Blog Update: Life on the other side of the world

So I wrote this about 4 days ago speculating I had malaria again and GUESS what? I do. That’s the second time in 3 weeks! I missed a few days of anti-malarial pills so I guess I just have bad luck and/or am really susceptible to it. This time I only had one parasite in my blood…last time I had more (lovely, yes?) but it was still very crappy and I'm just now starting to feel better.

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I’m really tired lately and ready for a bit of an escape (hopefully a weekend trip to Mombasa on the coast in Kenya at the end of the month). It might be because I’ve been a little afraid I’m getting malaria again due to the fact that I’ve been having similar symptoms like pain in my upper abdomen and bad nausea, but the problem with malaria is that it’s similar to a lot of other illnesses and difficult to diagnose without a blood test. It could just be that on top of stomach problems and the unrelenting heat, some days, the kids are totally out of control. It helps when I remember that most of them have been abused and unprotected the majority of their lives. It’s hard to imagine not being able to go to your parents for comfort or guidance or what have you at 4 years old for an indefinite period of time. But still, sometimes the watoto (some of whom have started calling me “mother”) are like a wild uncontrollable pack of monkeys. Their hygiene is not very stellar and they usually have to take de-worming pills every month (fyi worms really terrifies me in every way). This week I’ve been trying to be a little tougher on them to teach them better manners because I can’t take the level of aggressive behavior anymore. It’s very different than being at a regular school here because respect for elders and politeness is extremely important in Tanzanian culture. But especially because I’m not fluent in Swahili, they think they can get away with more.

On top of work, living here it’s sometimes difficult to deal with the disconnect between tourism and reality. I think about traveling through Africa as a tourist, choosing what you want to be exposed to and how much; regulating your cultural exchange. Everything appears more exotic and alluring because it is foreign. But to process the culture for a longer period of time is an entirely different experience. There are the more clear cut disturbing scenes like the amount of beggars who have leprosy or the men I see digging through pits of garbage. More often, the smallest things stick out in my mind, like the music stands that sell tapes instead of cds, the phone stalls that sell phones from 5 or so years ago, the used book stand that sells National Geographic magazines from the 1960s (which is actually pretty wonderful), and the open air markets that sell second hand clothes from wealthier countries. I never know what to make of this. On the one hand, it’s almost calming to see people using resources and reducing waste, and I feel like the U.S. could learn a lot from African cultures. On the other hand, I find it weirdly depressing, like why do poorer countries get material things that rich countries throw away; why do they get all the left over crap? A good example is the dala-dalas. They use these Toyota minivans until they literally fall apart. Literally. I’ve gotten on one where the door fell off when I used it as a support to climb in, and seen doors fall off other ones while they’re moving. In the U.S., I usually get a new phone every few years. At least when it comes to clothes, I appreciate the whole “system” here a lot more. I love picking out the fabric, which is hand-made and dyed, deciding on the design, searching out a tailor and seeing the end product. Even though I’m not constructing any of it, I have to think about the article of clothing a lot more and feel more connected with the end product.

On Friday, the kids at Amani worked on the nearby shamba (field or farm), planting seeds before the rains start. I stayed behind to work on the mural I’ve been painting (it’s pretty slow going but it’s basically different animals and Mt. Kilimanjaro). When I think about it, people really use their bodies more here. My Swahili teacher Mama Semiono laughed, loudly, when I asked if there is pain medicine available to women giving birth. This is a woman who birthed five children. Five! Most days, I see people (usually women) caring small trees on their heads or giant bundles of grasses to feed their cows. Women mop the floor on their hands and knees with rags and carry their babies with them on their backs wherever they go. Laundry is done in a bucket, with your hands, and dried in the sun.

Hand in hand with this is the physical process of getting to work. I am about ready to invest in a bicycle or a little motorized bike (in my dreams) although death is a realistic concern. Everyday, I walk 15 minutes or so up-hill through the trees to the roundabout where I get a dala-dala. Usually people try and make conversation with me questioning me to the umpteenth degree or stare at me like an alien. Sometimes people ask me for a job: “Mzungu, do you have a job for me?” Still haven’t mastered the response to that. Then I take the dala-dala through the country, over the river and get off at Magereza, the village where Amani is, which, by the way, means “prison.” This would be because nearby, there is….a prison. Sometimes I see the prisoners working the fields or fixing the roads. Then I pass a small row of dukas (shops) where people again stare at me and I turn down the country road to walk to work. This walk is usually where kids come up to me asking for candy or money (“Give me my money”), because somewhere out there some idiot tourist is handing out money in dirt-poor villages thinking this is a good idea. One day, two preschoolers came up to me and grabbed my hands and started running, and I thought, “What in the hell?” My bag slipped down my arm and one of the little tykes tried to grab it until a big mama yelled at her. I’m mostly glad she didn’t take it because it’d be really embarrassing to explain I was mugged by a five year old. Once in a while on this road, Maasai men are herding their cattle (which one day I thought was peoples’ legs from far away and it freaked me out). Other times perverts come up to me and ask me for “sexy time” or say they love me and hope that I’ll prostitute myself. After all of this (which adds up to about 45 minutes), I am really tired of commuting to work.

In spite of everything involved in this daily commute, which I do twice thank you very much, there are parts of the road where the vegetable fields are the most amazing color green and the sun shines on the workers’ backs in a way that surpasses even the most beautiful paintings. And with this, I forget for a few minutes about the fact that at times I feel more like a symbol of the disparity of wealth in the world than an actual person with a story and an intent.