Last week I found my self in the middle of a crowded bus stand, telling people I didn't want to get tested for HIV because my husband would think I was a prostitute. And no, I'm not crazy. It was part of a community theater workshop in Iringa town. First we did research by going into the community and asking people if they had been tested for HIV, and finding out what prevented them from getting tested. Then we wrote interactive plays to persuade people to change their minds. On the day we went to perform, we marched into the bus stand and started playing the drums and dancing in a circle. People started to gather around, and when there were about 60 people, we began our plays. Ours involved a group of people who saw a poster about HIV testing, and had various reasons for not going. One man thought it was a conspiracy, one said he knew he was infected (a true story from the research we did), one woman had no time due to her many kids. Then a friend came to convince us that we should get tested. When she failed, she went to the crowd for help. They argued with each of the actors until each of us was convinced to get tested (also realistic, as often during our research people claimed that they would get tested later that day). The second group of volunteers and counterparts did a fantastic interpretive dance, in which the main character, a beautiful girl, refused to "dance with" a guy who wouldn't get tested. I used to scoff at interpretive dances, but I got chills when they did it, it was that good. Then the crowd tried to convince him to get tested. When he was still unsure, the dance continued with another guy coming into the picture, getting tested, and getting the girl. Now I am really excited to try and use community theater in my village, even though many of the things we did in Iringa town would not go over well in our conservative little village.

Last Sunday I was part of the receiving party for the Tanzanian Torch of Freedom. From what I gather, the first Tanzanian president started the torch as a symbol for freedom, and now it travels around the whole country each year, passing through different villages, with a certain message that they want all Tanzanians to know (this year it was "Get tested for AIDS" and "Down with Corruption"). I expected it to be kind of like the Olympic torch, and maybe we'd get to hold it and run around a bit while some people waved gigantic flags, but I was let down. The preparations for receiving the torch took several weeks. They decorated the streets, fixed roads, and had matching (hideous) suits sewn (yes, I wore one too). I was surprised to see that the torch itself was rather small, and it was so windy that several people had to stand around it blocking it from the wind (and also from sight). I was with the AIDS choir, and when the fifteen cars showed up with various government officials and other important people, we sang some songs about being really happy to get the torch. Then they gave some speeches and jumped in their cars to go to the next village on the list. The singing and dancing were fun, and the speeches were really good, but I expected to feel just a little more like an Olympic athlete.

I just made a new friend with beautiful green eyes and a Hitler moustache (although thankfully none of his tendencies so far). Her name's Johnny, and she's been living with me for the past week. I think she's pregnant. Most of my dialogue with her consists of me saying "Leave that frog alone. Do not eat that frog," to which she generally just meows or purrs in response. Upon my return from Morogoro, I found it impossible to sleep as my house was overrun with rats due to the departure of my old cat last month. A volunteer who's leaving invited me to take her cat, and I gratefully agreed.

This morning as I was biking to the main road I was passed by two large herds (swarms?) of sugarcane boys; the largest herds I've ever seen. The sugarcane boys travel in flocks of 2-15, and are usually between the ages of 6-14, I think. They ride on wooden downhill bikes (two-wheeled things that you sit on to go down hills). I think of them like sleds but scarier. Even the wheels are made of wood, often with old tire-tread nailed to them. I got out of the way as they barreled down the hill, some of them greeting me in Hehe or Swahili, others going too fast to say anything, and others grinning ear-to-ear and shouting "Good morning madam!" or "Good morning sir!" They transport sugarcane from the village on their wooden bikey-things to the main road (for sale in the bigger towns I think).

As I navigate treacherous footpaths on my bike while balancing a 6-foot long bamboo contraption tied together with string, the majority of villagers guess that I'm either mad, going fishing, or trying out a new torture device. The truth is much more mundane, so I like to make them guess first. The bamboo, when assembled, is actually a magical device called an "A-frame," which allows farmers to redecorate their farms so that not only are they much more aesthetically pleasing, but much less prone to erosion. The A-frame is used to measure contour lines, so that ditches can be dug or vegetative strips can be left on the contour. I feel like some kind of opposite Santa Claus, as I show up to peoples' homes bearing strange gifts to the tune of children fleeing, and neighbors peeping warily out of their doors at me. One of my main priorities in the village is getting people to stop flat-farming on the slopes, and watching year after year as their topsoil is flushed into streams and rivers. I have set up a schedule with everyone who was interested, to visit their farms and come up with a plan to plant long-lived nitrogen-fixing trees or shrubs, and to dig contour ditches and plant or leave vegetated strips. As I mentioned, I got people to come to a seminar by advertising that they should come if they had trouble with fertilizer. Many of them thought that I was going to give out bags of free fertilizer. I was a little worried that this would lead to some hostility when they found out that I was just going to teach a session. But when I showed them the math on how much money they would spend on fertilizer for an acre, and how much they would spend on intercropping nitrogen-fixing trees on their land, and the subsequent benefits, they stopped clenching their fists under the table and thanked me for the ideas. The message was that you can spend the American equivalent of $2.25 to plant trees on one acre (instead of $25-50 on commercial fertilizer), and over time the benefits can reach $2,000-3,000.