighting, TV and internet, and paint two classrooms--the leftover funds are going into an account for future microloan distribution! The classrooms will be used as a kind of special education "suite": one room for lessons, and another room for physical therapy for kids with disabilities. All part of Mama Nancy's bigger plan.
Many children here, if they have a physical or mental disability, tend to be ostracized. Or at least, set by the wayside. Many never go to school, and their parents hide them from the rest of society. Many are abandoned or dropped off at orphanages, like Mary at Neema. Mama Nancy wants to give these children a safe place to interact with other children, learn socialization skills and participate in other academic and extracurricular activities.
Mama also wants us to go with her when she interviews women who are applying for the loan money. The fact that she wants us to be that involved with the distribution processes of Kiwodea says a lot about Mama Nancy's trust in her volunteers.
I think Kiwodea was the perfect placement for me.
It's a little after noon and they are soaking up the sunshine, I think. I am, too. They are the small butter-yellow variety that seems to be everywhere here; one is resting on my toe as I write this. I have seen dozens of fantastically colorful butterflies here! Blue and iridescent, brown and white polka-dots, fragile black and red. Little vivid spots of color by the dusty road.
I am feeling more and more comfortable in front of the class at Kiwodea. Today we learned some English clothing words, reviewed body parts and colors in English, and read some stories. The kids are so sweet--at least, to the new mzungu teacher... not so much to each other, really. And they seem enthusiastic about what we're doing there. I guess it's not too difficult to impress a three-year-old. Their enthusiasm, plus the hugely helpful presence of my placement veteran volunteer partners, have made this week a little easier than last week. I think I was still adjusting to the differences and just the reality that I was going to be living in Africa for four weeks.
We are going to be doing some maintenance projects for Mama Nancy, using the money earned from the Dessert Night fundraiser. The plan is to hire an electrician to fix the lighting, TV and internet, and paint two classrooms--the leftover funds are going into an account for future microloan distribution! The classrooms will be used as a kind of special education "suite": one room for lessons, and another room for physical therapy for kids with disabilities. All part of Mama Nancy's bigger plan.
Many children here, if they have a physical or mental disability, tend to be ostracized. Or at least, set by the wayside. Many never go to school, and their parents hide them from the rest of society. Many are abandoned or dropped off at orphanages, like Mary at Neema. Mama Nancy wants to give these children a safe place to interact with other children, learn socialization skills and participate in other academic and extracurricular activities.
Mama also wants us to go with her when she interviews women who are applying for the loan money. The fact that she wants us to be that involved with the distribution processes of Kiwodea says a lot about Mama Nancy's trust in her volunteers.
I think Kiwodea was the perfect placement for me.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Monday, July 26.
11:30 a.m.
I am learning their names. And personalities.
Annette. "Big sister" to the littlest kids, to the point of bossy.
Gilbert. Limit-pusher but is SO pleased when you praise him for following directions. A little overwhelmed by this whole school thing.
Goodluck. 1 1/2-year old rabble rouser. SOOOOO cute.
Sislane. Clingy and easily jealous, but sweet.
Tony. Instigator. Tries to be so tough but still sucks his thumb.
Grace. Wide eyes, seems to be in perpetual wonder at the world around her. Forgets my name a lot, so calls me 'Mzungu.'
Jesska. Placid, easy going, and tolerant of the boys when they pick on her.
Jenifa. A tiny peanut of a thing, but such a little tornado!
Debora. Jenifa' sidekick, very giggly and likes to copy Teacher.
Andrew. The new kid. Quiet and observant. For now.
Ana. Absorbs lessons like a sponge... you can't teach her fast enough.
Only a handful. We have close to 30 kids in the class. I will get to know them, too.
I led a few lessons today--it was just Spencer and me, as Katie is in Zanzibar and Regina is still on safari in the Serengeti. We covered numbers, animals, body parts, and colors today. Not bad. Considering the teachers changed the schedule around on us this morning, moving English class up an hour to 9:00 and putting us completely on the spot. I saw no sign of the cane today until the very end, when we were leaving. I really hate it. I wonder if that was the reason for the schedule change. I very much hope not.
4:30 p.m.
I hate, hate, HATE my malaria pills. Took mine an hour before lunch today, ate lunch, and was revisited by lunch about 20 minutes later. I woke up about 15 minutes ago, after a delirious 3-hour nap, having missed Swahili lessons and a group trip into town. Shit.
Someone somewhere is drumming. At first I thought it was the radio from one of the kitchen staff, but the rhythmic beats are coming from over the banana trees across the street. Every once in awhile, the beat changes, or stops as if someone made a mistake. The house is quiet except for in the kitchen, where I hear the cooks chatting and pots clanging--dinner that more than likely I'll have to avoid, which makes me sad. I hope it's not chapati. I will be depressed if it is.
I think I'm also starting to feel the first bout of homesickness. When you're sick, you want to be surrounded by familiarity. Mama Lillian, Mama Fatuma and Baba Fulgence have done their best to make this "home" too, but laying here it's hard to forget the fact that I am 8,000 miles away from familiarity.
7:00 p.m.
Still feeling weird and bummed that I missed the afternoon's activities. The days are so full that missing a few hours feels like missing a few days. I'm not prepared to trade exploring Tanzania for a less-than-stellar get-to-know-you session with the innerworkings of my digestive tract. Blecch.
Ate some ugali for dinner and it's staying put. Thank goodness for bland maize flour paste.
Usiku mwema.
I am learning their names. And personalities.
Annette. "Big sister" to the littlest kids, to the point of bossy.
Gilbert. Limit-pusher but is SO pleased when you praise him for following directions. A little overwhelmed by this whole school thing.
Goodluck. 1 1/2-year old rabble rouser. SOOOOO cute.
Sislane. Clingy and easily jealous, but sweet.
Tony. Instigator. Tries to be so tough but still sucks his thumb.
Grace. Wide eyes, seems to be in perpetual wonder at the world around her. Forgets my name a lot, so calls me 'Mzungu.'
Jesska. Placid, easy going, and tolerant of the boys when they pick on her.
Jenifa. A tiny peanut of a thing, but such a little tornado!
Debora. Jenifa' sidekick, very giggly and likes to copy Teacher.
Andrew. The new kid. Quiet and observant. For now.
Ana. Absorbs lessons like a sponge... you can't teach her fast enough.
Only a handful. We have close to 30 kids in the class. I will get to know them, too.
I led a few lessons today--it was just Spencer and me, as Katie is in Zanzibar and Regina is still on safari in the Serengeti. We covered numbers, animals, body parts, and colors today. Not bad. Considering the teachers changed the schedule around on us this morning, moving English class up an hour to 9:00 and putting us completely on the spot. I saw no sign of the cane today until the very end, when we were leaving. I really hate it. I wonder if that was the reason for the schedule change. I very much hope not.
4:30 p.m.
I hate, hate, HATE my malaria pills. Took mine an hour before lunch today, ate lunch, and was revisited by lunch about 20 minutes later. I woke up about 15 minutes ago, after a delirious 3-hour nap, having missed Swahili lessons and a group trip into town. Shit.
Someone somewhere is drumming. At first I thought it was the radio from one of the kitchen staff, but the rhythmic beats are coming from over the banana trees across the street. Every once in awhile, the beat changes, or stops as if someone made a mistake. The house is quiet except for in the kitchen, where I hear the cooks chatting and pots clanging--dinner that more than likely I'll have to avoid, which makes me sad. I hope it's not chapati. I will be depressed if it is.
I think I'm also starting to feel the first bout of homesickness. When you're sick, you want to be surrounded by familiarity. Mama Lillian, Mama Fatuma and Baba Fulgence have done their best to make this "home" too, but laying here it's hard to forget the fact that I am 8,000 miles away from familiarity.
7:00 p.m.
Still feeling weird and bummed that I missed the afternoon's activities. The days are so full that missing a few hours feels like missing a few days. I'm not prepared to trade exploring Tanzania for a less-than-stellar get-to-know-you session with the innerworkings of my digestive tract. Blecch.
Ate some ugali for dinner and it's staying put. Thank goodness for bland maize flour paste.
Usiku mwema.
Sunday, July 25.
Tarangire National Park.
Elephant capital of the world.
I am obsessed with elephants. Their status as my favorite animal has now been cemented. Elephants are my favorite. Period. Fact.
There were SO MANY. We hadn't driven more than a few kilometers into the park when we were surrounded. Mothers and young, even some babies, and one huge bull who was--as Hussein put it--"looking for a ready and willing female." The ladies weren't having it. No elephant sex today.
They were incredibly tolerant of our presence, considering how close we were (and the fact that they had us surrounded). And they are so intelligent... they make eye contact with you and it really feels like they are watching you back. They know you are there, and are gauging your every move. They make decisions, and have an intricate system of communication with each other. I was awed by them.
Other animals we saw at Tarangire:
-Impalas (lots of 'em)
-Lions
-Zebras (lots of 'em)
-Giraffes (Maasai giraffes, to be specific)
-Dik-diks (fun to say, and now a running joke)
-Waterbucks
-Maribou storks
-Vultures
-Warthogs
-Baboons
-Mongooses (mongeese?)
-Wildebeest
-Cape buffalo (lots of angry ones)
-Vervet monkeys (the blue-balled ones)
-Jackals
This has truly been an eye-opening experience. Our group bonded this weekend, and we saw some amazing things that few people we know have ever seen. Wait for the pictures!
Elephant capital of the world.
I am obsessed with elephants. Their status as my favorite animal has now been cemented. Elephants are my favorite. Period. Fact.
There were SO MANY. We hadn't driven more than a few kilometers into the park when we were surrounded. Mothers and young, even some babies, and one huge bull who was--as Hussein put it--"looking for a ready and willing female." The ladies weren't having it. No elephant sex today.
They were incredibly tolerant of our presence, considering how close we were (and the fact that they had us surrounded). And they are so intelligent... they make eye contact with you and it really feels like they are watching you back. They know you are there, and are gauging your every move. They make decisions, and have an intricate system of communication with each other. I was awed by them.
Other animals we saw at Tarangire:
-Impalas (lots of 'em)
-Lions
-Zebras (lots of 'em)
-Giraffes (Maasai giraffes, to be specific)
-Dik-diks (fun to say, and now a running joke)
-Waterbucks
-Maribou storks
-Vultures
-Warthogs
-Baboons
-Mongooses (mongeese?)
-Wildebeest
-Cape buffalo (lots of angry ones)
-Vervet monkeys (the blue-balled ones)
-Jackals
This has truly been an eye-opening experience. Our group bonded this weekend, and we saw some amazing things that few people we know have ever seen. Wait for the pictures!
Saturday, July 24.
Ngorongoro Crater.
There are hardly words. "Surreal" is one I've used a lot today. "Awesome" is another.
List of animals I've never seen in the wild until today:
-Baboons
-Zebras
-Wildebeest
-Lions (a group of young males, and a pride with cubs!)
-Bull elephants
-Gray crown cranes
-Yellow-billed storks
-A lone cheetah (from a distance)
-Hippos
-African buffalo
-Jackals
-Hyenas
-Thompson's gazelle
-Grant's gazelle
-Kori bustard birds (the guides' accents had us thinking they were called "bastards," not bustards. Oops.)
-Warthogs
-Ostriches (male and female)
-Flamingos
-Vultures
-Monkeys (with bright blue testicles)
I really can't do any of it justice here. Except to say that our driver, Godfrey, isn't a maniac like I thought--but is, in fact, awesome. We'd see an animal from afar, and screech, "Lion!" or "Hippo!" (or sometimes just "Ooooh!") and he'd somehow magically get us 30 feet from the thing.
Our guides know their shit. I suppose this was probably their 7,514th visit to Ngorongoro, so they would. It's pretty amazing that this ecologically concentrated and diverse slice of African savanna exists at the bottom of a crater that's 22 kilometers across, and boasts a thick and luscious mountain rainforest on the outer slopes. On our way out of the crater, I noticed the road we were driving on was bordered by about 3 meters of land on either side that dropped away sharply: Ngorongoro on the left, and rainforest valley on the right... both THOUSANDS of feet down. That's when I realized we were driving on the crater's rim--and it was a handful of meters across.
I don't get dizzy from heights often, but... yeesh.
A spectacular day.
There are hardly words. "Surreal" is one I've used a lot today. "Awesome" is another.
List of animals I've never seen in the wild until today:
-Baboons
-Zebras
-Wildebeest
-Lions (a group of young males, and a pride with cubs!)
-Bull elephants
-Gray crown cranes
-Yellow-billed storks
-A lone cheetah (from a distance)
-Hippos
-African buffalo
-Jackals
-Hyenas
-Thompson's gazelle
-Grant's gazelle
-Kori bustard birds (the guides' accents had us thinking they were called "bastards," not bustards. Oops.)
-Warthogs
-Ostriches (male and female)
-Flamingos
-Vultures
-Monkeys (with bright blue testicles)
I really can't do any of it justice here. Except to say that our driver, Godfrey, isn't a maniac like I thought--but is, in fact, awesome. We'd see an animal from afar, and screech, "Lion!" or "Hippo!" (or sometimes just "Ooooh!") and he'd somehow magically get us 30 feet from the thing.
Our guides know their shit. I suppose this was probably their 7,514th visit to Ngorongoro, so they would. It's pretty amazing that this ecologically concentrated and diverse slice of African savanna exists at the bottom of a crater that's 22 kilometers across, and boasts a thick and luscious mountain rainforest on the outer slopes. On our way out of the crater, I noticed the road we were driving on was bordered by about 3 meters of land on either side that dropped away sharply: Ngorongoro on the left, and rainforest valley on the right... both THOUSANDS of feet down. That's when I realized we were driving on the crater's rim--and it was a handful of meters across.
I don't get dizzy from heights often, but... yeesh.
A spectacular day.
Friday, July 23.
11:00 p.m.
I write this from a tent in the highlands of the Rift Valley. Something howls mournfully in the night. I am on safari.
Okay, so the tents have mattresses in them. And we have hot showers and actual toilets (not just holes in the ground... I've run into a few squat pots already, and they take some getting used to). But tomorrow I will wake up, unzip my door flap and step into savanna as far as the eye can see. It's very, very cool.
Our driver, Godfrey, and our guide, Hussein, took us to a Maasai village west of Arusha. Side note: Godfrey drives like a maniac. Careening in and out of traffic-jam situations in the people- and- dust-clogged arteries of Arusha, I swear someone was going to meet his or her brutal end at the front bumper of our Range Rover. When traffic opened up, it was 120 kilometers per hour, dodging dala-dalas and herds of cattle. I will never drive a car on Tanzanian roads, especially knowing Godfrey is out there too.
Back to the village. We were greeted with a dance of thanks and welcoming. The women pulled us into their circle, and I learned a few Maasai song lyrics. They put the traditional broad, beaded Maasai necklace bands around our necks... I learned later that they are worn by women who have been circumcised (eeeeesh...). But in the moment, I was holding hands and singing with people who have lived in the same place, in the same way, since nearly the dawn of humanity. The children ran over to shake hands, very serious during the gesture, but then the cameras came out and they were instantly silly, like all kids are in front of cameras.
Maasai women are competitive, shrewd saleswomen. And aggressive. They could take on any stockbroker in the U.S. when it comes to closing the deal. I now wear a necklace and a bracelet made from a Maasai woman's hands. I owed her for teaching me how to sing and dance Maasai-style--her gestures and smiles made that very obvious. Walking past tables and tables full of beaded jewelry, you'd suddenly find your arms grasped and bracelets slipped on, or arms firmly attaching a cow-bone necklace around your neck. I now know exactly what might be going through the mind of a deer standing in the path of a pair of blinding headlights. None of the Maasai women speak English or Kiswahili, and so it was stressful having to rely on the men to translate. I was a little disappointed that this set the tone for the end of our otherwise incredible visit.
When we managed to extricate ourselves from their selling war, the sun was setting. In the middle of absolutely nowhere, the stars are close enough to touch. The kids, covered in dust from head to toe, looked like ghosts in the light of the camera flash. A flock of birds took off overhead, disturbed by something lurking in the growing darkness.
Tonight, I realized how much Africa has already slipped under my skin.
It is late, and tomorrow we go to the Ngorongoro Crater. Lions and rhinos and elephants, oh my!
I write this from a tent in the highlands of the Rift Valley. Something howls mournfully in the night. I am on safari.
Okay, so the tents have mattresses in them. And we have hot showers and actual toilets (not just holes in the ground... I've run into a few squat pots already, and they take some getting used to). But tomorrow I will wake up, unzip my door flap and step into savanna as far as the eye can see. It's very, very cool.
Our driver, Godfrey, and our guide, Hussein, took us to a Maasai village west of Arusha. Side note: Godfrey drives like a maniac. Careening in and out of traffic-jam situations in the people- and- dust-clogged arteries of Arusha, I swear someone was going to meet his or her brutal end at the front bumper of our Range Rover. When traffic opened up, it was 120 kilometers per hour, dodging dala-dalas and herds of cattle. I will never drive a car on Tanzanian roads, especially knowing Godfrey is out there too.
Back to the village. We were greeted with a dance of thanks and welcoming. The women pulled us into their circle, and I learned a few Maasai song lyrics. They put the traditional broad, beaded Maasai necklace bands around our necks... I learned later that they are worn by women who have been circumcised (eeeeesh...). But in the moment, I was holding hands and singing with people who have lived in the same place, in the same way, since nearly the dawn of humanity. The children ran over to shake hands, very serious during the gesture, but then the cameras came out and they were instantly silly, like all kids are in front of cameras.
Maasai women are competitive, shrewd saleswomen. And aggressive. They could take on any stockbroker in the U.S. when it comes to closing the deal. I now wear a necklace and a bracelet made from a Maasai woman's hands. I owed her for teaching me how to sing and dance Maasai-style--her gestures and smiles made that very obvious. Walking past tables and tables full of beaded jewelry, you'd suddenly find your arms grasped and bracelets slipped on, or arms firmly attaching a cow-bone necklace around your neck. I now know exactly what might be going through the mind of a deer standing in the path of a pair of blinding headlights. None of the Maasai women speak English or Kiswahili, and so it was stressful having to rely on the men to translate. I was a little disappointed that this set the tone for the end of our otherwise incredible visit.
When we managed to extricate ourselves from their selling war, the sun was setting. In the middle of absolutely nowhere, the stars are close enough to touch. The kids, covered in dust from head to toe, looked like ghosts in the light of the camera flash. A flock of birds took off overhead, disturbed by something lurking in the growing darkness.
Tonight, I realized how much Africa has already slipped under my skin.
It is late, and tomorrow we go to the Ngorongoro Crater. Lions and rhinos and elephants, oh my!
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Thursday, July 22
12:35 p.m.
Corporal punishment in school is still an issue here.
This morning we walked into the schoolyard to see a long line of 4-year-olds single file in front of Teacher Joyce, who was holding a cane. One by one, they tentatively approached her with little hands outstretched. One by one, they cringed as she inspected the cleanliness of their fingernails. The unlucky children who may have stopped to play with who-knows-dirty-what on the way to school received one sharp slap on their palm with the stick.
It happened again inside, after the morning readings. From what I can tell, Teacher Joyce took aside the children who either didn't pay attention or participate. And caned them. If they took the hit "bravely" on the hand, that was that. If they cowered, Joyce targeted their legs and ankles. One little girl, Ana--the last to be hit--cringed and cried and begged. I saw her do nothing wrong. It was horrible to watch. But I could only watch. I understand the cultural differences, I understand I've only been on site 4 days... BUT little kids are little kids, and these kids are WAY too little to be able to sit through a reading of Leviticus without fidgeting. Not sure if--or how--I should address this. But, hitting children? Honestly?
The kids are pushing limits with me, and I'm nervous. Up until today, I've been an observer. Tomorrow I start teaching. I REFUSE to hold a cane.
6:30 p.m.
This afternoon, we visited the Neema Orphanage in the Kilimanjaro foothills. This evening, my heart is breaking.
The drive took us over steep, winding roads cutting through forests of banana trees. In the higher areas, mist clings to the bases of tree trunks, even in the midafternoon. Farmers with machetes cut bunches of green and red bananas, loading them into wooden handcarts. We turned off onto a precariously narrow side road, foliage on either side, and emerged in front of a row of stucco and concrete buildings, tucked into the hillside like a row of blocks. The grounds were beautiful and well kept. The buildings housed different age groups of children.
I started my visit in the infant house, and couldn't bring myself to leave.
All they want, all they crave, is to be held, hugged, kissed, loved. One little boy fell asleep in my arms, and stayed there the entire time. Safe haven. Also living in the infant house is a 7-year-old girl named Mary, who was dropped off at the orphanage a few weeks ago by her parents. Mary has cerebral palsy, and has never walked, can't talk, but reacts to stimuli. With no wheelchair or other supportive seating, Mary was lying face-up on the floor. Who knows how long she's lived her life that way. Julia (one of our group members), an occupational therapist, spent time with her--massaging stiff muscles that have probably never been massaged, and held her in a sitting, and then a standing, and then a WALKING, position for what might have been the first time Mary's view of the world had significantly changed.
My heart hurts.
Corporal punishment in school is still an issue here.
This morning we walked into the schoolyard to see a long line of 4-year-olds single file in front of Teacher Joyce, who was holding a cane. One by one, they tentatively approached her with little hands outstretched. One by one, they cringed as she inspected the cleanliness of their fingernails. The unlucky children who may have stopped to play with who-knows-dirty-what on the way to school received one sharp slap on their palm with the stick.
It happened again inside, after the morning readings. From what I can tell, Teacher Joyce took aside the children who either didn't pay attention or participate. And caned them. If they took the hit "bravely" on the hand, that was that. If they cowered, Joyce targeted their legs and ankles. One little girl, Ana--the last to be hit--cringed and cried and begged. I saw her do nothing wrong. It was horrible to watch. But I could only watch. I understand the cultural differences, I understand I've only been on site 4 days... BUT little kids are little kids, and these kids are WAY too little to be able to sit through a reading of Leviticus without fidgeting. Not sure if--or how--I should address this. But, hitting children? Honestly?
The kids are pushing limits with me, and I'm nervous. Up until today, I've been an observer. Tomorrow I start teaching. I REFUSE to hold a cane.
6:30 p.m.
This afternoon, we visited the Neema Orphanage in the Kilimanjaro foothills. This evening, my heart is breaking.
The drive took us over steep, winding roads cutting through forests of banana trees. In the higher areas, mist clings to the bases of tree trunks, even in the midafternoon. Farmers with machetes cut bunches of green and red bananas, loading them into wooden handcarts. We turned off onto a precariously narrow side road, foliage on either side, and emerged in front of a row of stucco and concrete buildings, tucked into the hillside like a row of blocks. The grounds were beautiful and well kept. The buildings housed different age groups of children.
I started my visit in the infant house, and couldn't bring myself to leave.
All they want, all they crave, is to be held, hugged, kissed, loved. One little boy fell asleep in my arms, and stayed there the entire time. Safe haven. Also living in the infant house is a 7-year-old girl named Mary, who was dropped off at the orphanage a few weeks ago by her parents. Mary has cerebral palsy, and has never walked, can't talk, but reacts to stimuli. With no wheelchair or other supportive seating, Mary was lying face-up on the floor. Who knows how long she's lived her life that way. Julia (one of our group members), an occupational therapist, spent time with her--massaging stiff muscles that have probably never been massaged, and held her in a sitting, and then a standing, and then a WALKING, position for what might have been the first time Mary's view of the world had significantly changed.
My heart hurts.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Wednesday, July 21
5:30 p.m.
I am sitting on the second-story veranda, gazing north. Mt. Kilimanjaro is showing a little of herself today: the summit is just barely visible above the cloud layer, almost indistinguishable. Not like yesterday. She was in full glory, and quite honestly, I had to remind myself to breathe. Got some amazing pictures. I may look into a day hike on Kili, just to say I climbed the Roof of Africa, at least part of the way. Right now, the sun is setting. Some of the girls are playing soccer in the road with the neighborhood kids. Their laughter echoes over the hedge; their great time is obvious. I want to join them, but I have to get this down first.
Today we went to visit a woman named Valeria Mruma, the founder and executive director of WEECE (Women's Education and Economic Center), just outside of Moshi. She started the organization from nothing but a desire to see changes in Tanzanian culture with regards to the treatment of women. Looking around the clean and freshly-painted complex, with a staff of seven and a well-established and self-sustaining microloan system, I see everything that Mama Nancy wants to achieve for Kiwodea. I am also encouraged--WEECE's successes are the result of long years and very hard work. Mama Mruma was able to develop a project plan and attract overseas funding sources. Her loan program is more sustainable, as members each contribute small amounts into a general fund, which (over time) turns into a larger loan-sized net amount. She also focuses on skill development and education. I wonder of Mama Nancy would be open to considering some of these ideas for Kiwodea.
Mama Valeria greeted each of us with a tight bear hug to end all hugs. She is a large, robust woman who is quick to laugh and make others laugh. We spent some time talking about her organization and the dire need that exists in Tanzania to provide education to--and recognize the rights of--women, especially those living in poorer, rural areas of the country. Right now, these women are marginalized by the patriarchal hierarchy in place, and there have been limited efforts by the Tanzanian government to effectively address the issue: very obviously seen in a lack of government-funded/sanctioned women's programs or shelters, and no action taken to amend weak laws regarding spousal abuse.
And so, people like Valeria Mruma and Nancy Tesha step up, get creative, and make valuable resource centers for women out of four walls and a roof.
11:00 p.m.
Tonight was the Kiwodea Dessert Night fundraiser, a project that Katie, Spencer and Regina have been working on for the past week, and that I walked into a few days before its culmination. Held at Mama Nancy's house, we baked cupcakes, chocolate cakes and fudge brownies and invited CCS volunteers from both the Karanga and Moshi houses. Over 30 people came! Our Western sweet tooths and the draw of authentic "sweet dessert"--very rare in Tanzania--must have had too big a pull to resist. We also had local wine (made by the women members of Kiwodea) and a special "punch" made from mango juice, Mama Nancy's home-brewed banana wine, and a Tanzanian specialty gin called Konyagi. Yowzah.
All in all, a raging success. The women set up a mini "store" with items for sale from the Kiwodea store, and the night's proceeds netted over 400,000 Tsh! Enough to fix some electrical problems at the center, paint two classrooms, and keep some money in the bank for future microloans (something that hasn't happened in a few years). Success tastes sweet.
I am sitting on the second-story veranda, gazing north. Mt. Kilimanjaro is showing a little of herself today: the summit is just barely visible above the cloud layer, almost indistinguishable. Not like yesterday. She was in full glory, and quite honestly, I had to remind myself to breathe. Got some amazing pictures. I may look into a day hike on Kili, just to say I climbed the Roof of Africa, at least part of the way. Right now, the sun is setting. Some of the girls are playing soccer in the road with the neighborhood kids. Their laughter echoes over the hedge; their great time is obvious. I want to join them, but I have to get this down first.
Today we went to visit a woman named Valeria Mruma, the founder and executive director of WEECE (Women's Education and Economic Center), just outside of Moshi. She started the organization from nothing but a desire to see changes in Tanzanian culture with regards to the treatment of women. Looking around the clean and freshly-painted complex, with a staff of seven and a well-established and self-sustaining microloan system, I see everything that Mama Nancy wants to achieve for Kiwodea. I am also encouraged--WEECE's successes are the result of long years and very hard work. Mama Mruma was able to develop a project plan and attract overseas funding sources. Her loan program is more sustainable, as members each contribute small amounts into a general fund, which (over time) turns into a larger loan-sized net amount. She also focuses on skill development and education. I wonder of Mama Nancy would be open to considering some of these ideas for Kiwodea.
Mama Valeria greeted each of us with a tight bear hug to end all hugs. She is a large, robust woman who is quick to laugh and make others laugh. We spent some time talking about her organization and the dire need that exists in Tanzania to provide education to--and recognize the rights of--women, especially those living in poorer, rural areas of the country. Right now, these women are marginalized by the patriarchal hierarchy in place, and there have been limited efforts by the Tanzanian government to effectively address the issue: very obviously seen in a lack of government-funded/sanctioned women's programs or shelters, and no action taken to amend weak laws regarding spousal abuse.
And so, people like Valeria Mruma and Nancy Tesha step up, get creative, and make valuable resource centers for women out of four walls and a roof.
11:00 p.m.
Tonight was the Kiwodea Dessert Night fundraiser, a project that Katie, Spencer and Regina have been working on for the past week, and that I walked into a few days before its culmination. Held at Mama Nancy's house, we baked cupcakes, chocolate cakes and fudge brownies and invited CCS volunteers from both the Karanga and Moshi houses. Over 30 people came! Our Western sweet tooths and the draw of authentic "sweet dessert"--very rare in Tanzania--must have had too big a pull to resist. We also had local wine (made by the women members of Kiwodea) and a special "punch" made from mango juice, Mama Nancy's home-brewed banana wine, and a Tanzanian specialty gin called Konyagi. Yowzah.
All in all, a raging success. The women set up a mini "store" with items for sale from the Kiwodea store, and the night's proceeds netted over 400,000 Tsh! Enough to fix some electrical problems at the center, paint two classrooms, and keep some money in the bank for future microloans (something that hasn't happened in a few years). Success tastes sweet.
Tuesday, July 20
6:30 a.m.
This morning is gray and damp, but my stomach is calm. 11 hours of sleep cures anything. I heard the Muslim call to prayer from a distant mosque at 5:00 a.m. It is normal, in Tanzania, to have Christians and Muslims living together, marrying each other, and worshipping next door to each other--and there seems to be no conflict. But that is the essence of the Tanzanian perspective: to welcome you, whoever you are, no matter where you're from or what you believe. Refreshing.
This morning, I go to my placement for the first time. Kiwodea is within walking distance, so I will walk over with Katie, Spencer and Regina (the CCS veterans who are also placed at Kiwodea). There is only anticipation in my stomach now.
1:30 p.m.
What a day...
Walking to my placement was its own brand of adventure. I hadn't walked 50 feet in my black flats when I decided this was the first and last day I'd wear those shoes on African roads. Along the way, calls of "Mzungu! Mzungu!" were interlaced with "Teacher! Teacher!" In Tanzania, all white women in skirts are 'Teacher.'
Kiwodea is a long, low structure in the middle of a fenced-in complex, about 30 minutes' walk along the highway from CCS Karanga. Tin roofs, open-air windows and doorways, crumbling plaster over cinderblock walls, and limited plumbing. Using the staff toilet was an adventure involving squatting and filling a bucket with water for the flush. Limitations, but there is a woman here with a dream of so much more.
Mama Nancy Tesha started Kiwodea with the desire to reach out to the vulnerable families living around her, and help them achieve economic self-reliance. Originally receiving nearly 3 million Tanzanian shillings from the government to provide micro-loans to women entrepreneurs, Mama Nancy's project seemed at first to be a resounding success. But time passed, and the loans weren't paid back (partly because of the extreme difficulty for people in making enough money to replace the large loan amounts, and mostly because of Mama's kind soul)... and now there are no money reserves left. Mama also lost her husband in February and has no personal income to contribute to speak of, although she continues to donate what she can.
I need to paint a picture of my first day, if I can. I desperately don't want to forget it. Walking up to the schoolroom doorway: twenty little faces, cries of "Teachah! Teachah! Jambo Teachah! Shikamoo!" Instantly I had four little hands wrestling to hold each of mine. My stranger's face was the news, the exciting topic of the morning. Around 30 students, and the oldest is probably 5 years old. I think we might have some two-year-olds. They are all adorable in their maroon-and-white checked uniforms, many with close-shaven haircuts, and tiny voices echoing in the tiny schoolroom. With two teachers and three other volunteers from CCS (with me, four total), we are only just able to control this group. For a school built on severely limited resources, it has touches of playfulness in otherwise less-than-ideal surroundings: a bright mural of Kilimanjaro painted on one wall, playground equipment in the dusty yard, posters of the alphabet and colors and numbers, the beginnings of a library, with large polka-dots painted in primary colors on the walls and an as-yet sparse collection of children's books.
Simple and modest, but so much potential. Mama Nancy, with the right set of financial resources, expertise, and time, will be able to do great things with Kiwodea. And if I am a small part of her vision, I will do the very best I can here.
8:00 p.m.
A word about the food.
Tanzanian cooking has joined up with Ethiopian and Somali cooking to form the East African Trifecta on Jen's Favorite Cuisines List. Everything I've eaten so far has: a) been tasty, and b) stayed where it should. Bananas are incorporated into almost every dish, as the Kilimanjaro region is known for banana farming (over 100 species of nanners!). There are also known for their coffee here (...aaaaaaand Jen's in heaven).
So far, my favorites are banana stew (yes, you can make a hearty and delicious stew from nanners!), chapati (a flatbread served with different types of sauces), and the Tanzanian diet staple, ugali (a pasty conglomeration of water and ground corn or wheat flour, with the consistency of heavily starchy mashed potatoes, and served with soup or sauces--usually made with meat or lentils).
Oh, and there are avocado salads aplenty, being that the source is growing in our backyard. :-)
This morning is gray and damp, but my stomach is calm. 11 hours of sleep cures anything. I heard the Muslim call to prayer from a distant mosque at 5:00 a.m. It is normal, in Tanzania, to have Christians and Muslims living together, marrying each other, and worshipping next door to each other--and there seems to be no conflict. But that is the essence of the Tanzanian perspective: to welcome you, whoever you are, no matter where you're from or what you believe. Refreshing.
This morning, I go to my placement for the first time. Kiwodea is within walking distance, so I will walk over with Katie, Spencer and Regina (the CCS veterans who are also placed at Kiwodea). There is only anticipation in my stomach now.
1:30 p.m.
What a day...
Walking to my placement was its own brand of adventure. I hadn't walked 50 feet in my black flats when I decided this was the first and last day I'd wear those shoes on African roads. Along the way, calls of "Mzungu! Mzungu!" were interlaced with "Teacher! Teacher!" In Tanzania, all white women in skirts are 'Teacher.'
Kiwodea is a long, low structure in the middle of a fenced-in complex, about 30 minutes' walk along the highway from CCS Karanga. Tin roofs, open-air windows and doorways, crumbling plaster over cinderblock walls, and limited plumbing. Using the staff toilet was an adventure involving squatting and filling a bucket with water for the flush. Limitations, but there is a woman here with a dream of so much more.
Mama Nancy Tesha started Kiwodea with the desire to reach out to the vulnerable families living around her, and help them achieve economic self-reliance. Originally receiving nearly 3 million Tanzanian shillings from the government to provide micro-loans to women entrepreneurs, Mama Nancy's project seemed at first to be a resounding success. But time passed, and the loans weren't paid back (partly because of the extreme difficulty for people in making enough money to replace the large loan amounts, and mostly because of Mama's kind soul)... and now there are no money reserves left. Mama also lost her husband in February and has no personal income to contribute to speak of, although she continues to donate what she can.
I need to paint a picture of my first day, if I can. I desperately don't want to forget it. Walking up to the schoolroom doorway: twenty little faces, cries of "Teachah! Teachah! Jambo Teachah! Shikamoo!" Instantly I had four little hands wrestling to hold each of mine. My stranger's face was the news, the exciting topic of the morning. Around 30 students, and the oldest is probably 5 years old. I think we might have some two-year-olds. They are all adorable in their maroon-and-white checked uniforms, many with close-shaven haircuts, and tiny voices echoing in the tiny schoolroom. With two teachers and three other volunteers from CCS (with me, four total), we are only just able to control this group. For a school built on severely limited resources, it has touches of playfulness in otherwise less-than-ideal surroundings: a bright mural of Kilimanjaro painted on one wall, playground equipment in the dusty yard, posters of the alphabet and colors and numbers, the beginnings of a library, with large polka-dots painted in primary colors on the walls and an as-yet sparse collection of children's books.
Simple and modest, but so much potential. Mama Nancy, with the right set of financial resources, expertise, and time, will be able to do great things with Kiwodea. And if I am a small part of her vision, I will do the very best I can here.
8:00 p.m.
A word about the food.
Tanzanian cooking has joined up with Ethiopian and Somali cooking to form the East African Trifecta on Jen's Favorite Cuisines List. Everything I've eaten so far has: a) been tasty, and b) stayed where it should. Bananas are incorporated into almost every dish, as the Kilimanjaro region is known for banana farming (over 100 species of nanners!). There are also known for their coffee here (...aaaaaaand Jen's in heaven).
So far, my favorites are banana stew (yes, you can make a hearty and delicious stew from nanners!), chapati (a flatbread served with different types of sauces), and the Tanzanian diet staple, ugali (a pasty conglomeration of water and ground corn or wheat flour, with the consistency of heavily starchy mashed potatoes, and served with soup or sauces--usually made with meat or lentils).
Oh, and there are avocado salads aplenty, being that the source is growing in our backyard. :-)
Monday, July 19.
4:30 p.m.
Day Two of orientation: culture sharing with Baba Fulgence and Mama Fatuma. Basically, the mzungu (visitors, a.k.a. white people) were taught the basics of Tanzanian greetings, practices, taboos, and customs. Tanzania 101. We learned how to translate "Mzungu Time" (punctuality) into "Tanzanian Flexible Time" (how many hours after the sun has risen + whenever you get there because meh, there's no hurry). There is a laid-back casualness to appointment-making here that I wish we could adopt back in the States. I would LOVE to show up for a 9:00 a.m. meeting at 11:00 or noon, and have it be perfectly acceptable.
We were also given words of wisdom to take with us to our placements, where we start work tomorrow (example: unexpected circumstances? "Don't cry." Thanks, Baba F.), and our first Kiswahili lesson.
Baba Fulgence is quickly becoming one of my absolute favorite people. He calls all of the new young women "My Daughter", and you completely feel as though he could be the father of a village or an entire city. He is patient and hilarious and so, so kind.
We met with out placement partners after lunch. I met Sophia, the matron of Kiwodea, and Sarena, who teaches computer classes there. Tomorrow, I will meet Mama Nancy Tesha, the founder and executive director of the center.
Some of us also took a trip into Moshi Town. Walking through the dusty maze of streets and lanes, besieged by vendors selling bracelets and necklaces and banana-fiber collages and whatever else, weaving through the throng of pedestrians and chickens and avoiding the swerving motorbike drivers, passing a woman carrying a tray full of banana bunches on her head (with no hands) that had to weigh at least 40 pounds, hearing the unmistakable lyrics of Jay-Z coming from an open storefront, hearing "Mambo! Habari?" from everywhere and proudly saying "Poa, nzuri, asante" in response--snapshots of a full and busy hour.
On the road home, children in school uniforms would reach out to touch our elbows through the open van windows. Their grins are contagious.
7:30 p.m.
Digestive tract is rebelling. Being on the top bunk sucks. Crabby and going to sleep... tomorrow is my first day at Kiwodea, so this stomach thing better settle down ASAP.
Day Two of orientation: culture sharing with Baba Fulgence and Mama Fatuma. Basically, the mzungu (visitors, a.k.a. white people) were taught the basics of Tanzanian greetings, practices, taboos, and customs. Tanzania 101. We learned how to translate "Mzungu Time" (punctuality) into "Tanzanian Flexible Time" (how many hours after the sun has risen + whenever you get there because meh, there's no hurry). There is a laid-back casualness to appointment-making here that I wish we could adopt back in the States. I would LOVE to show up for a 9:00 a.m. meeting at 11:00 or noon, and have it be perfectly acceptable.
We were also given words of wisdom to take with us to our placements, where we start work tomorrow (example: unexpected circumstances? "Don't cry." Thanks, Baba F.), and our first Kiswahili lesson.
Baba Fulgence is quickly becoming one of my absolute favorite people. He calls all of the new young women "My Daughter", and you completely feel as though he could be the father of a village or an entire city. He is patient and hilarious and so, so kind.
We met with out placement partners after lunch. I met Sophia, the matron of Kiwodea, and Sarena, who teaches computer classes there. Tomorrow, I will meet Mama Nancy Tesha, the founder and executive director of the center.
Some of us also took a trip into Moshi Town. Walking through the dusty maze of streets and lanes, besieged by vendors selling bracelets and necklaces and banana-fiber collages and whatever else, weaving through the throng of pedestrians and chickens and avoiding the swerving motorbike drivers, passing a woman carrying a tray full of banana bunches on her head (with no hands) that had to weigh at least 40 pounds, hearing the unmistakable lyrics of Jay-Z coming from an open storefront, hearing "Mambo! Habari?" from everywhere and proudly saying "Poa, nzuri, asante" in response--snapshots of a full and busy hour.
On the road home, children in school uniforms would reach out to touch our elbows through the open van windows. Their grins are contagious.
7:30 p.m.
Digestive tract is rebelling. Being on the top bunk sucks. Crabby and going to sleep... tomorrow is my first day at Kiwodea, so this stomach thing better settle down ASAP.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Sunday, July 18.
This morning I woke up under my mosquito netting and remembered I am in Africa.
Please pinch me.
The neighbor's rooster was making a racket a half-hour before my alarm went off. All the other roosters from within a half-mile radius--and from the sound of it, there are A LOT of them--joined in. It was raining lightly, and I could almost taste the damp soil essence wafting up to my window. All of it--the sounds, colors, the feel of the air on my skin--is very different. I don't yet have the words to explain or describe it. I hope I will eventually.
Arriving in Kilimanjaro was rather anticlimactic. I saw nothing but a smatter of lights that Papa Pavel said was Arusha, Tanzania's third-largest city and an hour's drive from Moshi. A young man with a Cross-Cultural Solutions sign met me and Rachel, another CCS-Karanga volunteer, at the arrivals gate. Daniel was entertaining and welcoming, and kept making us laugh ("Jenifa, welcome, hellooooo...") which was good because it was distracting our attention from the crazy drivers. Apparently it is common practice to drive with your brights on at night, and flash them at oncoming cars in greeting (Daniel: "It's like we say 'Jambo' with our cars"). Apparently it is also practice to drive on whatever part of the road you feel like, although Tanzanians usually drive on the British side of the road. In any case, it was too dark to see much, and I was exhausted. Almost too exhausted to feel much of the washboard dirt road we turned onto to drive through Karanga village.
We were met at the door by Mary the housekeeper, Mama Lillian and Baba Fulgence. Mama Lillian is the Karanga program director, and--as she puts it--"a new mother to you all." Baba Fulgence is like your favorite grandfather. You know, the one who magically pulled coins from behind your ear and sang songs with you when you were a kid. After a glass of mango juice and an animated discussion about John Cena (WWE was on the TV when we arrived), Rachel and I were sent off to our beds, feeling extremely grateful and welcomed. And absolutely exhausted.
This morning, I stood on the second-floor veranda and noticed avocados swinging from branches not 5 feet from my face. We have an avocado tree! And the avocados are as large as my open hand.
Much too overcast to see Mt. Kilimanjaro. Apparently we can catch glimpses of her, on very clear days, through my bedroom window in the early morning.
After breakfast, our new group met for orientation and paperwork. During which we discussed in great detail the CCS policy banning sexual fraternization. I've known Mama Lillian for all of 12 hours, and I've already gotten the Sex Talk from her. Such a mother!
Besides me, there are 5 others just starting out, all women. We're very diverse in our life and work experiences, but have bonded already (I think) just from embarking on this adventure at the same time.
We received more information today about our placements, and I received something of a surprise: my placement changed. I will now be volunteering at Kiwodea, a women's empowerment center and nursery school that is within walking distance of Karanga. This is INCREDIBLY exciting, as I will get to work with women in the community on economic sustainability issues and business creation. And will get to play with kids. I will find out much more tomorrow, when our site supervisors come to the Karanga house to share lunch.
After orientation, we went on a driving tour of Moshi Town. It was very fast and thus hard to see much of it, but we drove through the main market street where women in brightly patterned kangas (wrap skirts) were selling fruit and vegetables and shoes and belt buckles and anything else you could imagine. Most of it was a blur, and I am looking forward to going back to explore on foot, with my camera.
Home base is beautiful. Karanga, in all its simplicity, is beautiful. To get to and from home, we journey about half a mile over a dirt-packed washboard road that is determined to eat the axles off the van. It is a brain- and- backside-numbing experience, that half-mile. Greeting us by the CCS gate is Brenda, the 3-year-old neighbor who fearlessly plants herself in the dirt in front of us, usually with a stick or an item she stole from another kid.
There are numerous quirks, living in a house in an African village, that I think are entirely unique to this experience. At night, you can hear bush babies jabbering to each other in the trees--they sound like small children laughing. During the day, right around lunchtime, the neighbor's goat starts yelling--he sounds like an old man with a hernia and a bad case of indigestion. When it's windy, the coconuts fall from the palm trees onto the tin roof of the dining area and scare the living daylights out of all of us. The laundry room is our backyard, and my "washing machine" is a hose, a bucket and my two hands. There are birds and bugs and other flying things I have no hope of every identifying. And there is a fine red dust that clings to EVERYTHING--leaves, tree trunks, walls, feet, goats... everything.
It is all still very dreamlike--I'm having some difficulty yet connecting to the realities of this place, and that I am really here. Yet, at the same time, it feels like I always have been here, or was supposed to be. Odd.
Please pinch me.
The neighbor's rooster was making a racket a half-hour before my alarm went off. All the other roosters from within a half-mile radius--and from the sound of it, there are A LOT of them--joined in. It was raining lightly, and I could almost taste the damp soil essence wafting up to my window. All of it--the sounds, colors, the feel of the air on my skin--is very different. I don't yet have the words to explain or describe it. I hope I will eventually.
Arriving in Kilimanjaro was rather anticlimactic. I saw nothing but a smatter of lights that Papa Pavel said was Arusha, Tanzania's third-largest city and an hour's drive from Moshi. A young man with a Cross-Cultural Solutions sign met me and Rachel, another CCS-Karanga volunteer, at the arrivals gate. Daniel was entertaining and welcoming, and kept making us laugh ("Jenifa, welcome, hellooooo...") which was good because it was distracting our attention from the crazy drivers. Apparently it is common practice to drive with your brights on at night, and flash them at oncoming cars in greeting (Daniel: "It's like we say 'Jambo' with our cars"). Apparently it is also practice to drive on whatever part of the road you feel like, although Tanzanians usually drive on the British side of the road. In any case, it was too dark to see much, and I was exhausted. Almost too exhausted to feel much of the washboard dirt road we turned onto to drive through Karanga village.
We were met at the door by Mary the housekeeper, Mama Lillian and Baba Fulgence. Mama Lillian is the Karanga program director, and--as she puts it--"a new mother to you all." Baba Fulgence is like your favorite grandfather. You know, the one who magically pulled coins from behind your ear and sang songs with you when you were a kid. After a glass of mango juice and an animated discussion about John Cena (WWE was on the TV when we arrived), Rachel and I were sent off to our beds, feeling extremely grateful and welcomed. And absolutely exhausted.
This morning, I stood on the second-floor veranda and noticed avocados swinging from branches not 5 feet from my face. We have an avocado tree! And the avocados are as large as my open hand.
Much too overcast to see Mt. Kilimanjaro. Apparently we can catch glimpses of her, on very clear days, through my bedroom window in the early morning.
After breakfast, our new group met for orientation and paperwork. During which we discussed in great detail the CCS policy banning sexual fraternization. I've known Mama Lillian for all of 12 hours, and I've already gotten the Sex Talk from her. Such a mother!
Besides me, there are 5 others just starting out, all women. We're very diverse in our life and work experiences, but have bonded already (I think) just from embarking on this adventure at the same time.
We received more information today about our placements, and I received something of a surprise: my placement changed. I will now be volunteering at Kiwodea, a women's empowerment center and nursery school that is within walking distance of Karanga. This is INCREDIBLY exciting, as I will get to work with women in the community on economic sustainability issues and business creation. And will get to play with kids. I will find out much more tomorrow, when our site supervisors come to the Karanga house to share lunch.
After orientation, we went on a driving tour of Moshi Town. It was very fast and thus hard to see much of it, but we drove through the main market street where women in brightly patterned kangas (wrap skirts) were selling fruit and vegetables and shoes and belt buckles and anything else you could imagine. Most of it was a blur, and I am looking forward to going back to explore on foot, with my camera.
Home base is beautiful. Karanga, in all its simplicity, is beautiful. To get to and from home, we journey about half a mile over a dirt-packed washboard road that is determined to eat the axles off the van. It is a brain- and- backside-numbing experience, that half-mile. Greeting us by the CCS gate is Brenda, the 3-year-old neighbor who fearlessly plants herself in the dirt in front of us, usually with a stick or an item she stole from another kid.
There are numerous quirks, living in a house in an African village, that I think are entirely unique to this experience. At night, you can hear bush babies jabbering to each other in the trees--they sound like small children laughing. During the day, right around lunchtime, the neighbor's goat starts yelling--he sounds like an old man with a hernia and a bad case of indigestion. When it's windy, the coconuts fall from the palm trees onto the tin roof of the dining area and scare the living daylights out of all of us. The laundry room is our backyard, and my "washing machine" is a hose, a bucket and my two hands. There are birds and bugs and other flying things I have no hope of every identifying. And there is a fine red dust that clings to EVERYTHING--leaves, tree trunks, walls, feet, goats... everything.
It is all still very dreamlike--I'm having some difficulty yet connecting to the realities of this place, and that I am really here. Yet, at the same time, it feels like I always have been here, or was supposed to be. Odd.
Saturday, July 17.
A few notes about the Amsterdam airport:
1. All of the signs are in English. Getting from Point A to Point B... much easier than expected.
2. I did get a few "silly American" looks from a few obviously Dutch airport employees. So what if I'm a careful traveler and ask lots of questions?
3. I got through security like a pro. Nobody questioned my American-ness. Or my ability to follow directions.
4. Dutch men are HOT.
5. Sitting in the boarding area. There is a small child SCREAMING at the top of her little lungs. This does not bode well for the next 8 hours.
6. I'm halfway there.
10:30 a.m., Amsterdam time.
On the plane. Small screaming child is sitting one row in back of me, across the aisle. Directly into my right eardrum. Typical.
2:30 (or 3:30?) p.m. (Whatever time zone).
Currently 39,000 feet over the largest desert in the effing world. Mind trip.
P.S. I have the worst seat on the plane. The worst. Tail-end aisle seat. Lost count of how many times elbow lost the battle with service cart. At least small screaming child is now small sleeping child.
When I say "worst seat," that doesn't necessarily involve my row-mates. Sitting by a nice German family. Papa Pavel is humoring the inexperienced American traveler. We're all getting off at Kili International (before the plane heads to Dar es Salaam).
Stomach is queasy. Can't tell if it's the lunch meal, the malaria meds, or the intermittent bumpy-bumps. Trying to sleep now.
6:30 p.m. (East African time).
My teeth are fuzzy. FUZZY.
It turns out the Sahara Desert isn't scenic enough from the air. Slept through most of Libya and Sudan. Sweet sleeping children are adorable.
2 more hours. Outlook improving.
8:00 p.m. (East African time).
Currently over Nairobi, Kenya. I think the Germans are bored with me. That's okay because I'm really too tired and too excited to think straight anymore. The oxymoronic combination of those two emotions isn't lost on me. Going to put the journal down for a while and regroup. Next entry will be from on Tanzanian soil! Kwaheri!
1. All of the signs are in English. Getting from Point A to Point B... much easier than expected.
2. I did get a few "silly American" looks from a few obviously Dutch airport employees. So what if I'm a careful traveler and ask lots of questions?
3. I got through security like a pro. Nobody questioned my American-ness. Or my ability to follow directions.
4. Dutch men are HOT.
5. Sitting in the boarding area. There is a small child SCREAMING at the top of her little lungs. This does not bode well for the next 8 hours.
6. I'm halfway there.
10:30 a.m., Amsterdam time.
On the plane. Small screaming child is sitting one row in back of me, across the aisle. Directly into my right eardrum. Typical.
2:30 (or 3:30?) p.m. (Whatever time zone).
Currently 39,000 feet over the largest desert in the effing world. Mind trip.
P.S. I have the worst seat on the plane. The worst. Tail-end aisle seat. Lost count of how many times elbow lost the battle with service cart. At least small screaming child is now small sleeping child.
When I say "worst seat," that doesn't necessarily involve my row-mates. Sitting by a nice German family. Papa Pavel is humoring the inexperienced American traveler. We're all getting off at Kili International (before the plane heads to Dar es Salaam).
Stomach is queasy. Can't tell if it's the lunch meal, the malaria meds, or the intermittent bumpy-bumps. Trying to sleep now.
6:30 p.m. (East African time).
My teeth are fuzzy. FUZZY.
It turns out the Sahara Desert isn't scenic enough from the air. Slept through most of Libya and Sudan. Sweet sleeping children are adorable.
2 more hours. Outlook improving.
8:00 p.m. (East African time).
Currently over Nairobi, Kenya. I think the Germans are bored with me. That's okay because I'm really too tired and too excited to think straight anymore. The oxymoronic combination of those two emotions isn't lost on me. Going to put the journal down for a while and regroup. Next entry will be from on Tanzanian soil! Kwaheri!
Friday, July 16. Departure.
2:00 p.m., North American Central Time.
The first impression at the gate is "languages." Dutch, German, French, Hindi, Spanish, English, Somali, Swahili. Everyone is going everywhere.
I sit and eat an apple and try to calm down. Check-in was interesting--10 minutes wandering back and forth in front of the Delta counters, trying desperately to find the start of the line that would end with a boarding pass in my hand. 30 minutes in line. 2 minutes trying to figure out how to scan my passport in the damn self-service kiosk before a nice lady from Delta noticed my bewilderment. And then 30 solid seconds of stunned silence when she told me the 5 extra pounds I accidentally packed would cost me 150 bucks in overweight baggage fees.
Damn. I am 100 percent certain my new hiking boots are what did it.
3:00 p.m.
On the plane, finally. I think I lucked out on my seat assignment: a) it's the window seat, and b) my seatmate appears to be awesome. Kathleen, the "youngish grandmotherly" type (sweet, hip and funny), AND a seasoned international traveler who has been to Kilimanjaro before! She has waylaid my concerns about the Amsterdam airport, at least a little.
The plane is HUGE. From my seat, I can't see the cabin or tail ends. We have a male flight attendant named Doug who is apparently a comedian, too. He's very sassy and makes slightly controversial statements to the passengers. Lovely. :-)
I'm taking this time, pre-departure, to give a specific shout-out to my mom. Don't get me wrong, all of you have been incredibly supportive, but Mom, your departing words to me at the curb today were of pride and excitement, even though I know just how really nervous you are about me leaving. Thanks for encouraging me in my crazy, left-of-center, absolutely non-lucrative, challenging but oh-so-important-to-me life goals. You helped me step onto the plane today. More than that--you helped me get out of the car.
The first impression at the gate is "languages." Dutch, German, French, Hindi, Spanish, English, Somali, Swahili. Everyone is going everywhere.
I sit and eat an apple and try to calm down. Check-in was interesting--10 minutes wandering back and forth in front of the Delta counters, trying desperately to find the start of the line that would end with a boarding pass in my hand. 30 minutes in line. 2 minutes trying to figure out how to scan my passport in the damn self-service kiosk before a nice lady from Delta noticed my bewilderment. And then 30 solid seconds of stunned silence when she told me the 5 extra pounds I accidentally packed would cost me 150 bucks in overweight baggage fees.
Damn. I am 100 percent certain my new hiking boots are what did it.
3:00 p.m.
On the plane, finally. I think I lucked out on my seat assignment: a) it's the window seat, and b) my seatmate appears to be awesome. Kathleen, the "youngish grandmotherly" type (sweet, hip and funny), AND a seasoned international traveler who has been to Kilimanjaro before! She has waylaid my concerns about the Amsterdam airport, at least a little.
The plane is HUGE. From my seat, I can't see the cabin or tail ends. We have a male flight attendant named Doug who is apparently a comedian, too. He's very sassy and makes slightly controversial statements to the passengers. Lovely. :-)
I'm taking this time, pre-departure, to give a specific shout-out to my mom. Don't get me wrong, all of you have been incredibly supportive, but Mom, your departing words to me at the curb today were of pride and excitement, even though I know just how really nervous you are about me leaving. Thanks for encouraging me in my crazy, left-of-center, absolutely non-lucrative, challenging but oh-so-important-to-me life goals. You helped me step onto the plane today. More than that--you helped me get out of the car.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Getting there.
It's 2:45 a.m. and my brain just won't give it a rest. It's been on overdrive for the past week. You'd think exhaustion would have seeped into the picture by now. But it's the strangest thing... I'm sitting here, in front of my laptop, watching bad infomercials on TV (but not really watching them) in my parents' basement, and am almost afraid to go to sleep. No, afraid isn't the right word. I'm not really sure what the right word is right now. I know "excited" is in there somewhere. So is "What the hell do I really think I'm doing?" and "How did it all get here so fast?"
Today is the day. I fly out at 3:25 p.m., North American Central Time. Eight hours later, I'll land in Amsterdam with overnight-on-an-airplane breath and only a vague idea of how to navigate an international flight transfer. And by a "vague idea," I mean that I'm trying not to think about it anymore because I'm just going to freak myself out. My plan right now is to hang onto my passport for dear life and hope somebody takes pity on the poor little lost American girl. I figure I have eight hours over the Atlantic Ocean to befriend the neighbors sitting around me, with the hopes one of them is a veteran globetrotter and can hold my hand to the departure gate at Schiphol. Bonus points for a cute, male, European hand-holder. I know I'll figure it out, and it'll all probably end well (and with me in Kilimanjaro), but in the meantime, I'm a little worried. I don't speak Dutch.
Once I'm in-country, I honestly don't know when the next time will be when I'll have access to a computer, let alone the internets. Since the next blog post date will have to be a mystery, here is some fun info to hold you over:
a) Tanzanian time is 9 hours ahead of Central time. Bracing myself for some incredible jet lag.
b) I'm keeping a journal and plan to write in it every day, regardless of quality. Its contents will be regurgitated faithfully onto this blog whenever I can grab a taxi into Moshi and find an open kiosk at an internet café during my free afternoons. Promise.
c) Here is a fun video tour of my home base, in the village of Karanga. Thanks, Volunteer Harold! (http://community.crossculturalsolutions.org/video/homebase-karanga-village-1)
d) Despite the insecurities over airport navigation in a foreign country, I really am optimistic that by the end of the day on Saturday (noon-ish, Minnesota time) I will be walking around Karanga, breathing in the African air, and so completely overwhelmed with giddiness I can't see straight.
Hakuna matata.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Teacher.
One week and two days.
In one week and two days, I leave on a journey towards a lifelong dream. If you would have talked to me a month ago, I would have felt slightly less inclined to tell you how real it all suddenly feels. It does. Since my last post, I've been busy, making preparations. For the last month, I have been listening to Swahili language audiobooks pretty much nonstop. Poa kichizi kama ndizi! (If you can translate that, you will giggle for a while, and I will be significantly impressed with you.) A few weeks ago, I visited a travel clinic and left with five shots in my arms, a bottle of malaria pills, and a stern lecture about not drinking the local tap water for my trouble (an arm full of yellow fever vaccine HURTS, man). Last week I got my passport back from the Tanzanian Mission to the United Nations, with my visa stamp in it. Last Friday, I proceeded to buy out most of the camping and travel sections of the Waconia Target store. And today, one week and two days before I leave, I received my program placement and job duties from my Program Director.
I will be teaching English to kindergartners in a private day school in Moshi.
Squeeeeeee!
This is exactly what I was hoping for. Exactly. I was prepared to be flexible, but the fact that I'll be working with kids again is almost a relief, in a way. I feel doubly prepared now. This is what I DID for the two years I was in AmeriCorps, working with young English language-learners on their reading, writing, and early math skills. I know the name, the role, and the face of "teacher." I am familiar with both the rewards and the tribulations of teaching, although I am still learning and can never realistically hope to fully understand either. I love the look on the face of a kid who has made a discovery in his or her learning. I live for that look. I can't wait to see that look again, this time at the Kilimahewa School, in a country on the other side of the world.
Seriously, it couldn't have played out any more perfectly. And I can definitely count on the fact that these kids... whom I will meet in one week and six days... will teach me as much as I can hope to teach them.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Countdown.
It's getting close. I can feel it. TANZANIA.
When I decided to take the leap and enroll in the Volunteer Abroad program with Cross-Cultural Solutions, I had no idea the process would move as fast as it has. I enrolled in February. Here is May, and the flight is booked, program fee paid (thanks student loans, and your housing and food provisions!), and most of the paperwork done... I am about to apply for my visa, get hooked up with a yellow fever vaccination and malaria meds (prerequisites to enter Tanzania... those darn mosquitos), and get my volunteer placement. And in a little more than 7 weeks, I will be on a plane and headed toward one of my ultimate dreams. Most ultimate. Ever.
Most people I know understand that I've been plotting and scheming to end up somewhere on this continent for a long, long time. Fewer people understand exactly why. I have trouble explaining it. The reasons are both selfish and unselfish. Partially, because the things I choose to read gravitate toward Africa. I studied it in college, and wrote papers on the breakdown of government in Somalia, the civil war and diamond trade in Sierra Leone, the resettlement conflict between the United States and Liberia and subsequent status crisis for Liberian refugees, the genocide in Rwanda. Many of the personal stories I hear are stories from friends who were born in Somalia, Kenya, Tanzania, Ghana, Sudan. The diversity of cultures, the histories of conflict, the strengths and weaknesses of its many peoples--and how all of these elements intersect, influence and enmesh--are absolutely mind blowing. So much of global human history stems from the African continent, and I truly believe the future integrity of the human condition is utterly dependent on what happens there.
I am fascinated. I am addicted.
Even though I haven't been there yet. But I already feel like I have a strange connection to this place. I also feel that to start the process of fully appreciating and better understanding another culture, you must step out of your comfortable college classroom, away from the books, and really just LIVE in it. Exist. For a while; the longer the better. I'm not sure 28 days will even begin to do this justice, but it's a step. A small taste. I would love to come away from this experience with a renewed sense of purpose and direction, and devote that to my goals and commitments here. It would certainly reaffirm all of the critical choices I'm making lately in terms of a future career.
Lastly... if two years in AmeriCorps has taught me anything, it's that we are a small, small part of a bigger community. And a lot of people in that bigger community have a lot less than we do. If you can't step away from your own privileges in order to help someone achieve their own, what is the point? The lack of opportunities weigh on people in any country, on any continent. Africa's bloody conflict histories and disease epidemics lend credibility and urgency to current efforts at addressing humanitarian crises in places like Darfur, Niger, and Somalia (to name a very small few). I'm done reading about it. It's time to do something. The biggest (and most important) reason I chose to go to Africa is to help. However I can, and in whatever way I am needed and/or wanted. Period.
Done preaching. So, barring any unexpected, last-minute problems or delays... like any more of that eruption nonsense (hear me, Iceland volcano? Just calm down for a few months)... I should be Tanzania-bound on July 16th.
That said, and as excited as I am... a few lingering worries. Not of the full-on freak-out nature, but are definitely making me go 'Hmm.' Obstacles, if you will:
The flight. This marks the second international flight I've ever taken, and the only international flight I've ever taken alone. Last time, I was a high school junior and I was with my entire French class and two adult chaperones. This time, I'm by myself and will be for 24 hours, changing planes in Amsterdam. I can't WAIT to see what the aftermath of 24 hours on a plane looks like. Also, they tell me someone will meet me at the airport when I land, but wouldn't it just be hilarious if I had to find a way to make the 50 km trek from Kilimanjaro International to my program site in Karanga... on my own? Ha ha. Ha.
My job responsibilities. This one isn't too worrisome. I don't know them yet, and will be finding out a few weeks before I leave. I'm fairly confident I'll be working with youth, since that is what 90 percent of my work experience is. However... put me up in front of a class and tell me to teach a formal lesson, and I won't have the slightest clue what to do with myself.
The batsh*t crazy dreams from taking the malaria pills. I don't want to be tripping out all night and then have to teach a classroom full of kids the next day. Bad form.
The language barrier. Swahili is hard. I'm studying what I can, and will be able to participate in language training onsite, but my current library of words and phrases is woefully small. I'm hoping I'll have enough to get me through Customs and out of the airport. Can you say, "Which way to the baggage claim" in Swahili? Or how about, "Yes, I am allowed to enter your country... no, I am not bringing any dangerous or illegal items with me." Yeah... me neither.
Like I said, I'm concerned but confident. Ask me again on July 15th.
A few final notes about this blog:
1. I hope to write as much as I can leading up to my departure. If you have questions, let me know! I will have internet access while I'm in-country, but it may be somewhat sporadic. Thus, I will be keeping a paper journal of pretty much anything and everything I can. For those of you following this, don't be surprised if you see multiple posts on one day, after a week or so of nothing.
2. In addition to my journal entries, I'll be posting current events, interesting articles, pretty pictures, and other Tanzania-related goodies.
3. To the right are some links to Tanzania/CCS-related websites. Enjoy!
Salaam!
~Jen
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