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.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
