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Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Saturday, January 23, 2010 7:28pm

There are always going to be those days that every moment I am wanting so badly to be home, in America, with my family, and my friends. Doing familiar things that I know I am competent doing, instead of teaching things in a foreign language that I myself just learned the day before. They will always be followed by days where every moment something new and beautiful happens that reminds me why I am here and restores faith in my ability to help bring change to this village.

Again, it has been awhile. I have been busy, training, then Christmas, New Years, then training again. I have just returned to my village now after my second training. I have completed my report (a whopping 17 pages of single spaced Swahili that I am very proud of) and I am ready to begin my real work here in the village.

Upon my return I was told that I have a new mtendaji – a village leader that I have long since forgotten the English translation for. I have yet to meet her – but was only told – repeatedly – that like me – she is a woman. The day I returned I searched out all the people I wanted to begin collaboration with: the headmaster of the primary school, the headmaster of the secondary school, the doctor at the dispensary, and the mtendaji. Not a single one of them where around.

But let me back up a moment because I am sure you want to hear about Christmas, New Years, my birthday.

Christmas: I decided I wanted to spend Christmas in my village, with Flora and her family, and cook American food to share with my villagers. The afternoon before Christmas I came to Flora’s house with my bicycle loaded down with supplies to make tuna casserole, macaroni and cheese, and cake. A strange menu, I know, but these were the foods I had ingredients to make. We could not find bread so the PB&J, what Flora was most excited about on the proposed menu, did not happen

I was excited to see midnight mass in Tanzania, and to hear the beautiful voices of the congregation raised in Christmas song. But, as blessings do come, the rain we had all prayed for began early evening continuing into the night, pounding the dusty soil into thick mud. Despite our best efforts, Floras’s son Chikira and I decided to turn around in only 2 minutes, being completely soaked, and unable to see or walk on the dark muddy paths.

So I awoke Christmas morning, before the sun, starting the fire with Salome, one of Flora’s daughters. I began helping her cook chapati and chai. By the sunup, people where already visiting a bit, close neighbors came to drink chai and give Christmas greetings and chat a bit before continuing on. I had already begun cooking my dishes. So I sat, in the jiko (pronounced gee-ko meaning kitchen) which is a brick room separate from the house that the fire is in, and cooked amongst the smoke and heat of the day.

It took longer than I ever thought it would to cook tuna casserole, mac and cheese, and 2 cakes. By the time I finished it was early afternoon and it begun to rain again. This whole time I had tried very hard to fight off thoughts of Christmas at home. Waking up to stockings on the door (yes, even now that I’m all old and grown up) cooking yummy breakfast and eating together. Cinnamon raisin bagels with cream cheese. Listening to Christmas music and sitting by the Christmas tree opening presents together. Relaxing and being together family.

I sat alone in the jiko trying hard not to resent my missed Christmas, not to miss all those things, to want in the least one familiar song. (On a side note, I was lucky that my mom had baked for me and mailed my very favourite part of Christmas, her Christmas cookies, which arrived amazingly intact and I was able to share with my villagers, who thought they were perhaps the most delicious food they’d ever tasted. But alas, I had run out by Christmas day)

So I cooked, until mid-afternoon. Then showered quickly, put on my new dress, and waited. But the rain had started again and no one came. We sat in Flora’s living room listening to Kiswahili choir music eating the food we had cooked, and dancing a bit. On any other day it would have been a fun afternoon. But I wanted Christmas. I was tired from cooking, and no one was even going to be able to come because of the rains. I had invited all my favourite families from my subvillage but it is a 35-40 minute walk, not something anyone would be willing to do in a steady downpour even for the promise of yummy American food.

After a lonely Christmas I decided I had to spend New Years with friends. I am glad I did. I headed up to Moshi to stay at the house of an ex-pat with fellow volunteers. New Years Eve we went to a club with live music, overpriced drinks, and the most fantastic fireworks/bonfire display I have ever seen. The bonfire was built about 2 times my height. Then, in a small area perhaps 20ft x 20ft, random people ran in, put down a firework, lit it, watched to see if it went off, relit it, and then ran away quickly. The next person would run in, at no prescribed interval, and put down a few more, and play the same amusing dance. In between fireworks, sometimes someone shot a gun repeatedly into the air. Bang bang bang bang bang bang bang. It was incredible, entertaining, and impressive that no one lost a limb.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010 8:54am

Someone came to my door as I was writing, and I haven’t had a chance to finish. But I am going to send this to be posted now, and will try to write more later.

New pictures are up, including of my birthday – cake and pizza! I was lucky to be in Dodoma for training during my birthday, but more on that later.

Saturday, January 2, 2010

January 2, 2010 10:57pm

They say that depression is the disease of the privileged, and I have begun to understand why. I do see depression effecting people in my village, women who have lost child after child unable to find happiness in anything anymore. Men whose farms have failed for so many years it is hard to muster the strength to plant another crop and wait again for rains that will not come.

But the expectations and judgments that we Americans put on ourselves fall away, too. I came to this country probably a pretty typical American, concerned with my looks, my weight, my skin, my hair, my cleanliness. But these things I have no control over now. At first the weight gain bothered me, when I had the rare chance to see myself in a mirror I was horrified by how I was changing and desperate to find a way to lose weight and get 'in shape'. But I have realized, over time, I just have no control over it. I cannot control when or what I eat on most days.

My skin has plagued me since about a month into country, breaking out into a strange rash that has not really gone away for the 6 months of service until now. I hated it - not wanting to come out - trying to put the little bit of make-up I brought over it, and hating the very un-sensitive comments that I got daily from every Tanzanian I met ('Hi, my name is __ . What is wrong with your face?' - I'm not exaggerating. . ) But I have come to understand there is nothing I can do about it. So it doesn't bother me.

I am getting fatter. My skin is plagued by some strange rash. I am often late, or early and waiting for hours. When there is no water, I cannot shower. Or when I run out of conditioner, which they don't sell in this country. My hair is often stringy, oily, and dirty. I have no control over these things so they are no longer stressful for me. I have to accept them, and everyone in this country accepts them. There are so many things that you do not have control over, even as simple as food and water. Sometimes they are there, sometimes they are not.

The less control you have over your world the less you feel like it is your personal responsibility to make it perfect.

The sociologists are right.

I hope you all had a great Christmas and New Years. :-)