Powdered-Milk Guitar
When I was growing up in Barrow, Alaska, I waited excitedly for my birthday or a holiday which would warrant a splurge on real milk. With a gallon of milk costing about $7, we instead bought giant boxes of Milkman powdered milk, which came in bright orange boxes with a picture of a young brunette with a milk moustache, looking ecstatic to be drinking the stuff. I choked down a chalky cup every night with dinner, wondering how that little girl on the box gained so much enjoyment from hers.
Here in Tanzania, I spend a large chunk of my monthly allowance to feed my addiction to powdered milk. It adds the necessary substance to a mug of chai, or a bowl of rice pudding. Suffice to say my relationship with milk powder has turned 180°. A can of the stuff costs about 6 dollars US, and I go through about 2 of those per month. I have built up quite a stash of the cans.
I left one can outside my house after planting some seeds that I had stored in it. A seventh grader who stopped by told me not to leave it there or it would be stolen by someone who wanted to make a guitar.
A guitar!? Cool, I said. Why don’t we make one? In fact, why don’t we do it as an environmental club session on recycling?
So I became the student. They poked a hole in the side of the can, and drove a stick into it. Then they poked a hole in the bottom of the can and fed a string through it, and tied the other end of the string to the stick. It has only 1 string at this point (but we could add more), but the pitch can be altered by increasing tension on the stick. One of the kids was a pro at plucking the makeshift guitar. I’m still working on it and planning my debut in the primary school.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Friday, February 15, 2008
Saloon
The barber nervously admitted that he’d never cut mzungu hair before. I had finally decided that I couldn’t live 2 years in Tanzania without enjoying the services of a hair saloon (it just sounds exciting, doesn’t it?). This one bragged that it specialized in “all types of hair.” I thought it was safe.
I explained I wanted about two inches off. I should have explained that this was 2 inches from my entire head of hair, evenly. The barber deftly whipped a cloth across my shoulders, grabbed a lock of my hair, and poised his scissors about 7 inches from the end. “Two inches!” I screamed, just seconds before the damage could be done. He wiped the sweat from his brow, repositioned his weapon, and hacked off 2 inches. Then there was an awkward pause, and he asked “should I continue?”, as if I seriously might be satisfied with this and walk out. He continued to grab random locks of my hair and lop off a couple of inches, pausing now and then to ask if he was done. I was tempted to ask just to borrow the scissors. Once my hair was roughly 2 inches shorter, and I’d gotten him to trim some missed spots, I freed the man from his drudgery. I was relieved that not too much damage had resulted, but a little disappointed at the lack of action at the saloon.
Burn
When my environment kids finished their little experimental garden, I noticed that the little Tupperware I had given them filled with sunflower seeds to plant was empty. I realized it was a dumb move to give them the whole container if I wanted the extra ones. I wasn’t mad—how could I be when some of these kids hadn’t eaten since the night before? But I told them I needed everyone who had eaten seeds to raise their hands immediately so I could rush them to the clinic. I told them I’d sprayed the seeds with pesticides, and we’d have to hurry up and get them treated. A few of the kids, looking rather worried, tentatively raised their hands, while the very clever ones realized it was a trick. When I admitted my fib, they fell on the ground laughing.
No More Zombies
The kids in my sex ed class shocked me last class. When I arrived, a shy but creative student had a greeting he had prepared to take the place of the normal comatose recitation. (See Saturday, Feb. 2 - Zombies entry)
“Gail Norton (clap, clap), AIDS and youth (clap, clap, clap), we are learning (x3) each and everything, YEAH!”
At first my name was pronounced so strangely that I didn’t recognize it, but once I did, I nearly choked on my own saliva. I still find it startling when I receive this little cheer session, but have learned to take it as a much-needed confidence booster before a class I still get nervous about teaching.
In the previous session three boys had volunteered eagerly to prepare a skit to perform in front of the class. I hadn’t talked to them since they had agreed, and I was convinced they had changed their minds, and were too shy to perform a play about misconceptions about sex and pregnancy for their peers. Boy was I wrong. These kids attacked the play with such enthusiasm, adding their own style and details, down to hilarious walks, that we asked them to perform a second time. I can’t wait until the next skit.
The barber nervously admitted that he’d never cut mzungu hair before. I had finally decided that I couldn’t live 2 years in Tanzania without enjoying the services of a hair saloon (it just sounds exciting, doesn’t it?). This one bragged that it specialized in “all types of hair.” I thought it was safe.
I explained I wanted about two inches off. I should have explained that this was 2 inches from my entire head of hair, evenly. The barber deftly whipped a cloth across my shoulders, grabbed a lock of my hair, and poised his scissors about 7 inches from the end. “Two inches!” I screamed, just seconds before the damage could be done. He wiped the sweat from his brow, repositioned his weapon, and hacked off 2 inches. Then there was an awkward pause, and he asked “should I continue?”, as if I seriously might be satisfied with this and walk out. He continued to grab random locks of my hair and lop off a couple of inches, pausing now and then to ask if he was done. I was tempted to ask just to borrow the scissors. Once my hair was roughly 2 inches shorter, and I’d gotten him to trim some missed spots, I freed the man from his drudgery. I was relieved that not too much damage had resulted, but a little disappointed at the lack of action at the saloon.
Burn
When my environment kids finished their little experimental garden, I noticed that the little Tupperware I had given them filled with sunflower seeds to plant was empty. I realized it was a dumb move to give them the whole container if I wanted the extra ones. I wasn’t mad—how could I be when some of these kids hadn’t eaten since the night before? But I told them I needed everyone who had eaten seeds to raise their hands immediately so I could rush them to the clinic. I told them I’d sprayed the seeds with pesticides, and we’d have to hurry up and get them treated. A few of the kids, looking rather worried, tentatively raised their hands, while the very clever ones realized it was a trick. When I admitted my fib, they fell on the ground laughing.
No More Zombies
The kids in my sex ed class shocked me last class. When I arrived, a shy but creative student had a greeting he had prepared to take the place of the normal comatose recitation. (See Saturday, Feb. 2 - Zombies entry)
“Gail Norton (clap, clap), AIDS and youth (clap, clap, clap), we are learning (x3) each and everything, YEAH!”
At first my name was pronounced so strangely that I didn’t recognize it, but once I did, I nearly choked on my own saliva. I still find it startling when I receive this little cheer session, but have learned to take it as a much-needed confidence booster before a class I still get nervous about teaching.
In the previous session three boys had volunteered eagerly to prepare a skit to perform in front of the class. I hadn’t talked to them since they had agreed, and I was convinced they had changed their minds, and were too shy to perform a play about misconceptions about sex and pregnancy for their peers. Boy was I wrong. These kids attacked the play with such enthusiasm, adding their own style and details, down to hilarious walks, that we asked them to perform a second time. I can’t wait until the next skit.
Saturday, February 09, 2008
ZigZaga
At this little restaurant in town, every visit is an adventure. You never know whether you will ushered in like a long-lost friend, or disdainfully ignored like a dirty sock on the floor. Often you try desperately to get the tired waiter’s attention as he serves someone else, who walked in 15 minutes after you, the last plate of whatever it was you wanted to order. Then there is the fact that if you do not repeat your order 8 times, you could end up with 15 slices of white bread and an egg instead of the yoghurt you asked for. Then you have such an array of choices. Will you have the pizza (an interesting variation on an Italian delicacy- no bread, tomatoes, or cheese, but it does have ground beef and egg and is deep fried to perfection!), or the “humbuger” (yes, an actual hamburger, but it’s been sitting on a plate in a display case for 6 hours)? I always swear I will never go back after waiting 2 hours for a dish that was “almost ready” when I arrived, but as soon as the cardamom-enthused milk chai touches my lips, I know I’ll be back for another roller-coaster of emotions.
Cacophony
I seem to recall that back home, whenever a non-professional group comes together in song (at church or baseball games), there is at least one over-enthusiastic and under-talented individual belting out a dissonant caterwaul, or somehow more subtly ruining an otherwise decent attempt at music. Then a polite but perturbed individual (generally a plump middle-aged woman) will take it upon herself to “resolve” the problem non-confrontationally by simply singing louder than (and often an octave above) the rest of the group. The original offending singer is cheered on by her enthusiasm, and sings with renewed strength, delighting in the building camaraderie.
In Tanzania I have yet to experience this phenomenon, despite countless public singing events. Every morning my routine is accompanied by a harmony of voices wafting from the primary school grounds 50 meters from my house. Only recently has it dawned on me that it is odd that this is such a pleasant experience. They even play the flutophones decently! Where I come from, looking forward to a 3rd grade flutophone concert would be akin to excitement over a hysterectomy. Here they play those things and music comes out. These kids are musical prodigies; by the time they’re in the 4th grade they have learned 2 and 4 part harmonies along with dance steps.
This all has caused me to fear there may be a vast graveyard somewhere of the young and tone-deaf. It just can’t be natural for an entire society to be so musically-inclined.
I Repeat, Tanzania is a Peace Country
This is something I’m reminded of constantly by strangers on the bus, old women selling papayas, young kids practicing their English, as well as close friends. One teacher in particular, while indulging in his post-work bamboo juice, likes to yell this phrase at me, his volume and enthusiasm increasing with every intoxicating mug of the liquid.
It is true, though. For anyone getting nervous for safety here in Tanzania due to the riots in Kenya, I’ll stress that Tanzania is a totally different story. Here, the legacy of the country’s first president may be one of mixed merit, but he did manage to build a country virtually devoid of tribal tensions. For one thing, the universal use of Swahili has prevented language barriers from becoming a political problem. Traveling for work became very common as the country industrialized, and inter-tribal marriage is completely normal. There are the occasional jokes among tribes that smack of racism, but I have yet to see these get too out of hand. Mostly people are quick to criticize their own tribes, or to apologize for traditions they now see as out-dated.
Kenya is another story, with two major tribes that have aligned themselves politically. This may not be the whole reason behind the violence, but it is definitely a contributing factor. There is palpable pride when Tanzanians describe the Kenyan situation, and detail the reasons that it is not likely to happen in Tanzania.
Instincts
After being in Tanzania for a year and a half, I’ve been afflicted with many new habits, which I will inevitably be made fun of when I get back to the states. These include:
1. Curtseying (when shaking hands)
2. Burping with reckless abandon even in formal situations
3. Saying “even me” (what Tanzanians say instead of “me too” due to direct translation from Swahili)
4. Escorting people leaving my house so far they will probably think I’m following them home
5. Letting out high-pitched noises like “Kaa!” especially when confronted with nastily priced items
6. “Eheee!”… a heartfelt utterance of agreement
7. Being late, oh so late
8. Ignoring children unless they greet me first
9. Feeling like an unwholesome character when wearing shorts
10. Being a nervous phone-talker incapable of having relaxed phone conversations-- sputtering out information as quickly as possible, having realized that each second means more shillings running down the drain
At this little restaurant in town, every visit is an adventure. You never know whether you will ushered in like a long-lost friend, or disdainfully ignored like a dirty sock on the floor. Often you try desperately to get the tired waiter’s attention as he serves someone else, who walked in 15 minutes after you, the last plate of whatever it was you wanted to order. Then there is the fact that if you do not repeat your order 8 times, you could end up with 15 slices of white bread and an egg instead of the yoghurt you asked for. Then you have such an array of choices. Will you have the pizza (an interesting variation on an Italian delicacy- no bread, tomatoes, or cheese, but it does have ground beef and egg and is deep fried to perfection!), or the “humbuger” (yes, an actual hamburger, but it’s been sitting on a plate in a display case for 6 hours)? I always swear I will never go back after waiting 2 hours for a dish that was “almost ready” when I arrived, but as soon as the cardamom-enthused milk chai touches my lips, I know I’ll be back for another roller-coaster of emotions.
Cacophony
I seem to recall that back home, whenever a non-professional group comes together in song (at church or baseball games), there is at least one over-enthusiastic and under-talented individual belting out a dissonant caterwaul, or somehow more subtly ruining an otherwise decent attempt at music. Then a polite but perturbed individual (generally a plump middle-aged woman) will take it upon herself to “resolve” the problem non-confrontationally by simply singing louder than (and often an octave above) the rest of the group. The original offending singer is cheered on by her enthusiasm, and sings with renewed strength, delighting in the building camaraderie.
In Tanzania I have yet to experience this phenomenon, despite countless public singing events. Every morning my routine is accompanied by a harmony of voices wafting from the primary school grounds 50 meters from my house. Only recently has it dawned on me that it is odd that this is such a pleasant experience. They even play the flutophones decently! Where I come from, looking forward to a 3rd grade flutophone concert would be akin to excitement over a hysterectomy. Here they play those things and music comes out. These kids are musical prodigies; by the time they’re in the 4th grade they have learned 2 and 4 part harmonies along with dance steps.
This all has caused me to fear there may be a vast graveyard somewhere of the young and tone-deaf. It just can’t be natural for an entire society to be so musically-inclined.
I Repeat, Tanzania is a Peace Country
This is something I’m reminded of constantly by strangers on the bus, old women selling papayas, young kids practicing their English, as well as close friends. One teacher in particular, while indulging in his post-work bamboo juice, likes to yell this phrase at me, his volume and enthusiasm increasing with every intoxicating mug of the liquid.
It is true, though. For anyone getting nervous for safety here in Tanzania due to the riots in Kenya, I’ll stress that Tanzania is a totally different story. Here, the legacy of the country’s first president may be one of mixed merit, but he did manage to build a country virtually devoid of tribal tensions. For one thing, the universal use of Swahili has prevented language barriers from becoming a political problem. Traveling for work became very common as the country industrialized, and inter-tribal marriage is completely normal. There are the occasional jokes among tribes that smack of racism, but I have yet to see these get too out of hand. Mostly people are quick to criticize their own tribes, or to apologize for traditions they now see as out-dated.
Kenya is another story, with two major tribes that have aligned themselves politically. This may not be the whole reason behind the violence, but it is definitely a contributing factor. There is palpable pride when Tanzanians describe the Kenyan situation, and detail the reasons that it is not likely to happen in Tanzania.
Instincts
After being in Tanzania for a year and a half, I’ve been afflicted with many new habits, which I will inevitably be made fun of when I get back to the states. These include:
1. Curtseying (when shaking hands)
2. Burping with reckless abandon even in formal situations
3. Saying “even me” (what Tanzanians say instead of “me too” due to direct translation from Swahili)
4. Escorting people leaving my house so far they will probably think I’m following them home
5. Letting out high-pitched noises like “Kaa!” especially when confronted with nastily priced items
6. “Eheee!”… a heartfelt utterance of agreement
7. Being late, oh so late
8. Ignoring children unless they greet me first
9. Feeling like an unwholesome character when wearing shorts
10. Being a nervous phone-talker incapable of having relaxed phone conversations-- sputtering out information as quickly as possible, having realized that each second means more shillings running down the drain
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Zombies and Permaculture
I had a rough landing back in my village. The rosy picture that had been painted for my relatives revealed its thorns almost immediately. Two weeks after school had started, I found 600 restless students stuck in their classrooms while 4 teachers sat in the office, apparently unperturbed by this picture. A meeting I had been trying to plan for weeks to discuss the water project evaporated without a trace and in its place I found a trial to determine the fate of a man who had impregnated a 6th grader. Farms were washing away, with no attempt to follow my advice of digging contour ditches. I found comfort working with my awesome 7th graders.
If you had told me 10 years ago that one day I would be teaching sex ed, I would have had a rough time swallowing it. Somehow I myself managed to avoid the dreaded class, probably by fault of moving to Calgary for a year in middle school, and opting to do my high school health class by correspondence.
I realized the class was essential, as teachers seem to skim over this topic, and parents wouldn’t touch it with a ten meter pole. A bright, brave young seventh grader came to me asking some very basic questions about puberty, and I realized that teaching sex ed and life skills might be the most valuable thing I could contribute to the school.
It is customary, whenever a teacher steps into a classroom for all the students to stand up and recite in the most oppressed-sounding of voices, “A good education is the right of every child. We respect you, teacher.” I explained what zombies are, and that if they kept up that greeting, I would be reminded of zombies, and wouldn’t be able to teach because I’d be too scared. My first order of business was to challenge them to come up with something more exciting and motivating to say. We’ll see what they come up with.
When we got to the lesson about puberty, and how girls produce one egg per month, it made them laugh. They decided girls were much like chickens. We also got into a heated argument over whether puberty makes boys more conceited.
The environment club students were asked if they wanted to be farmers or scientists. When it was a unanimous call for “scientists!” we decided to make a garden with half permaculture beds and half traditional beds, and compare the yields. The kids loved learning the English word “double-digging,” and I’d find them practicing it as they worked. They were shocked when I kicked off my shoes and grabbed a hoe to help dig, as it is customary for the teacher just to stand by and bark orders. By the end of two classes we had two beds each of sunflower, wheat, peas, pumpkins, and carrots.
I had a rough landing back in my village. The rosy picture that had been painted for my relatives revealed its thorns almost immediately. Two weeks after school had started, I found 600 restless students stuck in their classrooms while 4 teachers sat in the office, apparently unperturbed by this picture. A meeting I had been trying to plan for weeks to discuss the water project evaporated without a trace and in its place I found a trial to determine the fate of a man who had impregnated a 6th grader. Farms were washing away, with no attempt to follow my advice of digging contour ditches. I found comfort working with my awesome 7th graders.
If you had told me 10 years ago that one day I would be teaching sex ed, I would have had a rough time swallowing it. Somehow I myself managed to avoid the dreaded class, probably by fault of moving to Calgary for a year in middle school, and opting to do my high school health class by correspondence.
I realized the class was essential, as teachers seem to skim over this topic, and parents wouldn’t touch it with a ten meter pole. A bright, brave young seventh grader came to me asking some very basic questions about puberty, and I realized that teaching sex ed and life skills might be the most valuable thing I could contribute to the school.
It is customary, whenever a teacher steps into a classroom for all the students to stand up and recite in the most oppressed-sounding of voices, “A good education is the right of every child. We respect you, teacher.” I explained what zombies are, and that if they kept up that greeting, I would be reminded of zombies, and wouldn’t be able to teach because I’d be too scared. My first order of business was to challenge them to come up with something more exciting and motivating to say. We’ll see what they come up with.
When we got to the lesson about puberty, and how girls produce one egg per month, it made them laugh. They decided girls were much like chickens. We also got into a heated argument over whether puberty makes boys more conceited.
The environment club students were asked if they wanted to be farmers or scientists. When it was a unanimous call for “scientists!” we decided to make a garden with half permaculture beds and half traditional beds, and compare the yields. The kids loved learning the English word “double-digging,” and I’d find them practicing it as they worked. They were shocked when I kicked off my shoes and grabbed a hoe to help dig, as it is customary for the teacher just to stand by and bark orders. By the end of two classes we had two beds each of sunflower, wheat, peas, pumpkins, and carrots.
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