Weduneral

My village goodbye party was a hybrid of a wedding and a funeral.

It was like a wedding because:

• There was upbeat church music playing and a high table decorated with a nice tablecloth
• A party of about ten people came to escort me from my house to the meeting, singing songs about me in Kihehe
• They danced their presents up to me (wrapped me in a nice kitenge and put a basket on my head)
• They danced up money, eggs and beans to give to me
• They hired a photographer and I was the only one who smiled for the camera
• We ate rice and goat meat after the meeting

It was like a funeral because:

• People gave speeches praising me
• Some people were genuinely sad and others were there out of obligation
• The village leaders read a history of my life and work in Nyakipambo
• There were village announcements after the ceremony
• I was in the process of willing all of my stuff to friends of mine (example: Mama Luti- one bucket, Mama Neema- wash basin)

Many people came to my house; those who were genuinely sad to say goodbye, and those who came to see what presents I would give them, but were never satisfied with what they got. I had decided to avoid the frustration of trying to sell my things. I gave all my extra clothes and my kitchen things to orphans. I donated my furniture to the library the priest is setting up.

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.

Quiztime

These are all examples of suprising things people eat in Tanzania… except one. Go ahead, try to guess:

a. cornstalks
b. bean leaves
c. pea leaves
d. pumpkin leaves
e. tomato leaves
f. raw sweet potatoes
g. termites
h. dirt

Letter (a) saved my life. The other day I went on a long hike to all of the sites for the water project. I started to get dehydrated, but luckily this is the perfect season for migagi, or cornstalks. You pick out a juicy-looking stalk that has failed to produce corn and you munch away on its sugary pulp. It’s like a lame version of sugarcane.

Bean, pumpkin and pea leaves are perfect greens to fry up with some oil and tomatoes. But I’ve never heard of tomato leaves being edible. So the answer is (e).

People eat raw sweet potatoes much like we would snack on carrots. I don’t enjoy them.

Termites are a nice snack, raw or fried. 'Bite them before they bite you' is the only rule.

Dirt is sold in cigar-shaped moulds at the market, and is coveted by Tanzania’s many pregnant women. In some places, I’ve heard, it has become illegal to sell it due to health concerns, but I still see the reddish-brown sticks for sale all the time.

My kaka (that’s older brother in Swahili)

Scanning the herd of wazungu who streamed out from the baggage claim area, I saw a few who, from a distance, could have been my brother. Starting to sweat, I worried about not recognizing him after two years. If I ran up and hugged the wrong mzungu, how on earth would I live down the embarrassment?

But he was the same good old brother, only a fair bit thinner, with a more European style (he lives in London now), speaking with the slightest tinge of a British accent, and throwing in ridiculous words such as “crisps” and “trousers.”

With barely a moment to breathe, we hurried away to the ferry dock and just made it onto a morning ferry headed for Zanzibar. I had heard many things about the island of Unguja (the bigger of the two Zanzibar Islands), from spice heaven, to tourist trap, to rip-off, to paradise.

These were the top ten things that surprised me about Zanzibar:

1. The dhow fishing boats being thrown about on Indian Ocean waves, packed full with as many people as can fit without sinking the boat (much like the minibuses on the mainland), and the fact that net-fishing appears to involve several people actually jumping in the water

2. The irritating inevitability of meeting with street touts wanting to take you on tours for “a good price, as you are my friend”

3. Octopus: yes, it’s rubbery and tentacly, but it’s absolutely delicious

4. Meeting Masai men on the beach who have given up a life of cattle-herding on the mainland to sell jewelry to tourists

5. Chatting with these same Masai salesmen about AIDS and learning that they believe the Masai are immune to it

6. The energy and boldness of our stout taxi driver, whose confidence with the traffic police (demanding to see their identification, a preemptive strike) prevented him from having to give any bribes

7. The beauty of Stonetown, with the windy streets, ornate wooden doors, and many mosques and churches, and the ease with which we got completely lost in it several times

8. The difficulty we had when attempting to find the exact spot Freddy Mercury, the singer from Queen, was born (we found only a poster explaining he was born in Stonetown, but the shopowners dismissed me when I asked them for more details)

9. Mangrove trees: the most amazing part of the trip for me was walking down a boardwalk completely surrounded by mangrove trees with their tentacle-like roots. They’re on a floodplain of an estuary, and when the tide is up they’re immersed in seawater. The seeds are like little spears that germinate first on the tree, then fall down and stick in the mud. We planted a few on our walk.

10. Red Colobus monkeys. They’re bold, they’re adorable, and half the time I was gawking at their cute antics, and the other half I was praying they wouldn’t jump on me. They often jumped right over our heads from tree to tree.

So that was Zanzibar. I can only take so much of being a tourist and having people yelling “Jambo mzungu!” at me, so we headed back to the mainland to begin the journey to my village.
Our return ferry trip was crazy, as we got to sit on the bow, dangling our feet over the edge while simultaneously earning nasty sunburns.


In Dar es Salaam we met up with a friend for dinner, accidentally met a famous Bongo Flavor singer named Banana Zoro, and got caught in a traffic jam with the only female taxi-driver in the city.

Then we were off on a high-speed safari to Iringa, catching glimpses of elephants and giraffes, and my brother got a chance to try his hand at bus-window bargaining for bananas and cashews using sign-language.

That night my brother (finally) agreed that I was a genius. I had the idea of getting some tandoori chicken and taking it to a place that serves awesome peas and rice, and we feasted.

Then it was off to the village. I’m used to introducing all of my male visitors as “my brother,” so this time I had to stress that he was from the same mother, same father, or from the same belly.
I had to go teach a lesson at the secondary school, so I left my brother at home. When I came back I found he had already made friends and was touring the village. I found him nodding and smiling at people who would chatter away at him in Swahili, or punch out some sentences in English.

A live chicken
We were supposed to go to lunch with some friends of mine. When we showed up they hadn’t prepared the meal, and felt awful about it. So they stuffed a chicken in a basket and told us to go cook it at home. While thanking them profusely, we exchanged dubious looks, but luckily the eldest son and daughter came to help with the slaughter. It was quite an event. The result was something that resembled maktak or chewing gum in consistency, but with a strong chickeny flavor.

The next day we set out on an all-day, work-related hike, where I visited several people I needed to see about the water project and AIDS activities. I met a little woman who demanded,”Gimme a present!” when she saw me, to which I replied “You give ME a present!” in an equally loud and rude voice. I never thought a friendship would result from the meeting, but we ended up laughing and chatting. It turns out she has AIDS, and is brave enough to be open about it, and I promised to help her and others get help from the district government. She’s actually a very strong, kind lady, despite my first impression of her.

The hike was tiring, but along the way we were given little gifts, some roast corn and a gigantic custard-apple. We got home and dug up some sweet-potatoes from the farm, and cooked them up along with sweet-potato leaf sauce. As expected, we had a few visitors, who were delighted to have another mzungu to chat with.

Low-rider
The next day we set out for Lake Nyasa, meeting my friend the taxi driver, Onne, to drive us to Matema Beach. This time there was less trouble with the traffic police, but we never expected it would be a terribly treacherous ride. Just as we turned on to the dirt road about 2 hours from the beach, the road turned to a complete bog. A flock of young men were hanging around, waiting for cars to get stuck and helping to push them through for a small fee. Onne bargained with them, and soon we were off on a side path being pushed through the mucky parts. Having lived here for almost 2 years, I didn’t think that this agreement was anything out of the ordinary, but my brother was getting nervous at the thought of these people we didn’t know leading us through the bush where the possibility of getting stuck was very high. Emerging triumphantly on the other side, we picked up a teacher who was going our way. He said that last week the road was completely impassable to traffic, but he had to take some documents to town. He hired a man to carry him on his back through chest-high water so the forms wouldn’t get wet, but the man stumbled, and they both fell in, submerging the documents. We were lucky to go when we did! We made it to the beach having crossed several rivers in the car and bottoming out from time to time. The nice part was that we had the whole beach to ourselves, as nobody else dared to risk the road.

Matema was beautiful as usual, and telling stories with Onne is always enjoyable. We rode in a dugout canoe to snorkel and look at the fish, but as it has been rainy, the water wasn’t clear. At night we ate fish from the lake, but, just as last time, I “gave back the change.” I guess Lake Nyasa fish just doesn’t agree with me.

On the way out we got stuck, and my brother and I pushed while Onne steered. I fell in the mud, right in front of a big group of secondary students who had refused to help us. Finally we got towed out of that hole, and once again hired some young guys to push us through the detour at the bog. We got stares from everyone once we reached the main road, until we could make it to the carwash.

So my advice to anyone who wants to have a good time is to go into the Peace Corps in Tanzania and then invite your brother to come visit for two weeks.

A change of scenery

It’s official, in July I’m done being a mzungu, but not done being a Peace Corpse! I’m trading in my kofia for a sombrero, Bongo Flavor for Punta music, my shilingi for lempira, and my ugali for tortillas. I’m putting off actually having to figure out what to do with my life for another 2 years. On July 15th I’ll leave Dar es Salaam heading for Tegucigalpa, Honduras as a Protected Areas Management Volunteer.

My biggest fears are of becoming that annoying girl who is constantly mocked for the phrase “And this one time in Tanzania...” and being socially inept among other Americans who haven’t been immersed in Tanzanian culture for 2 years. I was complaining to my best friend the other day that while my friends back in the states are getting smarter (taking higher degrees, getting challenging jobs), I’m getting dumber (unable to construct sentences in English, forgetting everything I learned in college). He pointed out that it is ok, as I am getting stronger! By the time I get back home I’m going to be a muscle-bound mute much like a cavewoman. I jokes.

I read a book by a deaf Peace Corps Volunteer in Zambia, in which the author quotes that "Peace Corps Volunteers in Asia come back spiritually aware, volunteers in Latin America come back politically and socially motivated, and those in Africa come back drunk and laughing". So expect the arrival of a drunken activist in 2010.

Slow Progress
The village’s jolly nurse and I pedaled our bikes up the hill in the heat of the midday sun, with only a vague clue of where we were headed. We were looking for two certain people and knew the name of the sub-village where we needed to go, but we had to be discrete when asking villagers where the people lived. The nurse rarely leaves the dispensary, as a pregnant mama or a sick person could turn up at any moment, so it was an odd sight to see her riding around in the bush.

On a journey that took us in a few circles, we finally ended up at a small mud house in the forest, where a very kindly couple in their sixties lives. The woman is one of those people for whom a slight smile permanently brightens her face, and the man has an easy flowing way of chatting. The couple is HIV positive.

I was worried that this visit would be awkward, as it was my first meeting with them. It wasn’t. We inquired about farming and kids. The nurse and I teased ourselves about being wimps for having our small farm plots so close to our homes. The couple has to hike far up a mountain to get to their farm, which is losing fertility.

Then we brought the subject around to their health. The man does not look at his wife or address her directly, and refers to her as "my friend." He says "I’m doing all right health-wise, but I don’t know about my friend." This is normal. She is one of his two surviving "friends," and he married her after she had been widowed. They are currently taking ARV’s, and are healthy enough that they had just come from the farm.

We gave them some sugar, salt and soap. They were gracious hosts and sent us on our way with a basketful of fresh corn to roast. We made plans to meet up again. Some places in Tanzania it is relatively easy to be open about having HIV. Not in my area. I’ve tried all kinds of things to get people who know they are positive to come out of the woodwork. Finally the nurse got some names of people and asked them if she could share them with me. I hope it will be a great first step in getting help for those sick with AIDS and getting rid of stigma.

Top 5 reasons why it will be hard for me to leave Tanzania
1. Here tooth-brushing is not confined to the bathroom and does not prevent you from carrying out other activities. You might find someone brandishing a hoe, washing clothes, or cooking with a foamy toothbrush hanging off his lip.

2. Kids are left to their own devices as soon as they are able to control their own bodily functions. I like this philosophy.

3. You can accuse people you barely know of being liars. It’s not nearly as rude as it is in our culture. A good example would be when the bus conductor tells you the price has gone up 500 shillings because the price of oil went up. Then you are allowed to call him a liar.

4. There are convenient and normal phrases to say "welcome," "where were you just now (before coming here)?," "my condolences," and "you have tried your level best." In English these phrases sound awkward/too formal/exchange-studentish, but in Swahili they are more than normal.

5. Bongo Flavor. This is the popular Tanzanian music. Many foreigners find it repetitive, boring, or whiny. But I’m addicted.

Dinosaurs
I started trying to explain dinosaurs to a friend, and before I could mention that they were extinct, he exclaimed, “Oh yeah, there are a bunch of those on the path from here to Kimilinzowo!” After sorting out that that was pretty unlikely, I decided it might be interesting to teach the seventh graders about them.

One of the quickest ways to cause villagers to doubt your truthfulness is to tell people about dinosaurs. The kids were sitting in class on a Sunday, waiting for a teacher to come. A friend of mine had taught dinosaurs before in his primary school, and had come armed with a National Geographic about them. It showed artists’ renderings of what some of the weirder dinosaurs might have looked like: some looking ferocious except for two puny little arms, some with sharp spikes protruding from their shoulders, and others smaller than a rat but with ridiculously long fingers. It felt as though we were showing them pictures of Transformers and trying to convince them that they were real. Whether or not they were convinced, they were definitely amused.

Priorities
A woman came to my house asking for money. She explained that she needed to buy corn which would then be made into “Common” (vomit-like alcoholic beverage) which she needed to take to a funeral so she could dump it on her deceased relative’s grave. Once I had heard her plea, I reiterated the statement, just to see if she realized exactly how bizarre it sounded. This particular woman seems incapable of talking about anything but sick people, hard work, and a lack of money. She began talking about how hard life was and how her kids had just washed their clothes without soap. When I heard this, I said I would give her the money, but she had to use it to buy soap for her kids, rather than alcohol to dump on the ground.

Scare-human
There is a section of my farm which I just call the “bird-feeder” now, due to the fact that all of my giant sunflowers have been completely destroyed by crows. A friend helped me construct a scare-crow, using some of my old clothes and stuffing them with dried bean-plant residue. The plants are still being attacked, but half of my visitors show up slapping their thighs and saying they’ve just greeted my guard. Most of the time I’m the one who gets startled by the scare-crow when I make my way home in the evening.

Quiz time
What would you consider the weirdest occurrence you might come across in the Southern Highlands of Tanzania?

a. People on the bus asking you if you’re married, and if so then when is your husband’s contract up.

b. People walking for miles and miles along the side of the road completely laden with live chickens which they are taking to sell to expensive restaurants in Dar Es Salaam which pay high prices and pride themselves in serving chickens which have never been transported by car or even bicycle.

c. Grown men hopping like frogs in front of the police station.

d. People walking backwards on Sundays for good luck.

e. Old women spitting on young kids they think are bright or handsome.

And the answer is… well it could be (a) or (c), depending on which you think is stranger. I’ve met several people here who are under the impression that Americans get married for a set amount of time, and after the contract is up, they divorce. I’m not sure where this idea came from, but it may be a product of our high divorce rate. Also you could find people doing a number of degrading things outside the police station, many of them forced to do so until they give in and give a bribe. Letters (b) and (d) are completely made up. I borrowed (e) from my Turkish friend who says that it is a custom there to spit on these people to bring them luck (at least in Ankara).