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.
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Monday, January 21, 2008
Mama and Dada
Today was the end of a two-week visit from my mother and sister that was SO… well let me just tell you what happened. I’ll start from the end and work toward the beginning in the spirit of the last Seinfeld episode.
Animal Soaps
I’d bet most people who go on safaris in Africa are really excited about seeing certain animals, chirping “we want to see lions and leopards!” in the ears of their tourist-weary guides. But we were more interested in animal drama than sighting a particular animal. On my wish-list were elephants knocking coconuts from trees and giraffes giving birth. While our guide seemed programmed to zip around Ruaha National park chasing down the big predators, he seemed baffled at our excitement at baby elephants scratching their toes on sharp sticks, impala males bashing heads over a female, giraffes snaking their crazy black tongues into their own nostrils, hippos courting and zebras flapping their lips in our direction. He seemed disappointed at the end of the trip that the lions had been h
iding, but we were satisfied. Our guide was a nice guy, at least I thought so until I heard him yell “Bastard!” as we barreled down the dirt road. Nobody else was around so I figured he was referring to one of us. It took me quite a while to figure out that he was referring to a bird, which is in fact a “bustard,” which was munching happily on dung in the road. So the guide and I were friends again. He seemed to think that our fascination with lizards was as odd as being enthralled by the light fixtures at a theme park. We had an excellent time, and I still have the Indiana Jones theme song stuck in my head (inspired by a suspension bridge we walked along over crocodile-infested waters).
Today was the end of a two-week visit from my mother and sister that was SO… well let me just tell you what happened. I’ll start from the end and work toward the beginning in the spirit of the last Seinfeld episode.
Animal Soaps
I’d bet most people who go on safaris in Africa are really excited about seeing certain animals, chirping “we want to see lions and leopards!” in the ears of their tourist-weary guides. But we were more interested in animal drama than sighting a particular animal. On my wish-list were elephants knocking coconuts from trees and giraffes giving birth. While our guide seemed programmed to zip around Ruaha National park chasing down the big predators, he seemed baffled at our excitement at baby elephants scratching their toes on sharp sticks, impala males bashing heads over a female, giraffes snaking their crazy black tongues into their own nostrils, hippos courting and zebras flapping their lips in our direction. He seemed disappointed at the end of the trip that the lions had been h
iding, but we were satisfied. Our guide was a nice guy, at least I thought so until I heard him yell “Bastard!” as we barreled down the dirt road. Nobody else was around so I figured he was referring to one of us. It took me quite a while to figure out that he was referring to a bird, which is in fact a “bustard,” which was munching happily on dung in the road. So the guide and I were friends again. He seemed to think that our fascination with lizards was as odd as being enthralled by the light fixtures at a theme park. We had an excellent time, and I still have the Indiana Jones theme song stuck in my head (inspired by a suspension bridge we walked along over crocodile-infested waters).
At the lodge we stayed in we were greeted with moist towels and passion-fruit juice. It was quite a contrast to normal Peace Corps life. A group of Masai dancers were introduced by the host as a “tribe who have consciously rejected modernization and retained most of their traditions.” My sister almost peed her pants laughing when in the middle of the dance, one of them answered a call on his cell phone. If you ask my sister what animals she saw in the park, she might start the list with “jiggers.” These are the little black insects that burrow into your feet and lay their eggs. She showed me her foot, and when I congratulated her on a classic jigger case, she acted like I had given her a present. Due to her incredible ability to pick up Swahili and Kihehe, her experience with jiggers, her penchant for the squat toilet, and her ever-improving attempts to carry water on her head, I would say she should be an honorary Peace Corpse.
Fresh Fish
Paradise is on the northern shore of Lake Nyasa in Mbeya. At a little resort at Matema Beach with our taxi-driving friend, Onne, we relaxed on the water at the base of the Livingstone Mountains. An incredibly patient guide there took us out on a fish-scale-covered dug-out canoe to a perfect snorkeling spot, where we stalked bright blue and gold fish, and hunted for crabs under the rocks. I showed a couple of kids how to put on the masks, but they seemed to think it was more fun to look at the world above the water with them on, and I thought it might not look good if I forced their heads underwater. I was allowed to try and paddle the canoe on the way back, but apparently the laws of physics do not apply to me, and I was unable to keep the boat from wandering off wherever it wanted to despite following the guide’s exact directions. Despite this, he didn’t fire me, instead letting me take all the time I needed to maneuver us onto the beach. On the way down, Onne had bought enough fruit to feed all of Iringa for a month, and on the way back he replenished his supplies, unable to return from such a trip without presents. And he finally accepted the fact that he couldn’t keep fresh fish in the trunk for the 6 hour drive back.
Sunrise over Lake Nyasa
Fish from the lake for dinner
Sold for 20,000
“Your mother drowned the dumb ones,” was one of the many catch phrases we taught Onne on the road-trip down to Lake Nyasa. As anticipated, we ran into some “police” on the road who were looking for bribes. One of them started asking us all kinds of questions, and inspecting everything on the car. He finally decided that because the windshield was a little bit cracked, he would fine us 20,000 TSH (about $20). We were stewing with anger in the car as Onne went to negotiate and presumably to pay the fine. But as he came back we saw him and the cop smiling, shaking hands and exchanging phone numbers. After the cop questioned us a bit more (Where are you from, how old are you, etc.), he merrily told us to go on our way. We didn’t pay at all. It turned out that he had told Onne that he wanted to seduce one of his mzungu passengers. Onne had said it would be ok for him to try to seduce my sister, except that our mother was in the car. They decided to exchange phone numbers so that the policeman could talk to her later on when she wasn’t with her mother. That night, Onne dutifully called the guy and had my sister talk to him. “I love you! What is your name? When are you returning to Iringa?” were among the only things she could understand from the garbled monologue. All we could hear was her yelling “I can’t understand you. I’m married!” They were cut off when the policeman ran out of money on his phone, and the blossoming romance was no more. It seemed we got off easy, so we congratulated Onne, telling him that his mother must have drowned the dumb ones.
Tanzania is a Peace Country
By the stash of eggs we had acquired by the time we left my village, it was clear that my mom and sister were very welcome guests. We had received a total of 50 eggs from various people. The last night in my village, 15 people showed up to socialize one last time with my guests. Some decided to leave because I didn’t have anything for them to sit on except for buckets.
My mom and sister got to meet all the characters in the village. My neighbor told me my sister and I didn’t look alike—she was pretty. She also said I looked older, because Kerry has a “babyface.” Another lady told her 2-year-old that we had candy in our bras, and to go and get it. She is always making fun of how we wazungu are so ashamed of our breasts, while African mamas will whip them out shamelessly to feed their babies. Another time we made pizza on the charcoal stove, and gave some to a farmer that I often work with. He said he loved it, it was so great he just had to start making it himself. Except that instead of bread, he’d use eggs, and instead of having beer with it, he’d have ugali. Hmmm.
We had the most delicious ugali and greens I’ve ever tasted at my friend’s house, and learned about witchcraft and the one-winged bat legend. Another friend honored my relatives by killing a chicken, which we ate with steaming ugali as well. She is a sweet, very motherly woman with two giant scars on her upper chest given to her by a local doctor in an attempt to cure whatever ailed her in her younger years. My mom and sister have an unrealistic impression of Tanzanian food, and a realistically positive impression of its people.
“Your mother drowned the dumb ones,” was one of the many catch phrases we taught Onne on the road-trip down to Lake Nyasa. As anticipated, we ran into some “police” on the road who were looking for bribes. One of them started asking us all kinds of questions, and inspecting everything on the car. He finally decided that because the windshield was a little bit cracked, he would fine us 20,000 TSH (about $20). We were stewing with anger in the car as Onne went to negotiate and presumably to pay the fine. But as he came back we saw him and the cop smiling, shaking hands and exchanging phone numbers. After the cop questioned us a bit more (Where are you from, how old are you, etc.), he merrily told us to go on our way. We didn’t pay at all. It turned out that he had told Onne that he wanted to seduce one of his mzungu passengers. Onne had said it would be ok for him to try to seduce my sister, except that our mother was in the car. They decided to exchange phone numbers so that the policeman could talk to her later on when she wasn’t with her mother. That night, Onne dutifully called the guy and had my sister talk to him. “I love you! What is your name? When are you returning to Iringa?” were among the only things she could understand from the garbled monologue. All we could hear was her yelling “I can’t understand you. I’m married!” They were cut off when the policeman ran out of money on his phone, and the blossoming romance was no more. It seemed we got off easy, so we congratulated Onne, telling him that his mother must have drowned the dumb ones.
Tanzania is a Peace Country
By the stash of eggs we had acquired by the time we left my village, it was clear that my mom and sister were very welcome guests. We had received a total of 50 eggs from various people. The last night in my village, 15 people showed up to socialize one last time with my guests. Some decided to leave because I didn’t have anything for them to sit on except for buckets.
My mom and sister got to meet all the characters in the village. My neighbor told me my sister and I didn’t look alike—she was pretty. She also said I looked older, because Kerry has a “babyface.” Another lady told her 2-year-old that we had candy in our bras, and to go and get it. She is always making fun of how we wazungu are so ashamed of our breasts, while African mamas will whip them out shamelessly to feed their babies. Another time we made pizza on the charcoal stove, and gave some to a farmer that I often work with. He said he loved it, it was so great he just had to start making it himself. Except that instead of bread, he’d use eggs, and instead of having beer with it, he’d have ugali. Hmmm.
We had the most delicious ugali and greens I’ve ever tasted at my friend’s house, and learned about witchcraft and the one-winged bat legend. Another friend honored my relatives by killing a chicken, which we ate with steaming ugali as well. She is a sweet, very motherly woman with two giant scars on her upper chest given to her by a local doctor in an attempt to cure whatever ailed her in her younger years. My mom and sister have an unrealistic impression of Tanzanian food, and a realistically positive impression of its people.
Ugali & Greens
Pounding Coffee Beans
My mom and sister, long time addicts who reportedly turn into werewolves if they don’t get their morning coffee, are used to stumbling to the kitchen in the morning to flip a switch on the coffee-pot, and pouring themselves a steaming cup of the humanizing substance. But they got a chance to see how grueling the process of making their favorite drink can be. We were “helping” to turn fresh beans into a dark roasted powder, but of course we kept being fired from everything we were “helping” with, from whacking the beans in a giant mortar and pestle to stirring the beans and sand in a pot over a charcoal fire to keep them from burning.
People kept asking what my sister does for a living. We’d look at each other nervously, and attempt to explain massage therapy, until the looks of bewilderment turned into relieved recognition and our listeners would exclaim “oh, a doctor!” or “oh a witch doctor!” I tried to encourage the latter understanding, in hopes that we’d have villagers knocking on the door wanting to pay us in cows for my sister to perform a ritual to remove the hexes bestowed on them by dead relatives.
I doubt that my mother really wanted to leave the village where she was constantly being told she was young and vigorous. My sister liked the fact that fatness is revered, and also had fallen in love with some of the children in the village, and was actively trying to bargain with their parents to let her take them home with her. She had also developed an obsession for Tanzanian bugs; even enthralled by the nasty biting ants that often invade your house.
There’s a Dikdik, or… an Elephant?
The first leg of our trip was a bus ride through the more tropical parts of Tanzania, a high-speed safari as we sped through Mikumi National Park and caught glimpses of zebras, baboons, warthogs and elephants. My sister was very impressed with Iringa town, but made the mistake of waving to a little kid from a second story window, flapping her hand in a gesture that in Tanzania means “come here.” It was clear we had to get out of there before we got into any trouble.
No Surprises
I want to end the description of the trip with a happy memory of meeting my mom and sister in the airport for the first time in a year and a half. I hadn’t slept in three nights (too excited) and neither had they (they were on a plane). I was relieved to find they hadn’t undergone any drastic changes like ballooning up 300 pounds, starting dreads, or letting their personal hygiene go in an effort to conserve water. And we had a year and a half to catch up on, so of course it was quite a sweet reunion.
My mom and sister, long time addicts who reportedly turn into werewolves if they don’t get their morning coffee, are used to stumbling to the kitchen in the morning to flip a switch on the coffee-pot, and pouring themselves a steaming cup of the humanizing substance. But they got a chance to see how grueling the process of making their favorite drink can be. We were “helping” to turn fresh beans into a dark roasted powder, but of course we kept being fired from everything we were “helping” with, from whacking the beans in a giant mortar and pestle to stirring the beans and sand in a pot over a charcoal fire to keep them from burning.
People kept asking what my sister does for a living. We’d look at each other nervously, and attempt to explain massage therapy, until the looks of bewilderment turned into relieved recognition and our listeners would exclaim “oh, a doctor!” or “oh a witch doctor!” I tried to encourage the latter understanding, in hopes that we’d have villagers knocking on the door wanting to pay us in cows for my sister to perform a ritual to remove the hexes bestowed on them by dead relatives.
I doubt that my mother really wanted to leave the village where she was constantly being told she was young and vigorous. My sister liked the fact that fatness is revered, and also had fallen in love with some of the children in the village, and was actively trying to bargain with their parents to let her take them home with her. She had also developed an obsession for Tanzanian bugs; even enthralled by the nasty biting ants that often invade your house.
There’s a Dikdik, or… an Elephant?
The first leg of our trip was a bus ride through the more tropical parts of Tanzania, a high-speed safari as we sped through Mikumi National Park and caught glimpses of zebras, baboons, warthogs and elephants. My sister was very impressed with Iringa town, but made the mistake of waving to a little kid from a second story window, flapping her hand in a gesture that in Tanzania means “come here.” It was clear we had to get out of there before we got into any trouble.
No Surprises
I want to end the description of the trip with a happy memory of meeting my mom and sister in the airport for the first time in a year and a half. I hadn’t slept in three nights (too excited) and neither had they (they were on a plane). I was relieved to find they hadn’t undergone any drastic changes like ballooning up 300 pounds, starting dreads, or letting their personal hygiene go in an effort to conserve water. And we had a year and a half to catch up on, so of course it was quite a sweet reunion.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
The other day our bus stopped as I was going back to my village, apparently because there appeared to be a fight on the side of the road. All of the other 20 passengers got off, leaving me alone on the bus, drawn by curiosity. I watched as a large muscle-bound man holding a scrawny guy by the collar appeared to defend his actions to the gathered group. The skinny guy occasionally screamed, and the burly man occasionally took a swing at him while he talked to the crowd. I couldn’t hear what was going on, but eventually everyone got back on the bus, and I got the story. The little guy had stolen the big guy’s cell phone. The passengers became the improvised jury, and their unanimous verdict was “guilty.” The most bone-chilling thing was that each passenger was shaking his head as he boarded, saying “he’ll kill the guy.” Their verdict meant that the big man was free to deliver whatever punishment he desired, and they all agreed that this would be death.
I’ve seen mobs chasing after thieves in this country (makes you think that a person must be either very desperate or very self-confident to steal anything), but I guess the passengers thought that the buff guy could handle the punishment himself. I’ve heard many stories of thieves being burned alive. Before I had time to get my thoughts together, the bus was on its way again. I’m left to wonder if I could have done anything to help the situation. A friend later told me that it was best not to get involved because the people could turn on me. My friend reassured me that the little man wouldn’t be killed because of the fear of retaliation from his friends, but that could have just been to make me feel better.
Here’s another quiz:
Which of these are the most common phrases shouted at me in English when I’m in town:
a. Good morning sir!
b. Welcome to Tanzania!
c. Give me my money!
d. What is my name?
e. Long live Bush!
The correct answers are a, c, and d. It can be any hour of the day or night and I can be wearing a dress and I am peppered with shouts of “good morning sir!” There is some problem in the school English program that causes people to mix up personal possessive pronouns. A girl told my friend “give me my money!” He replied that he didn’t have her money. “Do you have my money?” he asked. She thought for a second, then said “yes.” “Well then, can I have it please?” he asked. She didn’t give it to him.
Here are some facts about America are sure to shock people in the village:
a. There are other religions besides Christianity and Islam.
b. There’s no ugali (stiff corn porridge) in the US.
c. Bin Laden isn’t American.
d. Not everyone in America is a farmer. In fact, only about 1% of Americans are farmers.
e. We aren’t worried whenever we go up to the second or third floors of a building that they will cave in.
f. When actors on television kill each other, it isn’t real.
g. Americans don’t all own guns
Here are the top 10 most common conversations I have with villagers:
1. Difficulty of English vs Swahili and unintelligibility of American accents (and inevitable imitation of a common phrase such as “Get me some water” pronounced “Gemme smwadder”)
2. How long have you been in the village and what are you doing here (and why the hell don’t you buy a car)?
3. My name is Gail, not Girl
4. How much does a plane ticket to America cost (and will you buy me one if I’m really good?)?
5. Tanzania is a peaceful country, not like America (and my answer always points out that you won’t see teachers beating students or men openly beating their wives in America).
6. Farming in America (you are all rich, you must all have tractors!).
7. I’m on a two-year contract, and no, I won’t be staying longer.
8. Education in America
9. Are you married? Are you getting married in Tanzania? Will you marry me?
10. Gender equality (and my explanation of why you would not want to marry me… you’d have to do at least half of the housework).
11. What kind of oil do you use on your hair?
12. Do you drink bamboo juice or “common” (fermented corn drink with the consistency and taste of week-old vomit)?
I’ve seen mobs chasing after thieves in this country (makes you think that a person must be either very desperate or very self-confident to steal anything), but I guess the passengers thought that the buff guy could handle the punishment himself. I’ve heard many stories of thieves being burned alive. Before I had time to get my thoughts together, the bus was on its way again. I’m left to wonder if I could have done anything to help the situation. A friend later told me that it was best not to get involved because the people could turn on me. My friend reassured me that the little man wouldn’t be killed because of the fear of retaliation from his friends, but that could have just been to make me feel better.
Here’s another quiz:
Which of these are the most common phrases shouted at me in English when I’m in town:
a. Good morning sir!
b. Welcome to Tanzania!
c. Give me my money!
d. What is my name?
e. Long live Bush!
The correct answers are a, c, and d. It can be any hour of the day or night and I can be wearing a dress and I am peppered with shouts of “good morning sir!” There is some problem in the school English program that causes people to mix up personal possessive pronouns. A girl told my friend “give me my money!” He replied that he didn’t have her money. “Do you have my money?” he asked. She thought for a second, then said “yes.” “Well then, can I have it please?” he asked. She didn’t give it to him.
Here are some facts about America are sure to shock people in the village:
a. There are other religions besides Christianity and Islam.
b. There’s no ugali (stiff corn porridge) in the US.
c. Bin Laden isn’t American.
d. Not everyone in America is a farmer. In fact, only about 1% of Americans are farmers.
e. We aren’t worried whenever we go up to the second or third floors of a building that they will cave in.
f. When actors on television kill each other, it isn’t real.
g. Americans don’t all own guns
Here are the top 10 most common conversations I have with villagers:
1. Difficulty of English vs Swahili and unintelligibility of American accents (and inevitable imitation of a common phrase such as “Get me some water” pronounced “Gemme smwadder”)
2. How long have you been in the village and what are you doing here (and why the hell don’t you buy a car)?
3. My name is Gail, not Girl
4. How much does a plane ticket to America cost (and will you buy me one if I’m really good?)?
5. Tanzania is a peaceful country, not like America (and my answer always points out that you won’t see teachers beating students or men openly beating their wives in America).
6. Farming in America (you are all rich, you must all have tractors!).
7. I’m on a two-year contract, and no, I won’t be staying longer.
8. Education in America
9. Are you married? Are you getting married in Tanzania? Will you marry me?
10. Gender equality (and my explanation of why you would not want to marry me… you’d have to do at least half of the housework).
11. What kind of oil do you use on your hair?
12. Do you drink bamboo juice or “common” (fermented corn drink with the consistency and taste of week-old vomit)?
Sunday, December 23, 2007
My water project was approved and I need your help! Your donation is tax deductible and 100% of it goes to help provide clean water for the village. For a description see Nov. 24 blog entry.
The rains are here! So here's a quiz.
Which of these animals can be found on my farm?
a. chameleons
b. monkeys
c. cows
d. donkeys
e. frogs
f. crows in tuxedos
e. chickens
f. lions
e. drunk people
If you guessed all of them, you would be close. There are no lions, and I haven't seen any monkeys yet. People say that monkeys are around, though. The cows and donkeys are unwanted visitors; I have to chase them away so they don't devour my sprouting crops. Usually this is a result of a careless cattle rancher (a five-year-old with a stick who is supposed to keep the cows OFF other people's farms). The chickens, who belong to my neighbors, come along to eat up the bugs from the freshly-dug ground (the same phenomenon that happens right after a person has been buried). The crows in tuxedos may look elegant from afar with their white collars, but they are just as annoying as regular old crows. They sometimes carry off baby chicks. And I have to be very careful not to accidentally slice the frogs and chameleons with my hoe (I've come close many times). Finally, the drunk people often wander onto the farm to help me dig for a few minutes. Notably, there are also sober people who do this, but not quite as often.
Sunday, December 09, 2007
My Water Project was Approved!! Your donation is tax deductible and 100% of it goes to help provide clean water for the village. For a description see Nov. 24 blog entry.
LEARN MORE/DONATE
I apologize to Canada. I have been told that online donations to the water project from Canada do not work. You have the option of writing a cheque to "Peace Corps Partnership", referring to Project #621-156, and mailing to:
Peace Corps Partnership Program
Paul D. Coverdell Peace Corps Headquarters
1111 20th Street NW
Washington, DC 20526
Time for another quiz: In the Southern Highlands, what can you look for to indicate whether you’ve stumbled upon a wedding or a funeral?
a. Enormous vats of food being cooked
b. Women wearing swathes of bright, patterned cloth (vitenge)
c. At least two people who look incredibly unhappy
d. Drum-dancing
e. There are several people with little notebooks collecting donations
f. People are laughing, joking and telling stories
And the answer is… b. If all the women are wearing vitenge, usually one wrapped around the waist and one covering the torso and/or head, it is most likely a funeral. These are normal-wear in the village, but especially important at funerals. At a wedding, people tend to wear skirts and shirts that have been sewn from these swathes of cloth.
At weddings, the two people who are obligated to look unhappy are the bride and groom, and in addition the bride’s family members are not supposed to be happy as their little girl is leaving the family.
At first, I thought it was disrespectful to be cheerful at a funeral. I soon found you should be solemn when inside the house where family members sit with the corpse, but outside it is normal to be social. A large portion of the village shows up to each funeral, therefore not all of them are terribly close relatives of the deceased.
In some parts, the Wahehe relatives shave their heads completely bald the day after the funeral. Then it is easy to tell who the bereaved are.
A particularly beautiful part of the culture is the drum-dancing. At funerals, they sometimes wear bells on their ankles and dance all night, singing songs about the deceased.
LEARN MORE/DONATE
I apologize to Canada. I have been told that online donations to the water project from Canada do not work. You have the option of writing a cheque to "Peace Corps Partnership", referring to Project #621-156, and mailing to:
Peace Corps Partnership Program
Paul D. Coverdell Peace Corps Headquarters
1111 20th Street NW
Washington, DC 20526
Time for another quiz: In the Southern Highlands, what can you look for to indicate whether you’ve stumbled upon a wedding or a funeral?
a. Enormous vats of food being cooked
b. Women wearing swathes of bright, patterned cloth (vitenge)
c. At least two people who look incredibly unhappy
d. Drum-dancing
e. There are several people with little notebooks collecting donations
f. People are laughing, joking and telling stories
And the answer is… b. If all the women are wearing vitenge, usually one wrapped around the waist and one covering the torso and/or head, it is most likely a funeral. These are normal-wear in the village, but especially important at funerals. At a wedding, people tend to wear skirts and shirts that have been sewn from these swathes of cloth.
At weddings, the two people who are obligated to look unhappy are the bride and groom, and in addition the bride’s family members are not supposed to be happy as their little girl is leaving the family.
At first, I thought it was disrespectful to be cheerful at a funeral. I soon found you should be solemn when inside the house where family members sit with the corpse, but outside it is normal to be social. A large portion of the village shows up to each funeral, therefore not all of them are terribly close relatives of the deceased.
In some parts, the Wahehe relatives shave their heads completely bald the day after the funeral. Then it is easy to tell who the bereaved are.
A particularly beautiful part of the culture is the drum-dancing. At funerals, they sometimes wear bells on their ankles and dance all night, singing songs about the deceased.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
My Water Project was Approved!!
LEARN MORE/DONATE
Your donation is tax deductible and 100% of it goes to help provide clean water for the village.
Most of the small talk in my village, especially in the dry season, revolves around water problems. When all of the water taps are broken we must haul water from the river. I am lucky to live only half a kilometer away. Few of the villagers have this advantage. Many women spend several hours a day just making the trip to the nearest stream to get water for household use. With a single primary school serving an area that takes 2 or 3 hours to traverse, children are forced to spend sunrise to sunset away from home. I often see these children drinking from the streams they cross on their way home, where floating cowpies decorate the streambeds. Often villagers spend all day at their farms, rarely returning home for a safe glass of boiled water. Diarrhea is one of the most common complaints at the mission hospital (where 1 health-care worker is responsible for an area of about 10,000 people), most likely as a result of a poor source of drinking water. Most villagers cite the lack of a reliable source of water as one of their major challenges. The proposed project aims to provide at least 6 functioning public water taps. If you would like to help provide clean water for these villagers, please visit the link above.
LEARN MORE/DONATE
Your donation is tax deductible and 100% of it goes to help provide clean water for the village.
Most of the small talk in my village, especially in the dry season, revolves around water problems. When all of the water taps are broken we must haul water from the river. I am lucky to live only half a kilometer away. Few of the villagers have this advantage. Many women spend several hours a day just making the trip to the nearest stream to get water for household use. With a single primary school serving an area that takes 2 or 3 hours to traverse, children are forced to spend sunrise to sunset away from home. I often see these children drinking from the streams they cross on their way home, where floating cowpies decorate the streambeds. Often villagers spend all day at their farms, rarely returning home for a safe glass of boiled water. Diarrhea is one of the most common complaints at the mission hospital (where 1 health-care worker is responsible for an area of about 10,000 people), most likely as a result of a poor source of drinking water. Most villagers cite the lack of a reliable source of water as one of their major challenges. The proposed project aims to provide at least 6 functioning public water taps. If you would like to help provide clean water for these villagers, please visit the link above.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Poor Poor Mr. Condom
I was informed yesterday that the man who invented condoms was a Russian whose name was “Condom” and he forgot to put his condoms in the refrigerator so he died of AIDS. I had been invited to teach about HIV/AIDS to a group of about 30 young people who were having a religious retreat at the Roman Catholic Mission. I knew it would be a challenge to tread lightly on the subject of condoms and family planning, and I had devised a strategy of asking questions and emphasizing that the only sure way to avoid the disease was abstinence. I didn’t count on the fact that the kids would start a barrage of questions and unsubstantiated, hostile convictions (for example white men invented condoms but they only work for people who have access to refrigerators to keep them cool, so they are useless in Africa), expect me to magically know answers to vague questions such as “why do women give birth prematurely and have miscarriages,” and respond to claims that birth control makes you sterile for life. Despite the mis-information brought by my audience, I think I managed to get the vital message across: if you don’t want AIDS don’t have unprotected sex with people whose status you do not know. If you don’t trust condoms, don’t use them but don’t have sex. I must have repeated variations of these messages about 20 times over the course of an hour. It didn’t help that I had been notified that I was needed to teach the AIDS seminar 5 minutes before they wanted me to start. I kept finding myself responding to condom questions and praying the priests wouldn’t choose that moment to walk by the classroom. I kept an eye out for them and planned to say “Many people choose not to use condoms due to their religious beliefs,” very loudly just to be safe. It will be very telling whether I am invited back to teach the next group of young Catholics.
More Names
I have a couple more names to add to the list: Sickola and Moody. The search for a “Fungus” continues.
Nighttime at a Glance
Sometimes as I sit by candlelight I imagine what’s going on in the homes around my village. Young kids put the cows to bed and head home to their one meal of ugali (stiff boiled corn flour) and fried greens, cooked on a firewood stove in a smoke-filled kitchen, digging into the communal bowls with greedy fingers. Fat mission employees finish off their beers, then clasp hands in prayer before digging their forks into slabs of meat and rice. Elementary school teachers tune into the news on the radio while they stir their ugali on charcoal stoves, then study for their high school exams late into the night. The small-shop owners sell portions of cooking oil and salt to customers cloaked in colorful kangas emerging from the night into the glow of the shop’s kerosene lantern. Women who have slaved all day collecting firewood, hauling water, cooking, farming and cleaning, wrestle unwilling children into wash basins to scrub the dirt of evening playtime from their skin, then slather oil on their shining shivering bodies. The hard-working men arrive home from the fields or pastures to a steaming bucket bath and a meal. The lazy men are still at the club where local brew will be served until 10 pm, and then they will stumble home in the dark. Children will squeeze 7 at once into a little room on bamboo-frame beds or grass mats. If there is a funeral or a wedding, large groups will be up late into the night, crying, singing, drinking, telling stories. And I sit with my book and my journal, relaxing to the familiar tunes of American and Latin music or strumming my guitar, waiting for a pot of potatoes to boil.
I was informed yesterday that the man who invented condoms was a Russian whose name was “Condom” and he forgot to put his condoms in the refrigerator so he died of AIDS. I had been invited to teach about HIV/AIDS to a group of about 30 young people who were having a religious retreat at the Roman Catholic Mission. I knew it would be a challenge to tread lightly on the subject of condoms and family planning, and I had devised a strategy of asking questions and emphasizing that the only sure way to avoid the disease was abstinence. I didn’t count on the fact that the kids would start a barrage of questions and unsubstantiated, hostile convictions (for example white men invented condoms but they only work for people who have access to refrigerators to keep them cool, so they are useless in Africa), expect me to magically know answers to vague questions such as “why do women give birth prematurely and have miscarriages,” and respond to claims that birth control makes you sterile for life. Despite the mis-information brought by my audience, I think I managed to get the vital message across: if you don’t want AIDS don’t have unprotected sex with people whose status you do not know. If you don’t trust condoms, don’t use them but don’t have sex. I must have repeated variations of these messages about 20 times over the course of an hour. It didn’t help that I had been notified that I was needed to teach the AIDS seminar 5 minutes before they wanted me to start. I kept finding myself responding to condom questions and praying the priests wouldn’t choose that moment to walk by the classroom. I kept an eye out for them and planned to say “Many people choose not to use condoms due to their religious beliefs,” very loudly just to be safe. It will be very telling whether I am invited back to teach the next group of young Catholics.
More Names
I have a couple more names to add to the list: Sickola and Moody. The search for a “Fungus” continues.
Nighttime at a Glance
Sometimes as I sit by candlelight I imagine what’s going on in the homes around my village. Young kids put the cows to bed and head home to their one meal of ugali (stiff boiled corn flour) and fried greens, cooked on a firewood stove in a smoke-filled kitchen, digging into the communal bowls with greedy fingers. Fat mission employees finish off their beers, then clasp hands in prayer before digging their forks into slabs of meat and rice. Elementary school teachers tune into the news on the radio while they stir their ugali on charcoal stoves, then study for their high school exams late into the night. The small-shop owners sell portions of cooking oil and salt to customers cloaked in colorful kangas emerging from the night into the glow of the shop’s kerosene lantern. Women who have slaved all day collecting firewood, hauling water, cooking, farming and cleaning, wrestle unwilling children into wash basins to scrub the dirt of evening playtime from their skin, then slather oil on their shining shivering bodies. The hard-working men arrive home from the fields or pastures to a steaming bucket bath and a meal. The lazy men are still at the club where local brew will be served until 10 pm, and then they will stumble home in the dark. Children will squeeze 7 at once into a little room on bamboo-frame beds or grass mats. If there is a funeral or a wedding, large groups will be up late into the night, crying, singing, drinking, telling stories. And I sit with my book and my journal, relaxing to the familiar tunes of American and Latin music or strumming my guitar, waiting for a pot of potatoes to boil.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Let's go to the Funeral
When people saw my hair last week, most burst into laughter. They never thought braids could happen to a mzungu, with our slippery hair. The unfortunately named “Tuende kilioni” style (meaning let’s go to the funeral) was right on, as this week I attended two funerals. I think next time I’ll get the “Kilimanjaro” style, which involves your hair ending up on the top of your head like a mountain peak. There’s another style which is named something having to do with getting revenge on your husband’s other wife, but I can’t remember exactly what it’s called or what it looks like.
Maize and Beans
Most people cannot fathom that maize and beans did not come from Africa, as they are so much a part of life in the Southern Highlands. This week I had the students draw a rough map of the world on the board and had them guess the origins of the commonly-grown crops of Tanzania. I liked that I could shock them by moving the papers around on the board. They were surprised that beans and maize came from Central America, cabbage and sugarcane from Asia, and coffee originated in Africa. The only crop with African roots that is still grown in our area is cassava. Then we had a very ruthless competition, in which two teams of students had 10 minutes to collect samples of different native plants with uses for humans. They came up with about 20 different plants, with uses from stomach medicine to natural pesticides.
One thing I enjoy so much about Peace Corps work is the variety. My work in one week has involved teaching Mamas about the dangers of drinking while pregnant, teaching about the manufacturing industry to secondary school students, convincing women that birth control pills are used in the US (and are not poison that Europeans have forced upon Africa), leading a seminar on emotional support for orphans, and teaching English and permaculture. If only real jobs could be this varied.
A Young Composer
“Gailo will be so happy when her mother comes to visit! She will throw a party because there will be another mzungu in the village! We will come and drink soda!”
(A song, translated from Swahili, composed by Lightness, my 4-year-old neighbor, when asked what she would say to my mother when she visits. She was lying in the sand in my garden, a stuffed bear tied to her back like a baby, getting ready to go dig up sweet potatoes I planted early this year.)
When people saw my hair last week, most burst into laughter. They never thought braids could happen to a mzungu, with our slippery hair. The unfortunately named “Tuende kilioni” style (meaning let’s go to the funeral) was right on, as this week I attended two funerals. I think next time I’ll get the “Kilimanjaro” style, which involves your hair ending up on the top of your head like a mountain peak. There’s another style which is named something having to do with getting revenge on your husband’s other wife, but I can’t remember exactly what it’s called or what it looks like.
Maize and Beans
Most people cannot fathom that maize and beans did not come from Africa, as they are so much a part of life in the Southern Highlands. This week I had the students draw a rough map of the world on the board and had them guess the origins of the commonly-grown crops of Tanzania. I liked that I could shock them by moving the papers around on the board. They were surprised that beans and maize came from Central America, cabbage and sugarcane from Asia, and coffee originated in Africa. The only crop with African roots that is still grown in our area is cassava. Then we had a very ruthless competition, in which two teams of students had 10 minutes to collect samples of different native plants with uses for humans. They came up with about 20 different plants, with uses from stomach medicine to natural pesticides.
One thing I enjoy so much about Peace Corps work is the variety. My work in one week has involved teaching Mamas about the dangers of drinking while pregnant, teaching about the manufacturing industry to secondary school students, convincing women that birth control pills are used in the US (and are not poison that Europeans have forced upon Africa), leading a seminar on emotional support for orphans, and teaching English and permaculture. If only real jobs could be this varied.
A Young Composer
“Gailo will be so happy when her mother comes to visit! She will throw a party because there will be another mzungu in the village! We will come and drink soda!”
(A song, translated from Swahili, composed by Lightness, my 4-year-old neighbor, when asked what she would say to my mother when she visits. She was lying in the sand in my garden, a stuffed bear tied to her back like a baby, getting ready to go dig up sweet potatoes I planted early this year.)
Sunday, November 11, 2007
From Donkeys to Heroes
As soon as I stepped in the classroom I could sense my students were abnormally happy. Either I had gotten chalk all over my butt, I thought, or they were about to get me with some practical joke (maybe they had rubbed the cow-itch plant all over the piece of old mattress we use as an eraser). I thought they had finally realized how powerless I would be if they all turned against me, the soft teacher who doesn’t beat kids, my thin façade of control breaking down. I asked them what had gotten into them, and (as usual), 40 heads turned down to their desks and after a good 30 seconds one kid raised his hand. “The rains are near,” he mumbled. That was a relief! I should never have doubted these incredible kids. As we waited for some students to bring us some bamboo rods for the days lesson I gave an impromptu speech about Alaska—I still haven’t gotten used to the fact that here nobody bats an eyelash when I say that’s where I’m from, but these kids were a captive audience so I babbled on and on. Even as it started to rain and the bamboo arrived, the kids managed to pay decent attention to the task of building an A-frame. I love these kids who seem a different species from some of the monsters I tried to teach in the States or Mexico.
Just after the lesson, two men came up the hill toward the school leading two children whose hands had been shackled with heavy rusty chains and secured with a giant lock. I recognized one of them as a kid from my environmental club who had skipped the session. They must have stolen a bunch of chickens (a high crime in our town) or were caught with marijuana, I thought. The grandfather of one of the kids addressed the teachers. “These children were caught skipping school and playing cards!” he announced. The reaction wasn’t quite what he had hoped. I was a little hurt that the kids would rather do this than attend my club meeting (which usually involves a game or competition), but the shackles on these docile children seemed as necessary as harnessing a dead dog. I left at this point, only to hear the beating stick echoing from the school grounds, and to see an excited mob run onto my land after one of the boys and drag him back to the school by the hands and feet.
You might feel outraged at how I could just stand back and let this happen. But what I know about the system is that it is going to be a long slow transition. More than just a shift from corporal punishment, it will take a shift from people viewing children as pack animals whose wild spirits must be broken, to fostering respect for them. We are taking minute steps.
The headmaster at the primary school is transformed every Tuesday and Thursday when we teach 1/3 of the 6th grade class “Hero Books.” These are books that should help the students pick out goals and figure out what the obstacles are to getting there. They should also help them psychologically to realize who they can go to for help. The headmaster, usually feared by the children, reminds me of Beauty’s Beast as he tames his natural tendency to intimidate the kids, and calls for mutual respect. I explained to him that I think children need to learn out of a desire to reach goals, and earn praise from others, rather than the fear of being beaten so it hurts to sit on the hard school benches. I think most of the teachers agree in principle, but behavior change is very tough to bring about.
A 20-year-old villager told me that until he was in the 5th grade, he would run off with his friends and gamble with whatever they could find—100 shillings, a piece of sugarcane, an egg. One day he was caught, and the headmaster gave him the maximum beating allowed. He said he is so glad, as ever since that day he turned into a studious and diligent student, often coming home from vacations from boarding school and locking himself in his room to study for 16 hours a day. He was the top student in his class all four years of high school, and from my view is on his way to being the most educated person in the village. There goes my theory out the door.
As soon as I stepped in the classroom I could sense my students were abnormally happy. Either I had gotten chalk all over my butt, I thought, or they were about to get me with some practical joke (maybe they had rubbed the cow-itch plant all over the piece of old mattress we use as an eraser). I thought they had finally realized how powerless I would be if they all turned against me, the soft teacher who doesn’t beat kids, my thin façade of control breaking down. I asked them what had gotten into them, and (as usual), 40 heads turned down to their desks and after a good 30 seconds one kid raised his hand. “The rains are near,” he mumbled. That was a relief! I should never have doubted these incredible kids. As we waited for some students to bring us some bamboo rods for the days lesson I gave an impromptu speech about Alaska—I still haven’t gotten used to the fact that here nobody bats an eyelash when I say that’s where I’m from, but these kids were a captive audience so I babbled on and on. Even as it started to rain and the bamboo arrived, the kids managed to pay decent attention to the task of building an A-frame. I love these kids who seem a different species from some of the monsters I tried to teach in the States or Mexico.
Just after the lesson, two men came up the hill toward the school leading two children whose hands had been shackled with heavy rusty chains and secured with a giant lock. I recognized one of them as a kid from my environmental club who had skipped the session. They must have stolen a bunch of chickens (a high crime in our town) or were caught with marijuana, I thought. The grandfather of one of the kids addressed the teachers. “These children were caught skipping school and playing cards!” he announced. The reaction wasn’t quite what he had hoped. I was a little hurt that the kids would rather do this than attend my club meeting (which usually involves a game or competition), but the shackles on these docile children seemed as necessary as harnessing a dead dog. I left at this point, only to hear the beating stick echoing from the school grounds, and to see an excited mob run onto my land after one of the boys and drag him back to the school by the hands and feet.
You might feel outraged at how I could just stand back and let this happen. But what I know about the system is that it is going to be a long slow transition. More than just a shift from corporal punishment, it will take a shift from people viewing children as pack animals whose wild spirits must be broken, to fostering respect for them. We are taking minute steps.
The headmaster at the primary school is transformed every Tuesday and Thursday when we teach 1/3 of the 6th grade class “Hero Books.” These are books that should help the students pick out goals and figure out what the obstacles are to getting there. They should also help them psychologically to realize who they can go to for help. The headmaster, usually feared by the children, reminds me of Beauty’s Beast as he tames his natural tendency to intimidate the kids, and calls for mutual respect. I explained to him that I think children need to learn out of a desire to reach goals, and earn praise from others, rather than the fear of being beaten so it hurts to sit on the hard school benches. I think most of the teachers agree in principle, but behavior change is very tough to bring about.
A 20-year-old villager told me that until he was in the 5th grade, he would run off with his friends and gamble with whatever they could find—100 shillings, a piece of sugarcane, an egg. One day he was caught, and the headmaster gave him the maximum beating allowed. He said he is so glad, as ever since that day he turned into a studious and diligent student, often coming home from vacations from boarding school and locking himself in his room to study for 16 hours a day. He was the top student in his class all four years of high school, and from my view is on his way to being the most educated person in the village. There goes my theory out the door.
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Magic
I tried to introduce the concept of grafting to a (hilarious) health volunteer friend of mine, who told me to stop making up Lord-of-the-Rings magic-type lies. How could you take a piece of one tree and stick it on another, improving the trees and even changing the type of fruit it produces? Grafting is pretty much the coolest thing I’ve done in my life. Yesterday we started the grafting of 800 avocado trees, the first step in my master plan to turn my village into the hub of guacamole-making in Tanzania.
Amazing Guests
“If you saw me on the street, would you ever believe I have AIDS?” the young woman asked a group of my villagers. They adamantly shook their heads. How could such a stunning, cheerful, confident young woman be infected with the deadly disease? I invited two people living openly with HIV to come to my village and talk about their experiences with the disease, and halfway through the young woman realized that her audience thought she was acting. She then pulled out her record of CD4 (white blood cell) counts at the hospital to prove it to the group of women she was addressing. More self-assured than the vast majority of females in the village, our guest shared her story of getting married, falling sick with tuberculosis, the death of her husband and youngest child, getting tested for HIV, and how she now lives positively with her remaining two children. Stories like hers are so common among young women. The difference is that she is one of the few who has been tested and has begun to take antiretroviral drugs, which have changed her life. She appears strong and healthy, and asserts proudly that she could now ride her bike all the way to town without any problems, while in the past she was bedridden. The two guests made quite an impact on me, and I hope the villagers were as moved as I was.
Yet More Fatness
While filling out the cards used to chart the weight of growing children, I asked the nurse what she intended to name her future kids. She said it was funny I should ask because she had just been telling someone the other day that if she has a girl it will be named Gail (but spelled Gell so that people will be able to pronounce it), and a boy will be named “Beckham.”
I will add to the growing list of excellent names: Redness (and her brother Swelling?), God, Nitishie ("Scare me" in Swahili), Rechina, Bathroomeo (ok, maybe it had only 1 “o”), Enjoy.
I tried to introduce the concept of grafting to a (hilarious) health volunteer friend of mine, who told me to stop making up Lord-of-the-Rings magic-type lies. How could you take a piece of one tree and stick it on another, improving the trees and even changing the type of fruit it produces? Grafting is pretty much the coolest thing I’ve done in my life. Yesterday we started the grafting of 800 avocado trees, the first step in my master plan to turn my village into the hub of guacamole-making in Tanzania.
Amazing Guests
“If you saw me on the street, would you ever believe I have AIDS?” the young woman asked a group of my villagers. They adamantly shook their heads. How could such a stunning, cheerful, confident young woman be infected with the deadly disease? I invited two people living openly with HIV to come to my village and talk about their experiences with the disease, and halfway through the young woman realized that her audience thought she was acting. She then pulled out her record of CD4 (white blood cell) counts at the hospital to prove it to the group of women she was addressing. More self-assured than the vast majority of females in the village, our guest shared her story of getting married, falling sick with tuberculosis, the death of her husband and youngest child, getting tested for HIV, and how she now lives positively with her remaining two children. Stories like hers are so common among young women. The difference is that she is one of the few who has been tested and has begun to take antiretroviral drugs, which have changed her life. She appears strong and healthy, and asserts proudly that she could now ride her bike all the way to town without any problems, while in the past she was bedridden. The two guests made quite an impact on me, and I hope the villagers were as moved as I was.
Yet More Fatness
While filling out the cards used to chart the weight of growing children, I asked the nurse what she intended to name her future kids. She said it was funny I should ask because she had just been telling someone the other day that if she has a girl it will be named Gail (but spelled Gell so that people will be able to pronounce it), and a boy will be named “Beckham.”
I will add to the growing list of excellent names: Redness (and her brother Swelling?), God, Nitishie ("Scare me" in Swahili), Rechina, Bathroomeo (ok, maybe it had only 1 “o”), Enjoy.
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