I started to cry… which started the whole world laughing
“You would have given them doughnuts instead of a beating,” said a teacher as she took a break to rest her beating-arm.

“We’re beating them because they ran away from school. They ran away from school because they were starving. We don’t have any money or food for them. So we had to beat them. Now they won’t run away again. You would have bought them doughnuts.”

Then she laughs. This isn’t a cruel laugh; it’s the ever-so-common laugh that you hear when circumstances are so messed up or desperate that you have no other option but to laugh. Africa has taught me the art of this healing laugh. But this time I couldn’t laugh.

Bad things happen to good people
Why is it that 95% of all the people I’ve ever met who have HIV are unbelievably sweet, hard-working, and genuinely nice? My new friend, Dama (not her real name), invited me to her modest little house so she could ask me how long she could expect to live. She’s a widow who, four years ago, was “inherited” by another man as a second wife. Her husband tested negative, but seems to be supportive of her and was receptive of the idea of using condoms. Dama has shown no sign of giving up hope, and seems generally encouraged when I tell her that having HIV does not mean she will die tomorrow. She also cooked me some delicious pumpkin and gave me some bambarra nuts to take home. I had brought a gift of two eggs, but ended up smacking myself on the forehead when I saw the number of chickens running about in her courtyard.

On Friday I had HIV-testers come out to the village again. This time, 144 people tested, and 9 were positive. I was really encouraged by the fact that Dama came to me looking for help, and has decided to join our club of PLWHA (People Living with HIV/AIDS). Things are slowly changing.

Let them drink pombe
Tanzania’s first president implemented the idea of ujamaa, or “familyhood,” which instructs that development should be carried out in villages just as in the home, with everyone contributing to the projects in the society like one big jolly African extended family. It’s Tanzania’s flavor of socialism. Unfortunately, in my village, the idea that everyone should strain their backs for the greater good has somewhat been lost. Instead there is a bitter sentiment that arises for all the people who didn’t show up to make bricks or haul rocks, a cry for implementation of fines, and constant whining about who will bring the pombe (local brew) and when.

On Tuesday I went to help build up the village’s water intake. The men were cleaning out the existing tank, hauling cement, and whining about the lack of pombe. The women were piling rocks on their heads, transporting them to the intake, and whining about the lack of pombe. Apparently the priest had promised some pombe, but when I left the intake, a few people were still working, some were resting, and all were still whining about the lack of pombe. I sure hope in the end the pombe showed up. My villagers are completely up for this familyhood idea as long as it’s not a sober family we’re talking about.

Teeth
Of course there are many elders whose tired gums cling to only one or two remaining teeth, but in general, Tanzania seems to have an uncannily high proportion of Crest-commercial-worthy smiles. But even more surprising is what they are able to do with these chompers. They can peel and gnaw through sugarcane the length, diameter, and texture of a flagpole. I’ve been handed thick sections of it, and encouraged to beaver my way through it—a task which I see as being about as possible as reducing a 2x4 to sawdust with your mouth, if only slightly more rewarding. If I do manage it, my jaws feel as if they’ve just chewed a marathon.

The other amazing thing is what happens when there are no bottle-openers around. Tanzanians barely think twice about punching into the bottle with their canines—a sensation about as tantalizing to me as licking a chalkboard.

Fingernails
There is one weird thing about fingernails here- men tend to cultivate one fingernail, leaving it much longer than the rest. I’ve asked about it, and some people say it’s for scratching phone vouchers, but I’ve seen people without phones sporting the single talon. I think they’re hiding something.

Leg Hair
I don’t know any Tanzanians who shave their legs. They are naturally hairless! It’s unfair.

A Little Beard Never Hurt
It is not uncommon to see women, particularly ones with steady, salary-paying jobs, sporting a few tufts of wiry, black chin hair. Some let it grow right around the undersides of their jaws just as it pleases. I’ve been told it’s good luck to marry one of these whiskered ladies, and one source claims that just as long as she doesn’t have a full-out beard and sideburns, her attractiveness isn’t diminished.

Why you shouldn’t get cocky in Tanzania

Me: I just biked to Makambako and back (80 hilly kilometers).
Villager: Huh, I didn’t see you there… I just went there to visit my sick nephew. On foot. With a 60 kilo bag of maize on my head. And a baby on my back. With no shoes.
Me: Doh.

Me: I just harvested 30 liters of beans. That’s more than I could eat in a year!
Villager: I just harvested 800 liters of beans in my farm in the next village over and hauled them back to my house. And I have malaria.
Me: Sheesh.

Me: I just ran to the road and back (20k).
Another Peace Corps: You are Shira, you are God, you are my idol. Let me cook you some food.
Villager: Why’d you do that?

Me: I’m so hungry. I haven’t eaten since tea.
Villager: That’s strange. I haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon and I’m not hungry.
Me: Iyiyiyi.

Me: Look at me! I’m carrying a 5-gallon bucket of water on my head!
Villager: Walks by carrying a 5-gallon bucket on head, and 2 smaller buckets, one in each hand, and (of course) a 2-year-old on her back.
Two-year-old: Sticks tongue out at me.

Me: Maybe someday I’ll bike to Mafinga (at least 100k away).
Villager: I just biked there yesterday with my sick pregnant wife on my bike with no gears.
Me: I give up. You win.

Who’s on First (in Tz)?

Note: All of the italicized words are ACTUAL Tanzanian names translated into English. The names are real but the story is fictional.

I entered the class and noticed all of my students crowding around the window.
“What are you looking at?” I asked.
“Leaves,” said one student.
“God,” said another.
“Love,” said another.
Another student just uttered a four letter expletive meaning feces.

When I looked out the window, I saw why they were so interested. Five students were standing around looking like they were about to get into a fight. I saw that God and Sh@# were being held back by Leaves and Love. I ran down to the road where they were.
“Stop It!” I yelled. They paid no attention. But Stop It came running from the classroom.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Sorry,” I said, “I mean them.”
“Right,” she said, and ran back to the classroom, only to appear two seconds later with Them, who looked confused.
“No!” I cried. “Stay in the classroom! I want nobody to come out! And nobody should make any noise!”
They walked sheepishly back to the classroom. Just as I was about to separate God and S#*@, Nobody came out of the classroom barking like a dog.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I asked angrily.
“You said I should come out of the classroom and make any noise.” I sighed and sent her back.
“This is no good!” I told the students who were about to fight.
“Where? This Is No Good is my sister. What does she have to do with anything?” asked God.
“Who started this?” I asked, ignoring God.
“I didn’t see,” said Leaves.
“God,” said I Didn’t See.
“Nobody,” said God.
“Enough!” I said, “I don’t believe Nobody started it. She was in class. Let’s begin with S@#$. Why do you want to hit God?”
“He wrote a letter to let us pray.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Let Us Pray is my girlfriend!” he cried.
“Not true!” said God. “I don’t want her!”
“What?” S@#$ and I said in unison.
“I wrote a letter to I Don’t Want Her, not Let Us Pray!”
Just as I thought we were getting things straight, a couple of students bolted out of the classroom.
“Come Closer and Scare Me!” I yelled. They didn’t hear me, but Love and Leaves moved in on me baring their teeth.
“Everyone go back to the classroom,” I ordered. To my surprise, they did.
“Thanks,” I began. Maybe I could finally take attendance. But a boy stood up.
“Yes ma’am?” he asked.
“Oh sorry, Thanks. Have a seat, I was just thanking them for coming back to the classroom.” Them looked proud.
“It’s No Good, I’m Useless, I Can’t Handle It, I Don’t Care,” I began.
One student stood up and headed to the door. I asked him where he thought he was going.
“It seems you have given up on teaching. You need a break.”

I told everyone I was ok. I was just frustrated by S@#$, Regret, Problems, Grudges, and Issues. But I would try to focus on Love, Blessings, Grace, and Comfort. Today it just seemed that it was God who was acting in unusual ways. Mysterious ways, if you will.

The Blasphemous Festival
There are unspoken rules of any event here in rural Tanzania. There must be a special group of well-dressed invited guests who sit at a high table facing the audience and looking snooty, and any performance must be directed toward them, meaning the performer’s backs are to the audience. The most important person invited is the ‘special guest,’ and can talk at length about whatever he wants. The festival/party/graduation must be formally opened by a chairperson, and formally closed by the same person. If there is no chairperson available, one must be elected. If the event isn’t formally opened, it never officially happened. If you don’t officially open the meeting, people freak out. Or people will be called back with great urgency after dispersing so the meeting can be formally closed. Most importantly, all of the invited guests at a festival must be served rice, meat and soda, even if the masses leave with grumbly bellies and parched throats.

On Saturday, I held two AIDS awareness festivals, one in my village for the primary school kids, and one at the nearest secondary school, which broke all of these sacred rules.

First, I moved the high tables so they flanked the stage, meaning all performers could be seen by the audience. At the primary school, I invited the village nurse to be the special guest, as she is a strong female character who has overcome many challenges in her life, even though she was not the person with the highest status. The primary school festival was only a ghost, as it was never formally opened or closed. And at both festivals I insisted that everyone be fed the same food. On a low budget, this meant we could only afford to make ‘kande’— a mix of corn and beans. I think this was my most blatant heresy. This is funeral food. When I told people of the plan, they usually laughed out loud that I would dare to do such a thing. But after a little thought they would agree that it was the right thing to do. We had to get a 50-gallon drum to boil the kande for 350 people. We used 4 buckets of fresh corn, and 1 of dry beans (from my farm! shown in the picture), and then added some peanuts, oil, salt, and onions. It had to be cooked overnight. In the end it was delicious, and for me it went down more smoothly than the customary lump of oily rice.

The goal of the festivals was for students to show off what they’ve learned in reproductive health and life skills classes I’ve been teaching. There was a mix of plays, songs, poetry, and raps about AIDS. One of my favorite teachers performed some really stunning gymnastics. I was particularly impressed with a poem sung by a large group which included a stanza about how teachers need to stop having sex with students. How brave! And necessary! It’s a huge problem in secondary schools, as at least 50% of male teachers I know are guilty of this. To hear it from the students’ mouths gave me chills. At the primary school, the confident little 5th grade kids rapping their hearts out really made me proud. When you are used to seeing kids at their least creative and most submissive, it’s uplifting to get a taste of what they’re capable of.

The special guest at the secondary school was the most important guest there, which was a mistake on my part. He was a dinosaur who spent most of his speech warning boys and girls not to walk alone together, as that is Satanism. He urged them to forget condoms, abstinence is the only answer.

The other major thorn in my shoe was a teacher from the primary school who showed up at 10:00 am drunk (not unusual) and started beating the kids when they were inching in on the stage. I called him over and took the stick from him and told him there would be no beatings today — this festival was for the kids, and if they wanted to crowd the stage they’d do so. Unfortunately, later, when I had left, he showed up on the netball court and threw rocks at the students until they had to stop their game. I expected to have to supervise the kids rather than the teachers!

There were so many things at the festivals that would have been alien in America — perfectly harmonized 4th graders, sixth-graders unabashedly doing plays about delaying sex, and last-minute firewood runs. I was also guilty of several Tanzanian faux pas, but at last after 2 years I am finally committing them on purpose.

Head Teacher and a Way to Help
Running a school with 650 students, 7 grades, and 6 teachers is not a job I’d wish on my worst enemy. I’m certain if I had to be the head teacher, I’d surrender to the never-ending work load and problems that just keep piling up. Our head teacher at the primary school is an amazing person. He’s helped with my projects, and is a wonderful guy to debate with — open and fair. It is very common to find male villagers who treat their wives like slaves, ordering them around and even beating them. Our head teacher is a terrific anomaly. His wife sings his praises about how he helps around the house and treats her like an equal. He was very receptive to a seminar I did on how to teach kids to love learning instead of fearing beatings. He recently told me how he is looking for a pen-pal in an English-speaking country. Many of you reading this have been so helpful by sending money here for projects, and I thank you for your generosity. Here is an opportunity to help just by sending some letters to a nice hard-working guy in a little village. It would make him so happy just to exchange ideas with someone overseas. His English is pretty good, and he can tell you all kinds of interesting stories about rural Tanzania. If you are interested in having an old-fashioned pen-friend, please post a comment on my blog, and I’ll pass his address along to you.