I’ve been out of touch for a while…so here it goes:
Right now I’ve been nursing the flu for a while, which is unfortunate because the weather is changing and it is now blazing hot in East Africa again with wind and dust. I also had a bad infection over the weekend which gave me fever and chills. This country…. Anyways, the older kids have at Amani graduate this Friday as they’ve taken their test to get into secondary school. Kids trying to get into secondary school have one chance to take the national exam to be able to go on in their education. One chance. If they don’t pass, their only option is vocational training for jobs like plumbing, electricity or sewing. I can’t imagine a single test I took at sixteen determining my life’s path. The test is in English and not easy. Fro Friday, I’m working on the slideshow I’ve been making as a present to them, which I’ll show at graduation. However since my body has decided to turn against itself with another regional illness, I’m a little nervous about making it the best version of what it could be.
In other news, a few weeks ago the volunteers, a few staff members, and mostly all of the kids went to the Amani shamba (farm) to harvest corn. It’s about a twenty-minute walk or so into the bush from the center. I wish I had brought a camera. The kids looked so beautiful set in a background of dried yellow cornhusks. I wasn’t sure how to harvest corn. It’s strange how we eat all these foods in the U.S. we don’t know how to cultivate or properly take care of from scratch. Anyways, the dry husk covers the corn, and there are about two to three on every stalk. Once you find the corn you peel off most of the husk and twist it off the stalk, then peel off the rest of it. It was pretty fun and exciting at first and I felt like an African Mama, but then the bugs started. There are these microscopic bugs that live in the fuzz at the top of the corn and eat away at the kernels. You don’t notice it at first but then the itching intensifies and every part of my body that wasn’t covered with clothing was red and swollen. It’s Ramadan right now (actually it just ended) so the Muslim kids (there are about twenty) aren’t eating or drinking during the day. They were all exhausted during the harvest, which went on for about three hours and itching like crazy. Since then the corn has been drying out in the basement and yesterday and today the kids were smashing the corn with sticks to get all the kernels off. It looked really strange….like farm kung-fu….and oddly therapeutic.
Last weekend I went to Dar es Salaam on the coast (the commercial capital of TZ), with my roommate Anna. Her boyfriend is Tanzanian and lives in Dar. It was sort of a culture shock (i.e. there is an actual mall in Dar with thirty stores and air conditioning), but I had a good weekend and I’m glad I went considering I was thinking of writing my whole blog before I left about Tanzanian men all being pigs. Really, I cannot even begin to count how many men have either a) asked me for money or b) been sexually inappropriate. Granted, I’m pretty tired of men from all countries- I don’t discriminate. In the past eight months numerous old men have told me to buy them sodas, or pay for their bus ride, which they tell the bus conductors in Swahili and think I won’t understand. The women ask too but the men are the worst. Kids are taught to beg here from a young age as well. The most frustrating part is when people ask me for things and they clearly have jobs and are wearing nice clothes. I mean, really? When so much of the country is poor and suffering that sort of thing upsets me. There’s also this crazy old woman who yelled at me once for taking a taxi to Amani. Really I’m just sick of getting treated as a means to an end or old geezers asking me for presents or sex. Doctors also ask me for presents from America. What the hell? If so many of my relatives didn’t have access to this, I would use many expletives right now. Anyways, the nice part about Dar is harassment happens less since it’s such a big city.
Dar was a nice break though. We ate at a really wonderful Ethiopian restaurant furnished with beautifully carved chairs, old lanterns and colorful umbrellas. I had never eaten Ethiopian food before and always think of famine when I think of that country, but it was really delicious! (It really made me want to go to Ethiopia and explore). You eat as a group with your hands and the plate is delicious and edible. Best of all it was all things I could eat since the bread is this spongy sourdough type thing made from rice and other gluten-free grains. The wine was a little too sweet since it’s made with honey but the food was excellent- different meats and vegetables marinated in spices and sauces. On Saturday we took a five minute ferry to an island across from the city that only cost 100 shillings (ten cents). Dar is large and congested and reminds me of California since everything is spread out and you really need a car to get around, which is why I was surprised that this island is lined with beautiful white sand, turquoise water beaches. About eight of us went…a few Tanzanians but mostly American college students doing research on public health issues in Tanz. We rented army tents outside that looked like they were from the 70s and it was strangely freezing that night. Down the beach there was a Rasta drum circle that went on until dawn. They were all incredibly stoned and excellent at making us feel continuously slightly awkward. Because of my distrust and bitterness toward Tanzanian men as well as my disinterest in the ganga or “sticky icky” as they like to call it, I didn’t stay for long. My friend Anna wanted to go for a late night moonlit swim in the ocean with her boyfriend, which we all thought was romantic from a distance, but it turned out that she swam right into some sort of spiky anemone that stuck into her leg, hand and foot, which her boyfriend later had to painfully extract from her skin. I went swimming most of the time we were there or drank passion fruit juice, which is the idea of a lovely time in my book.
At the moment I’m pretty preoccupied trying to figure my life out for the next year. Since I’m applying for grad school in international social work for the fall it’s difficult to look for an actual “job job” as I like to say. I finish at Amani end of October/early November, but I actually think it will be a lot harder for me than the kids. Three new long-term volunteers have come who I’m sure the kids will bond with, but I know I’ll think of the kids constantly. I sort of wish I had told my boss I could stay until the end of the year...but when he asked me a few months ago I wasn’t sure financially and he found a replacement art teacher incredibly fast. But to be honest, I’m also sort of burnt out. The holidays really aren’t a big deal to me and I’m sure it would be really wonderful to spend with the kids…but I will be in California by Christmas. The kids get shoeboxes every year filled with little things like pencils and stickers, etc. I’m not really sure what to do for the eight months I have until I start the school that I’ll hopefully get into. I would love to stay in Tanzania but money-wise it’s really not possible. I also want to avoid turning into a twenty-something loser who relies on her parents constantly financially. Then again I wouldn’t want to stay in Moshi and not see the kids…it’d be too difficult. I was hoping to try and stay here longer by bartending at the ex-pat bar in town but the boss (my boss’s wife) isn’t hiring until at least January….and volunteering on the side. I met a girl from Dartmouth who somehow knows the president of AMREF and she had some good contacts…including an American PHD student focusing on street children who might be looking for a research assistant in Dar so I’ve emailed the professor and I’m still fishing around for possibilities.
I feel like I really know what I want to do and surprisingly, it makes everything harder. I know I want to be a social worker, specifically working with homeless or previously homeless kids. I didn’t expect to figure that out this year but I just sort of feel it in my malaria-affected gut that this is what I’m meant to do. Maybe I’ll read this in a few years and think about how naïve I was, but for now, I feel pretty certain. The part that makes it hard is the idea of doing different things and being unsatisfied. Sometimes I think I’m so focused on thinking about the life I want to be living that I forget to live the life I have now. It’s just part of being human I suppose, but sometimes it can be crippling. I don’t want to turn into someone who is so scared of being unhappy in the future that she forgets to be happy in the present.
I feel pretty tough or at least like I have a thicker skin from working at Amani. It’s a strange feeling when new volunteers come in…just to get their perspective on what they think of Amani and the kids and I inevitably think about how much they don’t know and that I was once in their place. Just to hear the kids’ stories and see them leave and know that they’ve struggled without family or adults to lean on. Some of them are not really kids at all, more often “the child” part of them just leaves their eyes. Other times I forget what they’ve gone through, both individually and collectively, because they are still able to experience some part of childhood.
My good friend, roommate and co-worker Anna is working on a drug-intake form to be filled out by kids when they first arrive. She’s in Arusha now visiting the kids on the street. The drugs kids most commonly do are glue and “mari-ja-juana” as they say (both about twenty cents U.S.). Others include “kiwi” or shoe polish, coke (which is becoming more and more popular as it becomes more prominent across East Africa), and car petrol from fuel tanks (which is inhaled).
I know it’ll be nice to go back to the U.S., especially to see a doctor who, say…doesn’t use a flashlight from their cell phone to look into my mouth and ears. Ha! But when I really think about it, I don’t really miss the U.S. that much. I miss food at times and new music and not being a minority, but really, I like the challenge of living here. I’m sure I bitch about it a lot, but I really do feel blessed to be able to live in another country. I love speaking another language the majority of the time, unless it’s with a lot of perverts. I don’t know how much I’ve really helped the kids, and I still think at times that I’m doing more of a disservice becoming attached to the kids and then leaving them. I’m pretty sure that they’ve given me more happiness than I could ever give to them. I do know that I don’t regret coming here and a part of my heart, like any place that I live, will stay here forever.
All the best…. Whitney
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Blog Update: Glue, scrap metal and other educational stuff...
Last week I was sitting on the benches outside Amani and Frances, who’s around 11, kept pointing at the metal parts of the bench and saying “Hey Whitney, mia tano!”. At first I thought he was just sort of talking to himself and speaking nonsense. Then I realized “mia tano” means 500, as in shillings, and he was talking about how much the metal on the bench would sell for. I asked him if he used to sell scrap metal when he was on the street and he was like “Oh yea! I know all the good places you can sell it.” Then all the kids chimed in about where they thought was the best place to sell it. It turns out a lot of the boys have a background in sales. Surprising, eh?
The discussion then led to what they would buy with their money, which then led to a discussion of glue. I finally understand enough Swahili so that when their babbling on about things I know what they’re talking about. At least 80 percent of the time. It also turns out that most of them had a glue habit at one point. It’s pretty damn cheap, 200 shillings or 16 or some odd cents, and suppresses hunger so I guess sort of the appeal is survival. Even so I told them now it’s not good for them to do it because it will mess up their brain and because of all the theft in the play/art room I’m locking up the glue.
I’m also locking up the stickers and the balloons. On Thursday morning I had to go to each classroom and collect the kids keys to their cubbies. It was pretty awful and I felt like I worked a juvenile detention center. Even though it’s not like that at all, I felt pretty awful having to raid each kids square foot of space they get to call their own. Three kids had stolen close to 100 balloons, a coloring book and some scissors, which may not sound terrible, but if I let these kids get away with it they’ll keep stealing. So now they aren’t allowed in the play/art room for at least a month.
On Saturday I went into Amani with some new toys for the kids that I bought at the only fancy supermarket we have outside of town on the way to Arusha. I bought two Barbie scooters, one batman costume, one spiderman mask, and two spiderman boxing gloves. The scooters had to be put together and one of the kids already manage to break a wheel off. I had considered going to Arusha that day to do some food shopping for myself, but it was actually pretty nice to bring the kids new things instead.
Augustino has been acting more quiet around me these days. I can’t really describe the guilt I feel that I will eventually be leaving him. I love him so much and I know he could never be my son but I still want to be part of his life. It’s painful to know that once I leave Tanzania I can’t come back until I have $2,000 to fly me round trip. I’m scared to imagine the emptiness I’ll feel not being part of the kids’ lives.
In other news, I keep having this dream where I’ve gone to Whole Foods to meet my dad and I’m waiting for him in a cookbook section away from the food since I’m so overwhelmed (does Whole Foods even have a book section by the way?). Anyways I’m so overwhelmed by all the food in one place coming from so many different places that I faint, come to, and then have a panic attack. This could be a real possibility. I’m sort of terrified of adjusting back to a place with super markets where canned food isn’t the main option and book stores and music stores and set prices on top of everything. It all sounds really scary. Although one thing that sounds really amazing is nice bedding- like a big comforter you can sink into like a cloud, and constant electricity to beat. But still, that’s one nice thing. I can’t imagine having all these nice things, all these insane luxuries, in one place. There’s the fancy bedding, television, super markets, access to a car, high-speed internet, and clothing stores with NEW clothing since it’s really only possible to find second-hand clothes here from rich countries. Let’s not forget potable water, toilets that don’t leak sewage into your backyard, and trash that gets carted away from your house instead of burned right in front of it for you to smell on Sunday morning.
I watched this movie called “The Gods Must Be Crazy” the other day and it was about a bushman in the Kalahari Desert (in Botswana) who sees an empty Coke bottle drop out of the sky one day. He brings it back to his village and at first everyone thinks it’s a wonderful gift from the gods. They find out they can use it as a great new tool for just about everything, even as a musical instrument, and eventually they begin to fight over it. Whereas before they got everything they needed from the earth, here is this one item that they can’t share equally. It can’t be reproduced and just one person can’t own it. Everyone becomes so unhappy that the bushman who found it, Xi, decides to take it to the end of the earth. Along the way he meets some white researchers and a teacher from South Africa looking to escape her life in the city. Anyways it’s pretty funny and it’s a good story I think. It got me thinking about possessions and ownership. How complicated our lives are and how we contribute to make them more complicated. Not just wanting for certain material things, but becoming so isolated in our own outlook that we start to push away the things that matter most, like our relationships with other people. I think that’s really what I’m afraid of going back to. I know that eventually I want to practice social work in different countries, but it’s unsettling to think about going back to live in a big city without a real sense of belonging with anyone. Even though I’m reminded I’m an outsider here, close to everyday, I share a house with volunteers and I go to work to see the kids who’ve welcomed me with open arms. Together, they form some sort of community, and if there’s anything worth fighting for, it’s the companionship and love you share with others.
The discussion then led to what they would buy with their money, which then led to a discussion of glue. I finally understand enough Swahili so that when their babbling on about things I know what they’re talking about. At least 80 percent of the time. It also turns out that most of them had a glue habit at one point. It’s pretty damn cheap, 200 shillings or 16 or some odd cents, and suppresses hunger so I guess sort of the appeal is survival. Even so I told them now it’s not good for them to do it because it will mess up their brain and because of all the theft in the play/art room I’m locking up the glue.
I’m also locking up the stickers and the balloons. On Thursday morning I had to go to each classroom and collect the kids keys to their cubbies. It was pretty awful and I felt like I worked a juvenile detention center. Even though it’s not like that at all, I felt pretty awful having to raid each kids square foot of space they get to call their own. Three kids had stolen close to 100 balloons, a coloring book and some scissors, which may not sound terrible, but if I let these kids get away with it they’ll keep stealing. So now they aren’t allowed in the play/art room for at least a month.
On Saturday I went into Amani with some new toys for the kids that I bought at the only fancy supermarket we have outside of town on the way to Arusha. I bought two Barbie scooters, one batman costume, one spiderman mask, and two spiderman boxing gloves. The scooters had to be put together and one of the kids already manage to break a wheel off. I had considered going to Arusha that day to do some food shopping for myself, but it was actually pretty nice to bring the kids new things instead.
Augustino has been acting more quiet around me these days. I can’t really describe the guilt I feel that I will eventually be leaving him. I love him so much and I know he could never be my son but I still want to be part of his life. It’s painful to know that once I leave Tanzania I can’t come back until I have $2,000 to fly me round trip. I’m scared to imagine the emptiness I’ll feel not being part of the kids’ lives.
In other news, I keep having this dream where I’ve gone to Whole Foods to meet my dad and I’m waiting for him in a cookbook section away from the food since I’m so overwhelmed (does Whole Foods even have a book section by the way?). Anyways I’m so overwhelmed by all the food in one place coming from so many different places that I faint, come to, and then have a panic attack. This could be a real possibility. I’m sort of terrified of adjusting back to a place with super markets where canned food isn’t the main option and book stores and music stores and set prices on top of everything. It all sounds really scary. Although one thing that sounds really amazing is nice bedding- like a big comforter you can sink into like a cloud, and constant electricity to beat. But still, that’s one nice thing. I can’t imagine having all these nice things, all these insane luxuries, in one place. There’s the fancy bedding, television, super markets, access to a car, high-speed internet, and clothing stores with NEW clothing since it’s really only possible to find second-hand clothes here from rich countries. Let’s not forget potable water, toilets that don’t leak sewage into your backyard, and trash that gets carted away from your house instead of burned right in front of it for you to smell on Sunday morning.
I watched this movie called “The Gods Must Be Crazy” the other day and it was about a bushman in the Kalahari Desert (in Botswana) who sees an empty Coke bottle drop out of the sky one day. He brings it back to his village and at first everyone thinks it’s a wonderful gift from the gods. They find out they can use it as a great new tool for just about everything, even as a musical instrument, and eventually they begin to fight over it. Whereas before they got everything they needed from the earth, here is this one item that they can’t share equally. It can’t be reproduced and just one person can’t own it. Everyone becomes so unhappy that the bushman who found it, Xi, decides to take it to the end of the earth. Along the way he meets some white researchers and a teacher from South Africa looking to escape her life in the city. Anyways it’s pretty funny and it’s a good story I think. It got me thinking about possessions and ownership. How complicated our lives are and how we contribute to make them more complicated. Not just wanting for certain material things, but becoming so isolated in our own outlook that we start to push away the things that matter most, like our relationships with other people. I think that’s really what I’m afraid of going back to. I know that eventually I want to practice social work in different countries, but it’s unsettling to think about going back to live in a big city without a real sense of belonging with anyone. Even though I’m reminded I’m an outsider here, close to everyday, I share a house with volunteers and I go to work to see the kids who’ve welcomed me with open arms. Together, they form some sort of community, and if there’s anything worth fighting for, it’s the companionship and love you share with others.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Blog Update: Chaos and kiddos
The big news is I’ve decided to apply to grad school for international social work next year. I’m really excited about this and really have my heart set on going to Boston College (they have an amazing program for international work). I really hope to specialize in child services as well.
Work has been busy. The kids today were debating my race. That’s always interesting and funny. Whitney is “my mzungu” aka “my white person.” Whitney is black. No she’s not black she’s white. No she’s not white she’s yellow, red and white. Great. Thanks for the clarification.
It’s strange but most days I feel like a mother of sixty children, or an incredibly underpaid nanny. I never thought that I would know what it feels like to have children this young. I don’t have a career and I’m definitely nowhere close to being in a long-term relationship, but somehow I have a second family. I know I don’t technically have children and that it might seem like I’m exaggerating my role to sound more self-important, but I do feel like a guardian or a kind of surrogate mother to many of the kids I see each day. The kids come to me when they’re sad, or they’re angry, or they need clothes and shoes repaired. They want me to hold their hand, to read to them, to hold them close. They’ve missed out on some much positive attention and guidance. I am like the Pied Piper when kids follow me around waiting for games or hoping to draw.
There’s Zacharia, 14, who is always asking to read English books and was irked when I went on safari; Charlie, 10, who has six fingers and six toes and an abscess on his head but is one of the sweetest children you’ll ever meet and is always holding my hand trying to snuggle or take naps on my lap. Augustino, 14, goes to school outside Amani but writes me little love letters and draws beautifully. Sometimes I wish more than anything that he was my child. Elbaricki, 13, pretends to be crying whenever I see him so I’ll call his bluff and make him laugh. Victor, 14, loves Jamaica, red, green and yellow, and saying funny things in broken English. There’s Kalisti, 11, with his big lips and unfortunate love for the song “Down by the Riverside,” which he listens to on repeat sometimes for hours; Zainabu, 12, with her small head and Mickey Mouse ears (she is always humming so pleased with herself). Zulfa, Amina and Asha’s shiny little faces are missing each morning when I come to work. They left Amani a few weeks ago. They use to dance around so sweetly in their bright African blankets like three little fairies.
I visited Zulfa, Amina and Asha again today at their nursery school and tried to “teach” drawing to their class. The school is out in the country amongst all these sunflower and corn fields. They were out of control. They kept putting their tiny hands in my pockets and trying to squeeze my boobs (“oh very small teacher!”). I was trying to teach them how to drawn flowers and gave each little gal and guy two crayons. Every time they would draw a line or circle they’d shout “ANGALIA mwalimu!” (Look teacher!). Later we tried drawing Kilimanjaro and a house and a chicken and a cow and a cat and a mama and a mtoto and by then it was chaos. They were all holding my hands or hitting each other by the end. So basically I have no control forty five year olds. They drank their porridge and were happy as clams.
On Thursday I also visited Augustino and his three friends at primary school down the road further into the bush at Shrimatunda, after picking up Kalisti and Zainabu and the special needs school with Anna. I think he was a little mortified to have all the extra attention but I was so proud to see how studious he was taking notes while everyone else was just looking at the alien (me).
The kids are stealing a lot, which I get really tired of. I get pictures printed and they steal some of them, or they steal toys, or they steal pencils, etc etc. I can sort of understand it since I know how difficult it would be to have so few things to call your own, but I figured since I’ve been at Amani for close to six months the rate of stealing would…depreciate.
Old habits die hard.
Last Sunday my house mates and I went to dinner at Mage's house (she's the woman who takes care of our house). She doesn't have any electricity and she, her husband and her daughter all sleep in the same bed together, but they were so welcoming and, as is the Tanzanian way, served us loads of food.
It’s still overcast and cool in Moshi but I can’t complain. I keep having bad dreams, particularly one where I wake up in the U.S. and don’t know how I got there and want to go back to Tanzania. So maybe this place is becoming more of a part of me than I thought. I really have no idea what is going on in the news/world but really, I’m okay with that.
Work has been busy. The kids today were debating my race. That’s always interesting and funny. Whitney is “my mzungu” aka “my white person.” Whitney is black. No she’s not black she’s white. No she’s not white she’s yellow, red and white. Great. Thanks for the clarification.
It’s strange but most days I feel like a mother of sixty children, or an incredibly underpaid nanny. I never thought that I would know what it feels like to have children this young. I don’t have a career and I’m definitely nowhere close to being in a long-term relationship, but somehow I have a second family. I know I don’t technically have children and that it might seem like I’m exaggerating my role to sound more self-important, but I do feel like a guardian or a kind of surrogate mother to many of the kids I see each day. The kids come to me when they’re sad, or they’re angry, or they need clothes and shoes repaired. They want me to hold their hand, to read to them, to hold them close. They’ve missed out on some much positive attention and guidance. I am like the Pied Piper when kids follow me around waiting for games or hoping to draw.
There’s Zacharia, 14, who is always asking to read English books and was irked when I went on safari; Charlie, 10, who has six fingers and six toes and an abscess on his head but is one of the sweetest children you’ll ever meet and is always holding my hand trying to snuggle or take naps on my lap. Augustino, 14, goes to school outside Amani but writes me little love letters and draws beautifully. Sometimes I wish more than anything that he was my child. Elbaricki, 13, pretends to be crying whenever I see him so I’ll call his bluff and make him laugh. Victor, 14, loves Jamaica, red, green and yellow, and saying funny things in broken English. There’s Kalisti, 11, with his big lips and unfortunate love for the song “Down by the Riverside,” which he listens to on repeat sometimes for hours; Zainabu, 12, with her small head and Mickey Mouse ears (she is always humming so pleased with herself). Zulfa, Amina and Asha’s shiny little faces are missing each morning when I come to work. They left Amani a few weeks ago. They use to dance around so sweetly in their bright African blankets like three little fairies.
I visited Zulfa, Amina and Asha again today at their nursery school and tried to “teach” drawing to their class. The school is out in the country amongst all these sunflower and corn fields. They were out of control. They kept putting their tiny hands in my pockets and trying to squeeze my boobs (“oh very small teacher!”). I was trying to teach them how to drawn flowers and gave each little gal and guy two crayons. Every time they would draw a line or circle they’d shout “ANGALIA mwalimu!” (Look teacher!). Later we tried drawing Kilimanjaro and a house and a chicken and a cow and a cat and a mama and a mtoto and by then it was chaos. They were all holding my hands or hitting each other by the end. So basically I have no control forty five year olds. They drank their porridge and were happy as clams.
On Thursday I also visited Augustino and his three friends at primary school down the road further into the bush at Shrimatunda, after picking up Kalisti and Zainabu and the special needs school with Anna. I think he was a little mortified to have all the extra attention but I was so proud to see how studious he was taking notes while everyone else was just looking at the alien (me).
The kids are stealing a lot, which I get really tired of. I get pictures printed and they steal some of them, or they steal toys, or they steal pencils, etc etc. I can sort of understand it since I know how difficult it would be to have so few things to call your own, but I figured since I’ve been at Amani for close to six months the rate of stealing would…depreciate.
Old habits die hard.
Last Sunday my house mates and I went to dinner at Mage's house (she's the woman who takes care of our house). She doesn't have any electricity and she, her husband and her daughter all sleep in the same bed together, but they were so welcoming and, as is the Tanzanian way, served us loads of food.
It’s still overcast and cool in Moshi but I can’t complain. I keep having bad dreams, particularly one where I wake up in the U.S. and don’t know how I got there and want to go back to Tanzania. So maybe this place is becoming more of a part of me than I thought. I really have no idea what is going on in the news/world but really, I’m okay with that.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Blog Update: Safari Njema
I’ve been back in Moshi for a few weeks now. My parents, two Amani volunteers (Laura and Jennifer) and Laura’s friend Joe visiting from New York and I went on safari for five days to Lake Manyara, the Serengeti and Ngorongoro Crater. The trip started off pretty rocky when my dad collapsed outside Laura’s house. I thought for sure he was having a heart attack but he was just extremely dehydrated. The first park we went to, Lake Manyara, was really lush and green with big Baobab trees dotting the landscape every now and then. We saw a lot of bald butted baboons crossing the road and a whole family of elephants. I loved the elephants wrinkly paper like skin. We camped out the whole time we were on safari although the first night was the nicest with actual beds and a campfire. It was a lot of time to be in the car but still worth it. The Serengeti was the best place to view lions, and zebras and impalas were everywhere. We also saw cheetahs, leopards, monkeys, hippos (smelled awful), hyenas, giraffes and a rhino.
The last day of safari I was really sick and by the end of our trip I had definitely lost weight. I had what I can only guess was something between giardia and ecoli for four days. I felt like a dog that needed to be put down, which was pretty unfortunate luck since I’d been reading about Zanzibar since January. My parents went on a spice tour in Stone Town and then we spent three days in Kizimkazi on the south of the island at this place called Karamba Resort on the beach.
I didn’t realize how much I missed the kids while I was gone and I’m so happy to see them again. They are real pests some times but at the end of the day I really love them.
There’s a new little boy at Amani named Naftari who’s around four years old I would guess. He wasn’t speaking at all at first but has opened up a little. I want to find out more about him from the social workers because he doesn’t say much and I’m wondering what happened to him. He’s super cute but super quiet. I don’t think he had ever colored before because I sort of had to explain to him how to use the markers to decorate the teddy bear on the paper. Today he was running around and ran straight into the wall so he had this big whopper bump on his head, so Christina (the new special ed volunteer) and I put ice on his head and wrapped a big kanga around him. He couldn’t really see out of it to well while he was playing since he’s just so darn small. It’s great to sort of see him realizing how to play and have fun. He was chatting for a bit the other day when I showed him how to use a kazoo. Eventually I had to kick him out of the playroom because that kazoo was really starting to get to me. *
We have a new roommate named Anna who was living in Dar es Salaam. She’s working at Amani also as the health educator, which is desperately needed.
On Friday I went to visit the two little girls who left Amani (Zulfa and Amina). I’ve missed them a lot so it was really sweet to see them. They would always be running around in kangas like little fairies in the morning. They are living with Suzie, a night mama at Amani, whose husband runs a nursery school right next door to the house. The kids in nursery school are adorable. Amina and Zulf were really shy at first but opened up later on. They were so quiet and focused on practicing writing letters I was really proud of them. They showed me their beds and brought me some chai. I gave them a My Little Pony coloring book and crayons and some paper, and two little black cloth dolls wearing little dresses. Zulfa named hers “Whitty” and was combing the little gal’s hair a little rough. It’s amazing what different people they are out side of Amani- so quiet and collected. Not that Amani isn’t great but there are so many kids the little girls really had to be aggressive and assert themselves.
That’s about it for now. I still get a little lonely here sometimes but all in all things are going well. This week I taught art classes on drawing trees with the older kids and made paper dolls with the younger ones, which turned out really cute. A volunteer who was living in Moshi went back to Germany and donated his guitar to Amani so that is pretty great and I’ve started teaching the kids some chords (they’ve already broken a string!).
*I wrote this a few days ago and Naftari has disappeared with his older brother James. They might be in Moshi or Arusha but I haven’t heard anything.
The last day of safari I was really sick and by the end of our trip I had definitely lost weight. I had what I can only guess was something between giardia and ecoli for four days. I felt like a dog that needed to be put down, which was pretty unfortunate luck since I’d been reading about Zanzibar since January. My parents went on a spice tour in Stone Town and then we spent three days in Kizimkazi on the south of the island at this place called Karamba Resort on the beach.
I didn’t realize how much I missed the kids while I was gone and I’m so happy to see them again. They are real pests some times but at the end of the day I really love them.
There’s a new little boy at Amani named Naftari who’s around four years old I would guess. He wasn’t speaking at all at first but has opened up a little. I want to find out more about him from the social workers because he doesn’t say much and I’m wondering what happened to him. He’s super cute but super quiet. I don’t think he had ever colored before because I sort of had to explain to him how to use the markers to decorate the teddy bear on the paper. Today he was running around and ran straight into the wall so he had this big whopper bump on his head, so Christina (the new special ed volunteer) and I put ice on his head and wrapped a big kanga around him. He couldn’t really see out of it to well while he was playing since he’s just so darn small. It’s great to sort of see him realizing how to play and have fun. He was chatting for a bit the other day when I showed him how to use a kazoo. Eventually I had to kick him out of the playroom because that kazoo was really starting to get to me. *
We have a new roommate named Anna who was living in Dar es Salaam. She’s working at Amani also as the health educator, which is desperately needed.
On Friday I went to visit the two little girls who left Amani (Zulfa and Amina). I’ve missed them a lot so it was really sweet to see them. They would always be running around in kangas like little fairies in the morning. They are living with Suzie, a night mama at Amani, whose husband runs a nursery school right next door to the house. The kids in nursery school are adorable. Amina and Zulf were really shy at first but opened up later on. They were so quiet and focused on practicing writing letters I was really proud of them. They showed me their beds and brought me some chai. I gave them a My Little Pony coloring book and crayons and some paper, and two little black cloth dolls wearing little dresses. Zulfa named hers “Whitty” and was combing the little gal’s hair a little rough. It’s amazing what different people they are out side of Amani- so quiet and collected. Not that Amani isn’t great but there are so many kids the little girls really had to be aggressive and assert themselves.
That’s about it for now. I still get a little lonely here sometimes but all in all things are going well. This week I taught art classes on drawing trees with the older kids and made paper dolls with the younger ones, which turned out really cute. A volunteer who was living in Moshi went back to Germany and donated his guitar to Amani so that is pretty great and I’ve started teaching the kids some chords (they’ve already broken a string!).
*I wrote this a few days ago and Naftari has disappeared with his older brother James. They might be in Moshi or Arusha but I haven’t heard anything.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Blog Update: Life as of Late
After experiencing a sufficient amount of rage resulting from the daily bullshit that goes on at times while living here, my friend Sarah and I checked into a nice hotel in Arusha a few weekends ago where I was actually able to take a bubble bath. A freaking bubble bath. I forgot those existed. I had a different kind of culture shock at this really nice hotel; watching tv, having so many lights in one room, showering in a sterile enclosed area, etc etc. We also saw “Slumdog Millionaire” at the one movie theater in Arusha but it irritated me somewhat. Not that it wasn’t a good movie and a nice story, but I also work with former street kids and know current street kids and kept picturing all these Hollywood bastards in their designer dresses feeling happy after seeing this movie. In reality a majority of kids don’t get rescued, and those who do get help aren’t living fairytales and are navigating their lives alone. They are abandoned by relatives at bus stations or beaten by the police and fairytales are not in the cards for them. Although another volunteer and I did find it pretty hilarious that one of the twelve year old kids left over winter break to be a pool hustler and was able to make a pretty penny/shilling.
One thing that is kind of strange is I spend all day with neglected kids and then come home to a bunch of neglected dogs. Our useless “guard dog” Luna is becoming fatter and lazier each day. She used to be really “street” and skinky and desperate and stand offish. Now she is a fat snob. Her three friends hang out here, and all smell pretty funky except for one we call Shy Girl who got her leg chopped with a panga/machete. We had to get Shy’s leg amputated and the idiot vet didn’t give her any antibiotics or pain killers. I forget if I’ve written about this already. Coming home to all these unclaimed dogs after being at Amani all day is a little exasperating at times.
Anyways; on to something positive. A few weeks ago Sarah and I also went flying in a four-seater plane to West Kilimanjaro which was so amazing! Flying over Moshi was so surreal, especially seeing the big market (Mbuyuni) which looks a bit refugee like from above. Once the plane landed we were out in the middle of open land and could see Kenya in the distance beyond the grass where the farmland met red earth. It’s hard to put into words but I felt really blessed to be hanging around in such a beautiful untouched part of Africa, while the pilot was sipping his whiskey (yes, a little disconcerting).
We had a field trip at Amani a few weeks ago and went to a place called Mweka, which is a wildlife college. I thought my immune system would be better by now but I seem to be picking up most viruses the kids have maybe because they are always trying to braid or pull out pieces of my hair like little monkeys or trying to sit on top of me. Lately they’ve been asking if they can give me hair cuts or shave my head. I say no. The kids were mostly excited about seeing elephant bones and beastly heads. Their vacation has officially started for the next month, which means I get most of the kids during the day and they all demand to watch Power Rangers or vampire movies. Joy. My dad sent me some more animal coloring books for the kids, which they love, and they are basically like currency along with the dancing monkey pens he donated.
Some of the kids were circumsized last week (about 15), which I really don’t feel like going into for my own personal psyche. It’s a process most East African kids go through at a later age, and most of the kids have been recovering together in one of the classrooms. In other news, a few of the kids are playing in the East African soccer youth cup this week and I’m excited to see them play.
Really I’ve just been working and busy preparing for my parents to come. I truly cannot eat any more rice that has a slight taste of intestine to it or other lovely Tanzanian delicacies. My stomach is just refusing to do it anymore. It has officially rejected the funk at the six-month mark.
Today I looked at the “Daily Nation” headlines at the local grocery store. The “Daily Nation” is a Kenyan newspaper in English (significantly more Kenyans speak English than Tanzanians) and it tends to be much better written than any of the Tanzanian gems. Thank heavens I do not live in Kenyan, although at some point I’d like to go to Nairobi to see this elephant/giraffe orphanage and eat Thai food (Nairobi is six hours away). Nairobi also has the largest slum in East Africa, which I wish I could visit with the company of an African of course but that probably won’t be happening.Anyways the main headline was about the gun trade in Kenya and how it costs 3,000 Kenyan shillings per hour to rent a pistol and 15,000 k shillings per hour to rent an AK-47. Granted, Kenyan shillings are worth more than TZ shillings, but still. I’m sure the police and the government help this to happen. No wonder organized crime squirms like a snake through Nairobi’s crowded streets.
I feel pretty cut off from the world here, but I have to say sometimes it’s a relief. Sarah lent me a Time magazine yesterday and reading the news can be such a downer.
On Sunday mornings I’m usually rudely awakened by the fire and brimstone preacher who lives next door. Today, it turns out, some idiot gave that fool a microphone and I don’t think Jesus would mind if a big rocket fell out of the sky and smushed him. Speaking of Jesus some obnoxious missionaries (high school girls and their teachers) came to Amani on Friday and were preaching to the kids about accepting Jesus into their lives under the guise of Bible themed coloring books and Dora the Explorer frisbees. Did I mention some of the kids are Muslim? At the end of the day I tried to tell some of the kids it’s okay to believe in Jesus or to believe in Mohammed; you don’t have to be Christian to be a good person. I’m not Christian but I believe in God, and I don’t think Jesus has any beef with me volunteering in Africa. I did not approve of the high school girl’s pro-life sticker-ed guitar case either, or the bracelets given to the kids with the different color beads on them. Black represented sin and white represented purity. Give. Me. A. Break. These kids know that the group talking to them have white skin, how is a kid supposed to interpret that? Not too mention the talk about sin and guilt. If one of those missionaries even slightly influenced the kids to believe that their misfortune is their fault, I would not hesitate in directing my rage towards their insolence. Really, they don’t know the kids or how these kids have suffered, and instead of using the one day they have at Amani to tell the kids how to live their lives, maybe they should take the time to find out what their lives are like. That’s probably what infuriates me the most about missionary work. It really makes me wonder about the foreigners here.Anyways, my parents are coming tonight, so we’ll be taking two weeks together to see the Serengeti and Zanzibar (the island Aladdin and Alia Babba’s stories were set in). I’m excited to see some lions, and cheetahs and hippos (oh my!).
One thing that is kind of strange is I spend all day with neglected kids and then come home to a bunch of neglected dogs. Our useless “guard dog” Luna is becoming fatter and lazier each day. She used to be really “street” and skinky and desperate and stand offish. Now she is a fat snob. Her three friends hang out here, and all smell pretty funky except for one we call Shy Girl who got her leg chopped with a panga/machete. We had to get Shy’s leg amputated and the idiot vet didn’t give her any antibiotics or pain killers. I forget if I’ve written about this already. Coming home to all these unclaimed dogs after being at Amani all day is a little exasperating at times.
Anyways; on to something positive. A few weeks ago Sarah and I also went flying in a four-seater plane to West Kilimanjaro which was so amazing! Flying over Moshi was so surreal, especially seeing the big market (Mbuyuni) which looks a bit refugee like from above. Once the plane landed we were out in the middle of open land and could see Kenya in the distance beyond the grass where the farmland met red earth. It’s hard to put into words but I felt really blessed to be hanging around in such a beautiful untouched part of Africa, while the pilot was sipping his whiskey (yes, a little disconcerting).
We had a field trip at Amani a few weeks ago and went to a place called Mweka, which is a wildlife college. I thought my immune system would be better by now but I seem to be picking up most viruses the kids have maybe because they are always trying to braid or pull out pieces of my hair like little monkeys or trying to sit on top of me. Lately they’ve been asking if they can give me hair cuts or shave my head. I say no. The kids were mostly excited about seeing elephant bones and beastly heads. Their vacation has officially started for the next month, which means I get most of the kids during the day and they all demand to watch Power Rangers or vampire movies. Joy. My dad sent me some more animal coloring books for the kids, which they love, and they are basically like currency along with the dancing monkey pens he donated.
Some of the kids were circumsized last week (about 15), which I really don’t feel like going into for my own personal psyche. It’s a process most East African kids go through at a later age, and most of the kids have been recovering together in one of the classrooms. In other news, a few of the kids are playing in the East African soccer youth cup this week and I’m excited to see them play.
Really I’ve just been working and busy preparing for my parents to come. I truly cannot eat any more rice that has a slight taste of intestine to it or other lovely Tanzanian delicacies. My stomach is just refusing to do it anymore. It has officially rejected the funk at the six-month mark.
Today I looked at the “Daily Nation” headlines at the local grocery store. The “Daily Nation” is a Kenyan newspaper in English (significantly more Kenyans speak English than Tanzanians) and it tends to be much better written than any of the Tanzanian gems. Thank heavens I do not live in Kenyan, although at some point I’d like to go to Nairobi to see this elephant/giraffe orphanage and eat Thai food (Nairobi is six hours away). Nairobi also has the largest slum in East Africa, which I wish I could visit with the company of an African of course but that probably won’t be happening.Anyways the main headline was about the gun trade in Kenya and how it costs 3,000 Kenyan shillings per hour to rent a pistol and 15,000 k shillings per hour to rent an AK-47. Granted, Kenyan shillings are worth more than TZ shillings, but still. I’m sure the police and the government help this to happen. No wonder organized crime squirms like a snake through Nairobi’s crowded streets.
I feel pretty cut off from the world here, but I have to say sometimes it’s a relief. Sarah lent me a Time magazine yesterday and reading the news can be such a downer.
On Sunday mornings I’m usually rudely awakened by the fire and brimstone preacher who lives next door. Today, it turns out, some idiot gave that fool a microphone and I don’t think Jesus would mind if a big rocket fell out of the sky and smushed him. Speaking of Jesus some obnoxious missionaries (high school girls and their teachers) came to Amani on Friday and were preaching to the kids about accepting Jesus into their lives under the guise of Bible themed coloring books and Dora the Explorer frisbees. Did I mention some of the kids are Muslim? At the end of the day I tried to tell some of the kids it’s okay to believe in Jesus or to believe in Mohammed; you don’t have to be Christian to be a good person. I’m not Christian but I believe in God, and I don’t think Jesus has any beef with me volunteering in Africa. I did not approve of the high school girl’s pro-life sticker-ed guitar case either, or the bracelets given to the kids with the different color beads on them. Black represented sin and white represented purity. Give. Me. A. Break. These kids know that the group talking to them have white skin, how is a kid supposed to interpret that? Not too mention the talk about sin and guilt. If one of those missionaries even slightly influenced the kids to believe that their misfortune is their fault, I would not hesitate in directing my rage towards their insolence. Really, they don’t know the kids or how these kids have suffered, and instead of using the one day they have at Amani to tell the kids how to live their lives, maybe they should take the time to find out what their lives are like. That’s probably what infuriates me the most about missionary work. It really makes me wonder about the foreigners here.Anyways, my parents are coming tonight, so we’ll be taking two weeks together to see the Serengeti and Zanzibar (the island Aladdin and Alia Babba’s stories were set in). I’m excited to see some lions, and cheetahs and hippos (oh my!).
Thursday, June 11, 2009
The Kids Aren’t Always Alright
I am stressed. Definitely stressed. Almost like my body is a test tube and the stress is the liquid rising slowly to the top. Some people might not think that volunteering for nine months in East Africa in the land of Kilimanjaro and the Serengeti ever gets stressful, but I assure you, they are wrong. Without going into too much detail, I’ve felt pretty overwhelmed and alone at work lately sometimes taking care of thirty kids at one time and I don’t feel like the kids are getting even close to enough attention as they both need and deserve.
More so than the stress, I am silently in shock. The shock shows itself gradually like an entity unto itself. I used to feel guilty seeing small children carry giant water buckets from the village taps, but now I just feel grateful that I had such a labor-free childhood without the early onset arthritis, etc. There are things that are harder to confront: the lack of healthcare access, the pain and excessive work that comes with being a woman, the inequality of life on a global scale and of education, or hearing stories of people dying that didn’t have to day after day after day. I mean, there is a point where my emotions just can’t handle anymore stories, anymore tragedy, anymore outrage or either my mind will burst or there will be nothing left to feel.
The thing is, I love the kids I’ve come to know here. But I want better for them and I feel so powerless and so terrible sometimes. I’ve gotten in the habit of visiting the kids living on the street in Moshi every week or two and buying them some bread and water or some bananas. It’s really not too often, and it doesn’t make that much difference in the end, but it’s something. At Amani, I don’t feel like I can do anything after a certain point, and I think that’s the worst feeling of all. It’s not that I’m trying to be God or something but I do want to feel like I am helping. I didn’t have high expectations before I came here. I can feel myself starting to submit to pessimism with a side of cynic. There are people that come to poorer countries and because they are white or educated or comparatively wealthy, they think they will institute social change, like they are entitled, which when you think about it is really pretty racist of them. There are plenty of people like this living in Moshi now. But I really just thought that I’d come here and be a friend. I didn’t want to become too emotionally involved with the kids although I already have, but I don’t know how to stop caring for these kids, how to leave here and go about my life and forget that I’ve stopped fighting for them. Stopped being a mother to them. Stopped hugging them. Stopped teaching them. Stopped listening. I am so heartbroken for them sometimes. Comparatively of course, I know that their lives are much better than before. Street life is not easy, particularly when you have nowhere to go but an alcoholic father or a relative that doesn’t want you. But still, I want so badly for each of them to have homes and loving parents and happy days at school and hopeful futures, and the security and success that comes as a result of a nurturing environment. But the world doesn’t work that way for everyone. I can’t be their parent. With the amount of kids at Amani right now (93), it’s really not possible that each child is receiving enough care both emotionally and simply in terms of logistics. It’s not right; I feel it in my gut that it’s not right. But is it better to turn a child away? I don’t know. I do know that their hygiene, their education; everything could be improved. Nothing is perfect and this is how we learn as we live. Maybe I’m expecting too much, but I want to leave the kids lives better than they are now.
There is an eleven-year-old boy at Amani named Kalisti whose mother died of AIDS when he was a baby. With his father gone, he lived on the street with his grandmother until she was too weak to take care of him. His smile is a little funny because of a bad case of malaria he had when he was little which paralyzed part of his face, but when he smiles, he really smiles. He never gets angry or impatient. He loves to play the piano and draw and he has this inner warmth that is so contagious and comforting and calming that it makes you feel more beautiful. He deserves to have someone constant in his life that returns this beauty too.
More so than the stress, I am silently in shock. The shock shows itself gradually like an entity unto itself. I used to feel guilty seeing small children carry giant water buckets from the village taps, but now I just feel grateful that I had such a labor-free childhood without the early onset arthritis, etc. There are things that are harder to confront: the lack of healthcare access, the pain and excessive work that comes with being a woman, the inequality of life on a global scale and of education, or hearing stories of people dying that didn’t have to day after day after day. I mean, there is a point where my emotions just can’t handle anymore stories, anymore tragedy, anymore outrage or either my mind will burst or there will be nothing left to feel.
The thing is, I love the kids I’ve come to know here. But I want better for them and I feel so powerless and so terrible sometimes. I’ve gotten in the habit of visiting the kids living on the street in Moshi every week or two and buying them some bread and water or some bananas. It’s really not too often, and it doesn’t make that much difference in the end, but it’s something. At Amani, I don’t feel like I can do anything after a certain point, and I think that’s the worst feeling of all. It’s not that I’m trying to be God or something but I do want to feel like I am helping. I didn’t have high expectations before I came here. I can feel myself starting to submit to pessimism with a side of cynic. There are people that come to poorer countries and because they are white or educated or comparatively wealthy, they think they will institute social change, like they are entitled, which when you think about it is really pretty racist of them. There are plenty of people like this living in Moshi now. But I really just thought that I’d come here and be a friend. I didn’t want to become too emotionally involved with the kids although I already have, but I don’t know how to stop caring for these kids, how to leave here and go about my life and forget that I’ve stopped fighting for them. Stopped being a mother to them. Stopped hugging them. Stopped teaching them. Stopped listening. I am so heartbroken for them sometimes. Comparatively of course, I know that their lives are much better than before. Street life is not easy, particularly when you have nowhere to go but an alcoholic father or a relative that doesn’t want you. But still, I want so badly for each of them to have homes and loving parents and happy days at school and hopeful futures, and the security and success that comes as a result of a nurturing environment. But the world doesn’t work that way for everyone. I can’t be their parent. With the amount of kids at Amani right now (93), it’s really not possible that each child is receiving enough care both emotionally and simply in terms of logistics. It’s not right; I feel it in my gut that it’s not right. But is it better to turn a child away? I don’t know. I do know that their hygiene, their education; everything could be improved. Nothing is perfect and this is how we learn as we live. Maybe I’m expecting too much, but I want to leave the kids lives better than they are now.
There is an eleven-year-old boy at Amani named Kalisti whose mother died of AIDS when he was a baby. With his father gone, he lived on the street with his grandmother until she was too weak to take care of him. His smile is a little funny because of a bad case of malaria he had when he was little which paralyzed part of his face, but when he smiles, he really smiles. He never gets angry or impatient. He loves to play the piano and draw and he has this inner warmth that is so contagious and comforting and calming that it makes you feel more beautiful. He deserves to have someone constant in his life that returns this beauty too.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Blog Update: Lushoto, an African birthday and Amani life
Sometimes this place is ridiculous. I mean, really. On the way home from work the other day I got a lift from a guy on his way into town (a lot of times my coworkers and I will get “lifties” from the village area out to the highway where we can get a dala-dala). Anyways, there was a serious problem with his automobile. He said he had gone to Arusha earlier and it took him four hours (it’s supposed to take one hour and a half). I’m not sure how he got the damn thing there and back and was still alive to tell me about it, but somehow it happened. People die on that road all the time in functioning vehicles. Anyways, every 10 meters or so he would have to go in reverse because the car would start to veer off to the left and head for the ditch or farm on the side of the road. It was kind of like getting one of those irritatingly dysfunctional shopping carts with the one bad wheel that makes you have to redesign your whole steering technique. Except this was a car. So while he was driving down the road he’d have to physically use his weight to push the steering wheel all the way to the right to keep the car going straight, or end up reversing to straighten out. To actually make a turn (which I was silently panicking about in my mind before it happened) he’d have to reverse a whole hell of a lot to pull it off so that the car’s orientation was all set up. Yes. Ridiculous.
Anyways, I digress. Here’s what’s been going on recently:
*A few weeks ago I met my friend Sarah (who works for Visions) in a small mountain town called Lushoto. It’s close to four hours east of Moshi, edging toward the coast. The Usambara Mountains surround Lushoto and are often referred to as “the Alps of Tanzania.” I don’t know about being comparable to the Alps, but they are really beautiful, and strangely enough, waking up at our lodge hidden away from town further back into the mountains I felt like I was in Europe somewhere like the Basque country in Spain. I met Sarah on a Friday and took the bus from Moshi (by myself!) to Mombo, where I caught a ride with a medic driving up into the mountains. Lushoto is fairly small with some old German buildings including a church leftover from the colonial period. It was definitely a nice break. Sarah and I stayed at Muller’s Lodge and spent our down-time reading old magazines in our long underwear. There was a fireplace and delicious soup and heavy comforters. We spent most of the weekend hiking with our guide Babu Francis. He’s seventy-four years old and still witty and spry/incredibly fast despite the fact that he is a smoking fiend and skinny as a stick. Babu knows all these random facts like who has assassinated who in U.S. history and he grew up in Tanzania when it was still a colony so his English is excellent. I loved the way he would eat a little plate of cookies and drink a cup of coffee back at the lodge smiling like he was so content with life. He knew all the names of the plants out in the jungle and their medicinal properties (malaria, nausea, stomach pain, etc), which was so interesting to hear about.
Together with an older man named Richard from the UK who works in the Selous, a national park in the south, we hiked and rock climbed up a crack to the top of Kivulga Point and reached Irente view point which overlooks the whole valley surrounding the Usambaras. It felt like we were up in the clouds and it made me think of friends I’ve known who’ve climbed Kili and hike above the clouds on only their second day out. The villagers were all shouting greetings at us, which made me feel like a spectacle, but my favorite villager by far was the man sitting outside his house with a tea cozy on his head. It was a perfect hat (the tea cozy was of an English country house) and it reminded me of an E.E. Cummings poem. One of the last places we went was Irente Farm which makes fresh cheese, jam, yogurt and granola and is tucked away in a mountain valley. Babu, of course, was pretty pleasantly pleased with the picnic lunch.
*On Wednesday night I went to a local outdoor bar called Glacier (again with Sarah) to watch the final game of the European cup. People here are so into European soccer/football that when FC Barcelona made their goals people would scream and dance up and down and say happy things in Swahili. I’m really glad Manchester United didn’t win as Ronaldo is a big creep (the waxing and the fake tan don’t help). He’s also a real ball hog and takes a lot of cheap shots. Ok, enough.
*I turned twenty-four last week and went out for Indian food with people from Visions and Amani. It turned out nice even though the power was out most of the time so we ate by lantern light. I was given a khanga (large African fabric with a Swahili proverb on it) and a batik purse, which were thoughtful. During the day the kids gave me a card after stampeding the art/play room singing “Happy Birthday” which another volunteer Laura arranged. It was really sweet but at first I had no idea why they were all running in there and felt like the captain of a ship facing mutiny. Most of the letters they gave me basically said happy birthday and please teach me this and that, thanks.
*Work was great last week. The kids had been driving me crazy but on Friday their craziness was actually pretty entertaining and somewhat productive. The kids once again did not have class (I’ll talk about the ridiculousness of this later) and it was a beautiful day- the sun was shining with a cool breeze, Kili had finally come out after four days or so in the clouds, etc etc. Anyways they kept asking me if they could watch a movie (psh!) and instead I brought out…the slip-n-slide! Yesss. Kudos to the donor who sent that handy contraption over this way; it is hilarious to see the kids’ sheer joy on sliding face first down that piece of plastic not to mention pretty constructive when soap is added. (Some of the kids smell real bad).
This Friday is not as exciting. This is because the last Friday of every month everyone at Amani cleans the entire compound. The kids like to wear the mops on their heads and say they’re Bob Marley haha. Last time I got the girls’ bathroom downstairs (yay…); this time I have the boys’ bathroom upstairs, which is bad enough, with the added company of some of the worst behaved kids. For instance: the teenager who orchestrated the robbing of 500,000 shillings (a little less than $500) from Amani’s storekeeper. Yea, he’s been to jail and he also wrote a rap song about me. This should be awesome.
Anyways, I digress. Here’s what’s been going on recently:
*A few weeks ago I met my friend Sarah (who works for Visions) in a small mountain town called Lushoto. It’s close to four hours east of Moshi, edging toward the coast. The Usambara Mountains surround Lushoto and are often referred to as “the Alps of Tanzania.” I don’t know about being comparable to the Alps, but they are really beautiful, and strangely enough, waking up at our lodge hidden away from town further back into the mountains I felt like I was in Europe somewhere like the Basque country in Spain. I met Sarah on a Friday and took the bus from Moshi (by myself!) to Mombo, where I caught a ride with a medic driving up into the mountains. Lushoto is fairly small with some old German buildings including a church leftover from the colonial period. It was definitely a nice break. Sarah and I stayed at Muller’s Lodge and spent our down-time reading old magazines in our long underwear. There was a fireplace and delicious soup and heavy comforters. We spent most of the weekend hiking with our guide Babu Francis. He’s seventy-four years old and still witty and spry/incredibly fast despite the fact that he is a smoking fiend and skinny as a stick. Babu knows all these random facts like who has assassinated who in U.S. history and he grew up in Tanzania when it was still a colony so his English is excellent. I loved the way he would eat a little plate of cookies and drink a cup of coffee back at the lodge smiling like he was so content with life. He knew all the names of the plants out in the jungle and their medicinal properties (malaria, nausea, stomach pain, etc), which was so interesting to hear about.
Together with an older man named Richard from the UK who works in the Selous, a national park in the south, we hiked and rock climbed up a crack to the top of Kivulga Point and reached Irente view point which overlooks the whole valley surrounding the Usambaras. It felt like we were up in the clouds and it made me think of friends I’ve known who’ve climbed Kili and hike above the clouds on only their second day out. The villagers were all shouting greetings at us, which made me feel like a spectacle, but my favorite villager by far was the man sitting outside his house with a tea cozy on his head. It was a perfect hat (the tea cozy was of an English country house) and it reminded me of an E.E. Cummings poem. One of the last places we went was Irente Farm which makes fresh cheese, jam, yogurt and granola and is tucked away in a mountain valley. Babu, of course, was pretty pleasantly pleased with the picnic lunch.
*On Wednesday night I went to a local outdoor bar called Glacier (again with Sarah) to watch the final game of the European cup. People here are so into European soccer/football that when FC Barcelona made their goals people would scream and dance up and down and say happy things in Swahili. I’m really glad Manchester United didn’t win as Ronaldo is a big creep (the waxing and the fake tan don’t help). He’s also a real ball hog and takes a lot of cheap shots. Ok, enough.
*I turned twenty-four last week and went out for Indian food with people from Visions and Amani. It turned out nice even though the power was out most of the time so we ate by lantern light. I was given a khanga (large African fabric with a Swahili proverb on it) and a batik purse, which were thoughtful. During the day the kids gave me a card after stampeding the art/play room singing “Happy Birthday” which another volunteer Laura arranged. It was really sweet but at first I had no idea why they were all running in there and felt like the captain of a ship facing mutiny. Most of the letters they gave me basically said happy birthday and please teach me this and that, thanks.
*Work was great last week. The kids had been driving me crazy but on Friday their craziness was actually pretty entertaining and somewhat productive. The kids once again did not have class (I’ll talk about the ridiculousness of this later) and it was a beautiful day- the sun was shining with a cool breeze, Kili had finally come out after four days or so in the clouds, etc etc. Anyways they kept asking me if they could watch a movie (psh!) and instead I brought out…the slip-n-slide! Yesss. Kudos to the donor who sent that handy contraption over this way; it is hilarious to see the kids’ sheer joy on sliding face first down that piece of plastic not to mention pretty constructive when soap is added. (Some of the kids smell real bad).
This Friday is not as exciting. This is because the last Friday of every month everyone at Amani cleans the entire compound. The kids like to wear the mops on their heads and say they’re Bob Marley haha. Last time I got the girls’ bathroom downstairs (yay…); this time I have the boys’ bathroom upstairs, which is bad enough, with the added company of some of the worst behaved kids. For instance: the teenager who orchestrated the robbing of 500,000 shillings (a little less than $500) from Amani’s storekeeper. Yea, he’s been to jail and he also wrote a rap song about me. This should be awesome.
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