April Fools

Totally wasn't attacked with machetes. 

But, if you want so hear my thoughts about teaching in Tanzania, check out the blog below.

Mista J.J.

             I really, really love teaching. More than anything else, my experience here has cemented in my mind that I want to be an educator. Remember in school, you always had one teacher, who was cooler, more approachable, fun, and somewhat bat-shit crazy? Well, here in Hanga, I think that’s me. I don’t just teach but I also kick it with the students. Teachers tend to be way authoritarian here, and I want them to see a guy who is better educated than virtually all their other teachers treating them like they’re not essentially beneath him. I also do some things I definitely wouldn’t do in the States. I remember one time (here comes the crazy part), I was teaching my computer class, and it was like 10:15 at night, and I really wanted to get out of there because I had to wake up at 7:00 if I wanted breakfast. The students were just not moving and being kind of obstinate. So, I started picking them up and carrying them out of the classroom. Now, to be fair, if I said leave my class and go to bed, in the States they would. Also, these guys are my age, but still.
            Teaching English to Swahili speakers is a major difficulty. The languages are pretty radically different. For example, in Kiswahili, there are virtually no prepositions, no continuous tense, no articles, no distinction between infinitives and gerunds, and strictly phonetic spelling which is seemingly really flexible. I can demonstrate what I mean by “flexible spelling” best with an example. I have one student named Caspary. Or Kaspary. I don’t think he his spelled his name the same way twice. Or one might spell his name Theobard or Theobardi. Also, the vowel sounds are different, Kiswahili has five simple vowel sounds, English has eight. There is no “th” diphthong or other diphthongs (eight in all in English) in Swahili. One time, one of my students wrote “hallo, I I thanks so much Chrast.” He meant Christ, in case you were wondering. Another time a student wrote “sanks,” instead of “thanks.” The first few times I introduced myself it went like this. “Jina langu Anthony.” “Antoni?” “Anthony.” “Ansoni?” “J.J., sema J.J.” People love calling me J.J. here. In Kiswahili, “je” means “do,” or “how.” So, in other words, calling me J.J. is almost the same as having the nickname “what, what.”
However, I think the funniest common mistake has to do with “r” and “l.” In Kiswahili, “r” and “l” are completely interchangeable. At one point I thought that people were saying two different words when they were one and the same, just pronounced differently. There also aren’t any words that end in a consonant, so they usually add random vowels at the end of a word, or sometimes in the middle. So, for example, there is almost no difference when they say, “play,” or “pray.” So one day, when I was working on pronunciation, I was thinking of monosyllabic words with an “l” or “r”. I wrote “roll and roller” and then “clap and clapper.” These came out “rorlrli and rorlrrlrlaa.” Coincidentally, they pronounce the name “Laura” very similarly. I hadn’t thought of it when I wrote “clap” and “clapper” on the board, so I was shocked to here forty students all saying in unison “crap,” “crappa.” I laughed uncontrollably for about five minutes. I thought “I gotta explain this in Kiswahili.” “ukikuenda crapper, ni kama kuchuchumaa choni. It was their turn to laugh. The “r” and “l” thing has been a source of constant hilarity. For example, last week, I was asked to be a sort of judge when our school debated another about the merits of a multi-party system or a single party system of government. I sat there intently listening and jotting down notes, when one student got up and in a very fervor filled fashion stated “yah, so the multi-party erection is much better than the single party erection because it give the better freedom.” I don’t know if I’ve ever been with 300 people or so and been the only one to get the joke before.
The students and Andrew and I have an in-joke that we find really funny, though I don’t know if the humor will translate to the page (or webpage, I suppose). So, in Andrew’s chemistry class, he was talking about buffers, when all the students in the class erupted in laughter. Andrew though maybe buffer sounded like a dirty word and Kiswahili or something, but the students just informed him that they just thought it was a funny word. The next day I used for pronunciation practice. I was able to get them from saying “buffa,” to “buffer” with a hard e and a rolled r at the end. Close enough for me, I suppose. So, now, anytime someone says or does something funny or ridiculous, or maybe if there is an awkward pause, someone usually yells buffer.
             Nearly everybody here has the same basic problems or errors when they speak in English. For example, they constantly say the word “somehow” when they want to say “somewhat.” Improper use of punctuation, capitalization, just general word choice, abound. Also, people often phrase things in a very awkward way. For example, the habit I’ve been trying hardest to break my students of is saying things like, “he likes so much to go to school.” Part of the problem extends from the word sana, because it can mean “so much,” “so many,” “very,” “really,” “a lot,” in English. You see they study English very similarly to the way we might study dead languages like Latin or Greek, in our education system. They don’t speak it, learn to understand native speakers, or pronounce things in a way that native speakers understand. There are definitely no oral exams. In many schools, the teachers themselves may never have talked to a native speaker. What happens is the teachers write the notes in English, explain them in Kiswahili, and then the students are tested in English. The knowledge is completely compartmentalized. In other words, if they have a math problem, they can solve it. Give them a word problem and they’re screwed. To complicate matters even further, I’ve only met a handful of teachers who are themselves proficient, let alone fluent, in English. In some of the classes I’ve sat in on, they’ve explained things in Kiswahili in an English literature course! Also, the teachers make obvious errors for example, spelling successful “succesiful” (the way they say it). Another time, a teacher wrote on the board “what is the roles of literature.” I’ve noticed that people have these massive vocabularies, but make constant errors with really basic stuff like verb tense, syntax, plural and singular, pronoun use, capitalization, simple punctuation, articles, and prepositions. That’s what the education system focuses on I also use a much simpler English vocabulary than other teachers I’ve seen. It’s like they expect everyone to run before they walk. What ends up happening is they misuse complicated words, and improperly construct complex sentences. They also constantly use antiquated terms. They speak like a British guy 70 years ago, and for a very good reason, the translations were made 70 years ago by stuffy British academics, and it hasn’t been updates since! Instead of saying, “do it this way,” someone might say “do it thusly.” It’s like an education system run by college freshmen. If they explained things in a simple way, they wouldn’t have to teach in Kiswahili. They also use a very imperfect immersion system. They call it English medium, but I would estimate they speak in Kiswahili 70% of the day. Even the signs “Speak English” should read “Speak in English.” Also, the time for English is split between grammar and literature, so there isn’t as much time devoted to actually learning the language. Essentially, the way the education system is set up, all they really need to be able to do is read English. They don’t need fluency or proficiency, or even the ability to apply their English in real world situations. They just need to pass the national exams (more on that later).
               You might find yourself asking why they learn in English at all. I’ve asked myself the same question many times, and indeed, so do the people who run the Ministry of Education. Here are basically the two sides of the debate. Our student’s aren’t learning a usable or correct form of English, so we might as well just teach in Kiswahili so they understand the material better, and make English something optional (like foreign language in U.S. schools). But here is the other side of the coin. There are certain concepts you simply can’t explain in Kiswahili. It’s nearly impossible to explain how light can be both a wave and a particle. Or how something could be hermaphroditic or asexual. Kiswahili developed as a trade language, not one to be used for academic discourse. Also, all the science, social science, math, etc. words that they use, pretty much come from English anyway. Plus, if they have any hopes for defending themselves from the onslaught of globalism, they need to an international language (I say international language, and not English, because due to the increasing influence of China in the area, it would be better for them to learn Chinese).
                 Kiswahil, for all its faults as an academic language, has been one of the key things in Tanzania’s (relative) success. I mean, every other country in East Africa has been an absolute shit show at some point since its independence. It has a lot to do with their first president Julius Nyrere. The guy was a genius, it’s too bad nobody has been nearly as effective since. He’s responsible more than anyone else for the spread of Kiswahili (or in English ,Swahili, to clarify). Originally, it started as a trade language, not a native tongue. Arabic traders (read: slave traders) definitely influenced its initial spread. German colonists also spread it to help them (where as the English spread English). But instead of being a trade and slave language, Nyrere turned it into something different. Kiswahili is unique in some aspects because aside from the youth, or in places like Dar or Zanzibar, it’s no one’s first language. Tanzania is the only (or at least was at one time, I’m not really sure) African country to have an African language as its main official language. It’s the only African language that is an official language of the African Union*. It’s a great source of national pride. Also, where other countries have been wracked with tribal tensions, and in some cases warfare and genocide, Tanzania has remained stable. It’s a safer country than the U.S. This is largely due to the national unity a common language brings to places with artificial borders put in place during the scramble for Africa by European powers. But partially, its prominence holds Tz back from learning other languages. Americans don’t learn other languages, really, but we’re luck enough to have an international language as our native tongue. However, outside of East Africa (Kiswahili is used in Kenya, and its use is spreading in Zambia, Rwanda, Uganda, Burundi, and even as far away as Somolia), it’s basically useless. Any Tanzanian or native Swahili speaker I meet in the States is going to speak better English than I speak Swahili.
                       I think, in some ways, it’s because of this that many outside groups are hesitating to pump their resources into teaching English. The Peace Corps, lest we forget, was started to make Americans look good abroad, and that continues to be part of its mission. So, all the Peace Corps education volunteers I have met all teach math and sciences. I think, honestly, it would be better to pump most of them into English medium primary (elementary) schools, so student understand the material better later on. But the U.S. government would never do that because it smacks too much of imperialism for them to improve their image. I mean, they do need good math and science teachers, but I think in a holistic sense, teaching young people English is more sustainable and versatile. I mean, the education system is ALREADY IN ENGLISH. Though there are many problems besides the level of English, I still think it is the best solution.
                 And there are many other problems. In other disciplines, while tutoring the students I’ve noticed some pretty glaring errors, and not just with grammar. The other day, I was looking at their geography notes**. Under the heading “Other causes of earthquake” it listened such things as “volcanic activity,” “human development like excavation and mining,” “landslides,” and “animals stampedes.” It later said something like minor tremors, but they did already call it an earthquake. Awesome. I’ve noticed a number of errors in the textbooks themselves. Here is one verbatim:
Simple Prepositions: These are prepositions which are not formed by any method and are common to a language [comma use sic plus the fact that the sentence doesn’t make sense]. They formed [sic] by one word. Such prepositions are as follows: At [capitalization, sic],by [comma use sic] for, from, in, off on, out, through, till up with, after, since, via, per, than town [wtf??? sic], past under to over, but round.
Examples:
She is at the bus stop.
He fell off the lorry [note, this is the U.K. word, the U.S. word is truck]
Rukia is killed by her husband [Wha? What the fuck? I mean seriously, people, a correct sentence, but huh?]
And that’s their textbook! You might think that’s bad, but at least my students have textbooks. The writers of the book only had their B.A. too. Also of the problem has to do with the ministry of education. They are the ones who allow this crap to be printed. The language system is basically based on an antiquated preWW2 era British system. Most of the schools are boarding schools. The have primary school standard I-VII, which is basically kindergarten through 6th grade. Form I and II are basically 7th and 8th grade, forms III and IV are 9th and 10th, and O level and A level are 11th and 12th grade. From III and IV students range in age from 17-28. If you are not familiar with the U.K. system today, the education system in Harry Potter is based on the old model. There is virtually no continuous assessment; instead, they have the national exams. National exams are a big deal the have one at the end of Form II, Form IV, and A level. Again, with the Harry Potter, they are like the O.W.L.S. and N.E.W.T.S. They cost money to take, involve a lengthy registration process, and have police officers with AK-47 at the door to prevent cheating (seriously). I’ve looked at these exams. I’m a college educated native English speaker, an I found the English exam confusing as hell. Andrew described the Physics exam this way: “a M.I.T. physics prof would get a 70% on the exam because the questions are so unclear and misleading.” I guess it’s a good thing they only need like a 30% or 40% to pass.
You might find yourself asking why use these exams at all. Well, in a sense, the government is stuck. They don’t have enough qualified teachers. Like in the States, the money lies in government work, business, etc. Places like Tz suffer from major brain drain. Many who get enough education expat. Most teachers don’t go to college. This basically means the same thing as having someone who just finished high school teaches 10th grade. In small isolated places, people who complete standard VII teach standard II or something. This means a 7th grader teaches 3rd grade. In the past few years, the government has built 2000 schools, but this means dick bupkiss if there aren’t teachers. Without some sort of accreditation process, these exams are the only thing the government can do to create some sort of semblance of consistency. So yeah, problems exist at the schools here, but these are good schools. The students, at least, have enough teachers and freakin’ libraries. Many schools can’t boast that. I’ll give you and an example, there is a school not so far from here that a couple years ago had 700 students and 4 teachers. It was a new school, all the students failed their exams, the students left, and the school went bankrupt. But this has turned into a success story. One of the best teachers from Hanga Seminary became headmaster there. He is doing everything right. He’s building it in a sustainable way. They are building an adequate library before the buy books so they remain in good condition. Right now, they have about 100 students (and they all passed their last round of exams). Right now, there are 10 teachers and he wants to increase the student body to 200 and no more. It’s sustainable that way both for the education of the students, and for the amount of food they need. Plug, plug, when I get back to the States, I’m going to try and fundraise them a library, and I’m also going to try and help get them a Peace Corp volunteer. But other problems exist. Legally, the headmaster or his (realistically only his and not hers) proxy is able to administer four strokes as a punishment. To beat a student otherwise is illegal. There are a lot of things illegal in Tanzania. There are also a lot of things that are never prosecuted. A cop is much more likely to (illegally, only immigration can do that) ask a white person traveling through town for their papers, hoping for a bribe, than to bust a school for corporal punishment. Now, at all the schools in Hanga it is strictly prohibited with varying degrees of enforcement. Other schools, it is certainly commonplace. Also, at some schools it depends on the teacher. If the teacher has a degree, and therefore indispensable, than they can do whatever they damn well please. It also depends a lot on the personal leadership of the headmaster. For me, if I see it, I have the knowledge to say you can’t do this. A teacher can’t counter with “this is our culture” because it is against their law. If the headmaster consents, my hands are completely tied. Now, I don’t want to paint an overly dark picture, that would be unfair and outright incorrect, but there are things that leap out to me as major problems. For example, it is not just common place, but almost assumed, that male teachers are having sex with one or more of their students. For the girls, it’s the possibility of a guaranteed benefactor. Now, I’d say this has more to do with the promiscuous culture that school abuse issues (make of that what you will). Again, in Hanga this is strictly prohibited, as these are Catholic schools (and it definitely never happens at the Seminary because it is all male, and there’s no pederasty, because of how homophobic this country is) and I would say it would be way more unheard of than beating and immediately punished. However, there was a case a few years ago that a girls schools that is a Catholic school where the from IV students pimped out the form I and IIs to villagers and collected money. Once it was discovered, it was stopped, but still. To an extent we have a self-perpetuating cycle. The repression done by some current teachers will lead to the next generation thinking it is acceptable. Now, as an outsider and a person who doesn’t know all the details, and can’t always make a clear observation I would stand behind under oath, I would say that some of the schools in Tanzania remind me more of a scene out of Cool Hand Luke than a place of education.
                But you need to remember reading this that their culture is different than ours. Corporal punishment in all circumstance is more acceptable. Also, living in what we would see as cramped conditions, is totally normal. Some people wouldn’t know what do to if they had a room as big as the average American teenager. That’s one thing I see no problem with (other than the communicability of disease). Also, the sexual dominance of older men over young girls is something that needs to be addressed at a societal level. In some ways many cultures throughout human history have considered this behavior normal. The best approach a volunteer or someone else can take is to talk about health issues and STDs for prevention, or help establish adequate social services. Anger or outrage doesn’t do any good. Only smart, calculated, and informed action does.
                I’d also like to point out that it is usually really good here. Students are happy. Teachers are happy. Sometimes the shit hits the fan, but not often. In terms of the bad stuff, the same thing happens in the States. And at least these schools don’t have crack to deal with. Or metal detectors at their doors. In many ways, the education gap in the States is much more disgusting, because the most powerful country in the world could solve it’s education problems in a year with all the money is spends on weapons that can potentially kill civilians, or the money spent on that second Escalade or Hummer. I mean, I think we have all had one or two teachers who were essentially useless, but had a job because they were a really good coach, or the school’s turn-over rate and pay were too crappy to keep the talented folks around. If you are thinking “what can I do?,” I have a couple answers, but most people won’t like ‘um. Become a long-term volunteer. If you stay short term it doesn’t do a whole lot in terms of impact (but it might for the personal growth of the volunteer). Donate to scholarships, but make sure they aren’t mismanaged or misappropriated. Or, become an educator yourself or help the kids in your local area. It’s easier, and more effective. DON’T send a bunch of shitty books to Africa. The bookshelves here are littered with Harlequin romance novels, or classics the students can’t read and don’t apply to their lives. There is a Spanish textbook here. Great, I’m the only one in Hanga that can use it. The money spent on the postage could buy them English-Swahili dictionaries or encyclopedias that they need much more. Or Scholarships. Make the smart choice and not one that alleviates a guilt conscience or give a feeling of false-self-accomplishment.
                     So I came into this wondering whether or not I was qualified. As it turns out, I am hyper-qualified by comparison. Also, you need to remember that having a diploma, degree, or certification helps a lot to assure quality levels, but it doesn’t make someone a good teacher or even more intelligent and wise. Just because a teacher doesn’t have one doesn’t mean they are a bad teacher. Likewise, I’d like to think I’m a good teacher because I’m smart and I care. But who knows, maybe I am totally screwing these guys over because I’ve spent most of my time on teaching them how to use prepositions and verb tenses instead of things like writing recipes (it’s on the nation syllabus, really) or cramming a bunch of wordy impressive sounding vocabulary in their heads. Either way, these guys really make me want to come back to Tz and to be an educator wherever I go. Also, high school pretty much sucks wherever you go. I guess the only thing I can say with certainty is we all gotta keep trying. So, crap for multipartison erections, and sank Chrast for what you’ve got.


Post Script.
I didn’t know where this would fit in here, so I’m adding it as a post script. For some reason, people here freaking love professional wrestling. I can’t describe my confusion when my students (multiple times and parties) asked me “yah, so do you know John Cena.” “Who the hell is John Cena?” “Yeah, he’s very strong, and he’s so famous in America.” “Really.” “You know wrestling is fake, right?” “No, not.” “Then how come their faces aren’t bruised and bloody after the fight like they are in boxing.” “Yah, because they are very strong.” “Whatever guys.”

*Something like 30% of Kiswahili comes from Arabic, and large amounts come from English, German, and a lesser extent Portuguese, so, to be fair, it is somewhat debatable whether or not it can be considered a truly African language.
** So, when they reach O level and A level or university, they are channeled into different disciplines, and there isn’t a whole lot of choice in what you do. For example, one path is English, Kiswahili, and geography. The study of geography has nothing to do with linguistics. These just happen to be the three easiest subjects to pass the test in. Sigh. PBC, or physics, biology, and chemistry are the most difficult and sought after. If you can’t do, teach. If you can’t teach, teach Geography.

Holidays.

So, I suppose this story, or collection of stories, is rather tangential. They doesn’t all directly relate to the previous story, world issues, or volunteering itself. It’s more about me (as if any of this isn’t). I suppose it’s something I learned here, or more accurately relearned. It’s about holidays. I’ll do this in chronological order, it seems best.

 

Thanksgiving.

       It’s not really a long story. At Thanksgiving I had been here about three months. Usually, Thanksgiving is about getting you ass fatter with people you love, and if you so choose, getting drunk and/or watching football. Thanksgiving is one of the only holidays celebrated by only Americans. Sure there is President’s day, or something, but nobody really celebrates that, and for good reason. Name me a president who isn’t responsible for murder (yes, even Obama), and I’ll give you a messiah. Well, maybe William Henry Harrison, but I digress. So, I wasn’t all that crazy about going nuts with Thanksgiving, but Catherine, our matronly retired prof volunteer really wanted the celebration. So, she enlisted a bunch of the candidates at the monastery, a couple of the monks, and Andrew and myself to prepare a meal. Andrew, Catherine, and myself all love to cook, something we don’t get the chance to do here very often. Going to the supermarket to find a good turkey is nothing. Nothing. Having to go on a crappy bus into town, spend a whole day searching for supplies and hauling it back is something else. First of all there are no turkeys here let alone Butterballs. Catherine brined three chickens over night. We couldn’t find many normal stuffing fixings (except giblets) so we used stale bread and a can of corn beef hash. A can of sweet corn (they only grow white corn here) costs more than twice as much as it does at home. With the same money could buy you, like, 80 tomatoes when they are in season. We made it work. For the crowning achievement, we made an apple pie. A Thanksgiving staple and a relatively easy thing to make at home created quite a commotion. Regulating the temperature, jerry-rigging a pie pan for aluminum foil, finding freakin’ apples, at the very least, presented major logistical challenges. We made it all work. Nothing was quite like home, but we didn’t care.

       As far as candidates go, many pretend to want to be monks in hopes of getting a free education. Others have a true vocation and are still treated like shit also. We mostly invited the later. So, for Tanzanians, special food doesn’t really matter that much. Not for the flavor anyway, status being a different issue. For them, it was maybe the only chance they will ever get to experience another culture. For us it meant something different entirely. We had eaten basically the same flavorless-but-for-over-salting-and-tons-of-oil food for a long damn time. We hadn’t been able to dictate what we ate. It wasn’t that the monastery is poor, it’s not, it’s really rich. Most Tanzanians just like really bland, crappy, food. I would compare it to coming to the rural Midwest from a different part of America, multiply it times fifty, wash, rinse, repeat. It was like an oasis. But more importantly, it was people who care about each other coming together to eat special food. Think about that. I mean really think about that. I mean, really think. I mean you can go to the store, right now, and buy a turkey or the fixing for stuffing. You could make basically the same meal you eat on Thanksgiving any day you want if you make the time for it. It took us three days of preparation. That’s the core I suppose, it’s special because you make it special. You could decide not to do that particular activity but something else you don’t get to do all that often. Hell, you could take your holiday off work and drink, clean you house, watch movies or Internet porn, whatever. But you don’t.

       So I suppose I should mention this: Catherine, the most gun-ho about Thanksgiving, was not born in the United States, she was born in the Philippines. You see here, we get called “mzungu” every day, even Catherine, who, by their logic, should be called “mchina**.” But she’s not, and I’m not. We’re Americans. Catherine was born in the Philippines, but she’s an American too. So am I, even though my grandfather is a first generation American.

       Why do I write about all of this ad-nausium? Well I suppose I stumbled upon two of the things being an American is really about (or, at least, is supposed to be). Note: Capitalism is not one of them. It doesn’t matter where the hell you come from, if you live in America, you are American***. Period. But further, Americans celebrate what really matters (at least until commercialism perverted it), the act of sharing things with, not exclusively those you love, but virtually anyone who wants to be a part of it all. And that, is something I can get behind.

 

Christmas

 

       So, upon our departure from Dar I was left with a tough decision. Andrew is my boy and Steph and Nick rule, not to mention some other really awesome people who would be around Hanga during Christmas. But, I was confronted with something else. That same gaggle of tourists I mentioned before would be staying there at the same time. Also, Tanzanian celebrations, for lack of a better word, suck. There is usually a really long ass mass (if they are Catholic WaTz), a ton of boring traditional dancing (and the dances are usually in Kiswahili, unless they use a tribal language I can’t understand, a language that wasn’t that ubiquitous in this part of the world until a hundred years ago, make of that what you will), several really long speeches, food that is somewhat better than normal, and me sitting in a public place where I can’t really leave. Also, most of the monks who are our best friend are the younger ones. Being the lowest on the food chain, they are the most likely to have to take care of the tourists. So, I decided to meet up with some friends from the Peace Corps. in another village. It was a really hard choice. But I thought, not getting pestered and cooking myself trumped many things.

       I ran into some of my friends heading the same place for Christmas when Andrew, Steph, Nick, and I were in town, said goodbye and got on a different bus. So, this won’t be one of my most interesting stories, nothing ridiculous, dangerous, or particularly wild. This is a different part of my personality that many people don’t necessarily realize exist. This experience consisted of making and drinking coffee (and taking a couple of hours to do so), cooking food, doing dishes and crosswords, and solidifying friendships. Anyway, sometimes, I suppose, I’m the most Zen when I’m the most domestic.

       So, especially with the Peace Corp types, they have to do their own cooking all the time. Many are quite tired of it, where as I seldom have a chance to do something I love. It works out pretty well. I spent a great deal of my Christmas season (note two days before and the day after, not a month) cooking and cleaning, because I like to do it, and it gave a welcome rest to friends of mine. Also, something I came to realize (something I’d like to apply to the rest of my life) I’m not a Peace Corp. Volunteer. If Andrew or I want to talk about the problems of the day we can tell each other almost whenever we want. Not so with the PCVs, they are usually alone at their sites. Thus, I shouldn’t talk about my site-specific problems they can’t relate to because this is one of their few opportunities to talk about like problems with people who experience them. Some times slow on the uptake, I should have started cooking or cleaning sooner instead of trying to steer a conversation my way.

       So, anyway, we spent the time in really good conversation, drinking the best coffee we’ve had in a while. My friend Amanda, who I have to say, I’ve really become close with and really respect (I’m not sure if she knows how much I appreciate her, but anyway) has an ability I cherish. She is someone who is able to call me on my shit and I respect when she does it without resenting it. Anyway, I think I was lucky to get to know her and her sort of new (they didn’t date during their training, really) boyfriend Marshall better***. So, we drank lots of coffee and hung out. One thing about the volunteer experience, I’m not sure if I have ever had an experience (aside from maybe backpacking trips) where I have had so many friends together for such an extended period of time just hanging out and shooting the proverbial shit.

       We sang Christmas carols. I hate Christmas music. At least, I hate getting bombarded with holiday cheer (i.e. commercialism) for over a month. I had hearing the same thing over and over. I hate gaudy crap that doesn’t look good on anyone’s front lawn. I hate the materials and energy it all wastes. This time, however, it was wonderful. It’s hard to remember the last time I sang Christmas carols instead of hearing them while walking through the grocery store or something. So, we sang Christmas carols. It was beautiful. I mean really beautiful. Most people didn’t have good sing voices (and I don’t exclude myself), but it was incredible. Some of my students who lived in the village came to greet me, and (as opposed to the usually request of me teaching them to sing hip-hop) they got Rudolf the red-nosed reindeer. We all knew most of the words to all the songs we sang, and the disparate elements and distances that kept us from the other people we love made us sing the songs like we meant them.

       We did have one very non-traditional element in our Christmas. We had an epic water balloon fight. Jack, Jack, Cindy and Ginny (I mighta spelled that wrong), the newer education volunteers, and I spent several hours filling water balloons. In order to do this we jerry-rigged a system where we cut the bottom off a plastic bottle and blew the water into the balloon. This worked surprisingly affectively and it made a gratifying plop when it filled. At one point, amidst the hours of witty banter and rapidly worsening soreness in our cheeks, Ginny had a full balloon her lap and one of the Jacks leaned over and touched his cigarette to the balloon. This resulted in a very wet crotch on Ginny’s end.

       I at one point I sat on the porch with my friends Erica and Randy (who are dating) doing crossword puzzles. There were a few instances where I knew a particularly obscure answer or gave an unnecessary explication. Randy called me on my showing off. From then onward, I would act super-tongue-in-cheek know it all every time I gave an answer to the point where it became like an in-joke between Randy and I. At one point someone mentioned Cat Stevens, and I said deadpan and matter of factly “you know, I know Cat Stevens,” and we burst into laughter. Over the course of time, another volunteer, Tristan, and I became increasingly antagonistic over the water balloons. All of a sudden, I saw Randy shooting up like a bullet with two balloons in hand yelling something to the effect of “it starts now.” I screamed, “no wait, we have to finish making them first, not yet, what are you doing!?!?!” It was to no avail. Soon, all 14 of us became enveloped in the utter chaos that ensued. At this point, I’d like to point out that Amanda was the first white person to ever come to her village.  Suddenly there were fourteen of us running, shouting, and throwing water balloons at each other. There is something strange and animalistic about the way people act in a water balloon fight. One moment, we were all friends, the next it would not be out of place to hear “you are the illiterate product of incestuous union!” as floppy projectile whizzes past your left ear. At any given moment, one might turn on her or his ally, like when I pegged Amanda in the back right after we teamed up on someone. Or the way that Marshall threw his hands around his body attempting to run and crouch at the same time when he saw my guile filled smile and murderous eyes holding two balloons and standing directly the stockpile of balloons and himself. There is something pathetic about shielding your face from something you know won’t hurt, but you run like the devil is at you heels anyway. Even some of the village mamas joined in. We didn’t have teams or any sort of rules, it was basically just a slaughter-fest, wonton and unbridled.

       A bit later on, one mama who was Amanda’s neighbor, invited herself in, in typical Tz fashion. After a litany of greetings, she dramatically said, what translates to, “Amanda is my own child. And she eats rice every day!” That was pretty much it. This is actually the kind of shit that villagers talk about here. I also think she was drunk. They do a lot of that too.

       Later that night, during dinner, I sat by Erica and we started talking about stuff like Wendell Berry. Eventually the conversation drifted to the nature of our Christmas. Beside backpacking trips or family holiday board games etc. I can think of two other times that I’ve past the time in a similar fashion. The first was in Ireland. Some of my friends and I went to a few storytelling nights. It was only us American college students and a bunch of old Irish people. There were sandwiches and pints while people told jokes or stories, read Robert Service poems, and played songs on guitars. It’s what people used to do to entertain themselves. One of the times I went, one of the performers couldn’t make it, and they asked if anyone from the audience wanted to do something. My friends volunteered me to play a song. I played “Moonshiner,” an old folk song that Bob Dylan and Uncle Tupelo both do versions of. It was amazing. The other happened at Billy’s house. Myself, Billy, Jasmine, Joe, Shaun, Joe’s sister and her friend who came from Scandinavia to the south to learn bluegrass, sat around drinking whiskey. We had two or three guitars, a fiddle, and a banjo. We passed them around and played songs for a couple hours. It was one of the most wonderful nights of my life. Before radios, T.V.s, ipods, and computers this is what people did. Most of us Americans have become completely disconnected this part of the human experience. I saw it in Ireland, when the country became rich, people turned their back on their traditions in favor of cell phones and McDonalds (this is a sweeping generalization, mind you). For example, the only people in Celtic Studies courses were older students and American exchange students. I see it happening here. Globalism is destroying the few tattered ashes of indigenous culture left behind by colonialism. So it goes. At least for a few nights, we unspokenly felt a part of something old. Old and good.

       A little later we exchanged gifts white elephant style. Before, I gave a painting to the three volunteers I knew the best. It was great because each picked the painting that I thought matched them the best. Amanda chose the painting that used the Tz color palette the best. Erica chose a painting more close to the work I did in college, and the one that would have been my drawing prof’s favorite. And my friend Bill chose the one that had the most political commentary. I put another painting in the pile of gifts, but because I put it in upside-down, everyone thought it was just a piece of cardboard. Randy ended up choosing between that and a low quality Chinese pirate dvd of “Harry Potter and the Other,” which had all the Harry Potter movies, the new Star Wars, and for some reason, all the Home Alones. I ended up getting a big tub of peanut butter because I knew Andrew would like it. Firstly, because he really likes peanut butter, secondly, because he needs all the fat and protein he can get because he’s lost like 30 pounds. On a side note, Andrew, Nick, and Steph brought me a bottle of Jim Beam from the States. When they pulled it out I was speechless, I might even say that I nearly shed a single tear, but that might be exaggerating*****. I later went up to Randy and told him I was happy that he picked the painting. I said I might never see him again, and it was a good memento from that Christmas. He replied something to the effect of “treat every time you see someone as the if it’s possibly your last. It will change your life.”

       For me Christmas means, basically, three things: A time to for family who I seldom see and very much miss, Mexican food, and mortality. I guess there is one reason don’t usually get homesick, all my extended family lives, like, a thousand miles from me. I’m used to it. Mortality is a weird one. In one of my first clear Christmas memories, I had a bad fever and I was wrapped in a blanket, almost hamming it up as the sick kid wanting attention. Then, I don’t recall how long after, we needed to take my Mom to the hospital. It might be the first time I became viscerally and tangibly aware of others’ suffering, not just existing, but my own being inconsequential by comparison. Every Christmas, I see my Grandparents becoming a little more feeble and aged. I hate it. I wish I had more time with them and more moments to spend. I want to hear Papa’s WW2 stories, I want to do crosswords with Granny, I want Dodo to control elements of my life. But that’s that. I am reminded of what I don’t have, and cherish what I do. I was reminded of the “true meaning of Christmas.” But it isn’t the sort of after school special moral that we usually get jammed down our throats. Sometimes, we need to stop everything, remember our traditions and just spend time with people.

      

New Year’s Eve

 

I sat in my room alone early on New Year’s, nursing a beer and feeling pretty lame. Andrew was on his way back from Dar and I didn’t have anything else better to do. So, I sunk in my chair relegated to listening to music and drinking my beer. I thought I might go count to midnight with the monks, drink a free beer and than go to bed. It was at that point I heard a knock on the door. It was Fr. Francis. He asked me if I wanted to get a beer in the village. That single beer that eventually multiplied many fold. Fr. Francis graduated with his masters from St. John’s the same time I graduated with my undergrad. So, besides the fact that he is awesome and speaks fluent English, we have that in common. We went to a patio type thing they have in front of a duka or store. I went into full Tz mode. We joked and talked, and I spoke in all Kiswahili to the villagers, and if I ran into trouble with my words, Fr. Francis could translate for me. I had the villagers rolling, I went on about my “I’m not European, I’m an American, thank you very much” rant. I also told them that my father was not able to visit my Grandparents because there was too much snow to leave the house. They were completely shocked. I acted totally like a drunk villager, yelling, telling people to go get things for me, etc. It was awesome. Francis sneakily kept ordering more beer for us when I wasn’t looking. At one point, I voiced concerns about how much it was costing to which he replied, “you know, we’re only spending something like $18.” Alright, if a priest says it, I can’t complain. I’ve been kinda dismayed here often about how much money I blow on stuff like beer, going to town, eating out, etc. I think in shillings now, so, it was like “oh man, 20,000 shillings is a lot of money.” It is nice to step back every once and a while and think, “at home this would be like 60 bucks, not 18, is okay to splurge sometimes.”

       The night drew on and I wondered why I was more drunk than Fr. Shawa (his surname). Then I realized that I have been drinking Castle Milk Stout, which is 6% and he had been drinking Castle Lager, which is 5%. He’s also sneaky. We were a riot. I realized that it wasn’t just that Shawa was looking out for me, but he also wanted to be in the village and he was using me as an excuse. He was on point with everyone. The guy really knows how to mingle, get a little crazy, but still maintain his status in the community. A couple drunks harassed us for beer, in typical Tz “you’re rich, buy me shit,” fashion. At one point, one dude actually got on his knees in front Fr. Francis, and in unison we almost yelled simama or get up. Another guy would not stop harassing me. He just would not leave me alone. I got so fed up, that said “you want everything I have?” and I threw my pull-over on to the ground, spit on it (pretty much the worst insult here) and said “welcome.” I was bluffing of course, I did not want to lose my pull-over from mountaineering club in Ireland, but if he had taken it, it would have made him the biggest chump in the village.

       Soon, both of us forgot about the incident. At the stroke of midnight, I started to run around to all the random people and shout “happy new year!” or “oyee” (which is pretty much a cheer, I would liken it to hip hip hooray or something) or “sema safi, safi!” People were eating it up. At one point, someone called me mbongo, which is slang for Tanzanian. It was one of my prouder moments here. Eventually, we started dancing. Fr. Francis was seamless and really in his element. I mostly tried to stop nasty mamas from grinding on me. After a full night of revelry, we both went back, me to my quiet hostel and him to his quiet monastery. He somehow was able to say mass at 7:00 the next morning. I, on the other hand, spent most of the morning completely incapacitated in my bed. At that point, it dawned on me that I had just gotten blotto with a priest in a village for free. Awesome.

 

So, I suppose I learned the true meaning of New Years, getting drunk and making a total ass of yourself.

 

Valentine’s Day

 

Every year, St. Cloud State has this massive radio trivia contest that lasts all Valentine’s weekend. Something like 60 teams compete for 48 straight hours. Andrew really did not want something like the Atlantic Ocean to get in the way. It sounded pretty hard core. His team had a website so they could streamline their operation and allow folks outside of home-base (they literally had a home base) to join their team more effectively. So, that weekend, Andrew and I stayed at our friend Alena’s place in town (Songea). I played support, cooking and cleaning while Andrew spent much of his time at the internet café. Alena’s house is basically the meeting place for the Peace Corps cats in the region, so she often has visitors and largish gatherings take place at her abode. I think I was probably really nice for her to have guest over that cooked and cleaned for her and didn’t (inevitably usually) leave an aftermath. Alena is pretty quiet, and I’ve usually been around her in large gatherings, so this time, it was nice to actually get to know her. We bonded over our love of environmental architecture (she has a masters in environmental engineering). The last time we talked, we discussed our dream homes we’ve been designing. I made some detailed sketches. She made a computer mock up. I felt hopelessly sub-par.

        I cooked a lot of awesome food, and I was so excited about it that I planed the meals, like, a week in advance. One thing I made was that winemaker’s soup I like to make at home. It was really extravagant because wine and real butter are really expensive here. Every once and a while, it’s nice to forget you’re in Tanzania a little. Also, discover, goat bones that have been sitting out for a long time, make a terrible broth. Luckily, Alena had bullion cubes.

       On the afternoon of Valentine’s Day, I went to the market and a few other places. I had a couple beers and had a lovely buzz going. The market is a bit of a hassle and I think it lessens the bite a little. It wouldn’t be that bad, but no one gives you a good price (because you’re white), everyone yells at you to buy stuff (because you’re white), and people with arms full of groceries will ask you to buy them food (because you’re white). I needed a belt terribly, because my old one broke. I’ve lost weight here, so I spent all weekend hobbling around, hiking up my pants. I told a bunch of street kids to go find me one (a totally normal thing to do here) and I gave them a tip (not as normal). Then, in the market, I told them to get me some bell peppers. They brought me a crappy one, so I sent them to get another. I stupidly gave them the money before hand, and they didn’t come back. Fuckers.

       My buzz ended, I returned and started cooking. In earlier conversation, Alena mentioned that every time people came to her house they watched movies on the projector, because they can’t do stuff like that at their sites. She said she has games and cards and no one ever uses them. That night, I made a bit of a point (but also because I really wanted to since I hadn’t played it in a long time) of playing rummy. I love rummy. I learned to play it in Ireland and we played it there all the time. Andrew and Alena are also fans. Amanda, who had arrived at that point (the PCVs were all going to a training session soon) slept. She could sleep through a riot, I swear. Well, I suppose not, at one point she woke up when I was yelling about the cards. It was one of the most fun nights I’ve had here. It certainly beats almost getting beaten up by a bunch of knackers******. So, for the past couple months, about three different places in the village have been blasting loud music at an absurd volume from about 7:30 in the morning to about 1:00 or 2:00 at night. It’s horrible. Most people don’t live near it. Except for us. It sucks. A lot. I swear, they think that speakers are supposed to crackle because they always play it at a volume that threatens to make the tube explode. At any rate, we finished our good wholesome fun and went to bed (a far cry from what my good friend Dano calls “whiskey day” back home). At that point, just as I lay down to go to a nice silent bed, Alena’s neighbor, who I hate hate hate, started blasting Celine Dion*******. I thought about the whole constant sensory bombardment associated with the modern world, and I told Andrew, “you know, maybe I’m a Luddite.”

 

So, I suppose here, since I have so much time to think, I’ve really though about our holidays and how we choose to spend them. I suppose one positive here, I’ve learned a lot about what I value. Not the things, ideas, or issues I value, I already knew that, but more like the “why, how, because of, in what way.” I dunno, this whole time writing this I wanted to work in the Get-up kids song “Holiday,” but I wasn’t able. I guess I just did. Maybe I can see you on holidays. Worlds away. I’ll never forget all our yesterdays. Lucky if I see you on holidays. Holidays, holidays.

 

 

* I remember when I lived in Ireland I was fairly embarrassed to be American. Here, I’m like (in Kiswahili), “hell no, I’m not European, I’m American. My father is American, my mother is American, my grandfather is American, my Grandmother is American, I’m and American*. It’s like saying, ‘oh you’re an African, you must be from Kenya.’” They usually respond “hell no, I’m from Tanzanian!” To that, I respond, “Yeah, well, I’m from America!” I don’t know if I have ever picked sides like that. I mean, yeah, Europeans and Americans have similar cultures, but they are far from the same. I mean many Americans have never been to Europe. I think a lot about the PC lingo Americans use, for example, “African-American.” I mean, one might say “what? African-American? Are you saying that because my skin is black? I’ve never been to Africa, I’m American.” And it’s true. They have this “Obama conga.” A conga is an element of traditional native dress, that uses pictures to show pictorially show something about them and they use them for everything, carrying children, water on their head, other stuff, or as a dress. If a conga has numbers, for example, it means the woman is educated. Anyway, so I had a conversation about this with a short term Austrian volunteer where I mentioned “the conga with a picture of Obama and two pictures of the continent of Africa is hilarious (unless you’re a wacko tea-bagger or something).” She often talked about (what I perceived as) her mostly academic knowledge of Africa. Never mind that I spoke much more Swahili, but whatever. Not only did she start to talk about how Africans (as a whole, mind you, not just Tanzanians) thought of Obama as an African, but she went further to basically say that Americans did too. Hell no, don’t lecture me about my own culture when you have never been to my country. I think the conga is hilarious, and I sure as hell think just about any American I might talk to would think the same, including Neo-Cons or Obama himself. The dude is American. Unless you are one of those psychos who patrols the Rio Grande with a shotgun, that is.

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*** I hate defining someone based upon who they are/were/are dating, whatever, because it makes it seem I can’t appreciate them as separate entities (which I do). At that finite point in time, I knew them as together, so if I write about them the same way.

**** By the way, we made burritos at my request and it made me incredibly happy

***** Which, by the way, has been the only whiskey I have been able to drink in almost 7 months. Sigh.

****** See earlier blogs for reference.

******* It’s not just this incident, I really can’t stand the guy. He’s a teacher at Songea girls. I’ve met him like 4 times, and by the second he acted like I was his best friend he had not seen for years. I assume he is trying to butter me up so that I can find him a university in America or Europe (it doesn’t matter which) he can go to. I remember one time, he greeted Andrew and I when we were at Songea Girls, and he kept slapping my hands to emphasis his happiness. I had long, deep cuts in my hand from falling the night before. It hurt like hell and I was ready to punch him. So, yeah, this dude sucks.

Desemba ni Shagalabagala Part 1

Shagalabagala is a Kiswahili word that etymologically stems from Arabic. It translates to “disorderly,” but I’d like to think the meaning is closer to “shit show,” or “utter chaos.” I spent a large portion of the month bored out of my skull because our students are on Christmas break. I had to get the hell out of dodge. In my time here I have become, what I would like to refer to as, a total square. I wake up around 6:30-7:30 most days, I have breakfast, do some yoga (this is probably the most comical part), shower daily (though this hasn’t been true recently), drink only once a week or so and seldom become intoxicated (this also has not been true recently), most of my friends are monks, I usually dress well and am quite clean (it’s a very cultural thing, dressing like crap or being dirty is culturally insulting), go to bed early, I avoid all but platonic interaction with females, and I’m a teacher and a respectable member of my village (VILLAGE! I mean, I live in a sleepy hamlet for Christ’s sake). I also go to prayer like 3 times a week. Needless to say, this existence without the business of teaching, it would all make me go insane (especially the terrible food). It is a good thing Andrew and I planned a pretty chucky-jam-full holiday season. Things soon changed.

 

       Steph, whom Andrew is dating, and Nick, who is Steph’s brother, both came to Tanzania for Christmas. This was awesome needless to say. We met them in Dar Es Salaam. I must say Bongo* is a completely different creature now that I have been living here for some time (see first Tz blog for reference). The bus ride was still long and relatively awful, but it was substantially nicer being able to order food and get the correct price etc. We didn’t see quite as many animals as last time (we drove through the national park at the hottest part of the day) but at one point we had a really nice conversation with an English teacher who was visiting his son for the holidays (things like that make all the difference). We spent the first couple days in Dar Kupumzika**. Some of the monks and other people who work at the hostel were kushangaa*** to see our advance in speaking Kiswahili. Also, quite lovely, the abbey operates a guest house in Dar, meaning we did not have to pay to stay there. Hanga, and the majority of the Ruvumva district, sits at a pretty high elevation and therefore is relatively cool. Dar at sea level was purely miserable. It was like living in Atlanta again, but without cooling systems built with modern means or architectural responses to the heat. Because of this, I slept in a pool of my own sweat. Did I also mention that I am not, in fact, an African?

 

       Though resting in a different setting was quite wonderful, a few factors in our stay made it all substantially more enjoyable. For example, we have good friends who live in Dar (they student taught at Hanga). We met with Riehner, who, I have found out, spells his name with the Tz spelling of the German name, Rainery. For a refresher, he is a postulate at Hanga monastery and in the last year of finishing his degree at University of Dar Es Salaam. We met with him one of our first days, and we took the daladala to his on-campus housing. A daladala basically is a passenger van. In the country it refers to any van that transports goods or people, in the city it refers purely to a city bus. Most of these very public transit vehicles produce in Japan in the 70’s and 80’s. With Rainery, we got a couple beers and some kitimoto (pork) at a pub near campus. I soon discovered most of the desire to eat flavorless, crappy food mostly relegates itself to the southern part of Tz and not the entire country. It was roasted pork (nyama choma), but it came surrounded by a sauce that was a mixture of different peppers, tomatoes, onions, and garlic. Keep in mind the last time I ate kitimoto with Rainery was in Songea where there was only a pile of salt and some spicy peppers. It was laid back. We saw where our friend lived and went to a really great local watering hole. My stay in Dar especially has confirmed my idea that I never want to travel a place where I don’t either A. speak the language moderately well, or B. Have a friend who lives there. We went to only places locals went, did not get ripped of by taxis like the innumerable tourists, and did not have to walk around with a secret service-like honor guard of tour guides.

 

       By the time we took the daladala back it was well past dusk. This was my first experience with public transport in a developing nation during rush hour. The hostel lay some distance away from the UDar (I just made that up) dorms so we had to hop a couple connecting Dalas****. This was insane. Each bus contained bodies contorted and pressed in unnatural ways. The buses read something to the effect of “maximum capacity” 35. Each held at least 50 people. When transferring busses we needed to push and budge, almost fight our way off. Being a giant American has some advantage in this. Getting back on is more intense. Many people vie for a spot, and when you want on your transfer bus, you commonly need to, quite literally, jump onto a moving bus that has every nook and cranny filled with human bio-mass.  I’m not sure if I’m doing it justice. I’ve done my share of getting on crazy, crowded public trans, but none of it prepared me for this. And I did not know how swiftly I would have to adapt to more.

 

       The next day, Andrew and I met with some of our other Tanzanian friends Upendo and Stimus (both past student teachers at Hanga). We started by just getting some soda and beer. It made Andrew and I both really happy to see both how much our Kiswahili had improved, and how much our friends noticed it. We took the dala to kaliakoo, or one of the central markets in Dar. When you live in a small town of village in Tanzania you must conform to a much different set of criteria than Dar. Dar is much like a big cosmopolitan city anywhere. You don’t have to greet someone every 15 seconds, and nobody cares how you dress (at least the won’t really care if you look like crap, but they will notice if you look savvy). For example, Upendo, who had given me crap for not rolling my sleeves down in Hanga, said something to the effect of “this is not a village, do whatever you want.” She, too, had transformed from looking like another country teacher (she dressed for the situation) to a fashionable city girl, obviously at home, the opposite of someone hot-shit in a rural Nodak high school that moves to the big city and struggles to be as cool. The market itself was dumbfounding. Small stores sold also sorts of clothing, and people pushed themselves into every available space. We saw as much hip-hop video wear as we saw congas and other traditional dress. At this point, I decided I wanted to find a replacement for my paddy cap, which I lost last winter. I didn’t find a suitable one (most were too hot or something tacky like a leather scally cap). I’ve decided before I go back to the States I’m going to get some clothes in Dar for job interviews and stuff. Though very expensive by shamba***** Tz standards, you can get dress shirt that costs $80 or something in the States for like 35,000 shillings (like 30 bucks).

 

       Though I absolutely loved hang out with our Tz friends, doing whatever in particularly struck our fancy. You see we live under constant supervision with a bunch of folks who often times think we needed to be treated with kid gloves. At times the monks treat us like children lost in the forest. Never mind that I’ve been or lived many places more dangerous than anywhere in Tanzanian******. Also, living in the village, we are the talk of the town, and people notice our every move. It was really nice to be anonymous again. I didn’t have to meet hundreds of expectations. I could wear shorts without a nun telling me I’m not dressed up enough. I could go places without twenty people asking about my intentions. Andrew and I could be apart without getting asked where the other is by every person we encounter. I could swear and curse. I could do what I wanted. I also discovered that my village Kiswahili is much better than my city Kiswahili. Vocabulary like farming implements and jokes about bats hold little value in Bongo. Room for growth, I guess. And, we could decide for ourselves what food we ate.

 

       So needless to say, the food has been getting to us. Andrew has lost almost 20 lbs (a large part of this has to do with our constricted meal times, his small stomach, and incredibly fast metabolism). I have lost weight too, but partially because I inhale beans every meal and, when we eat meat, I’m able to eat cartilage, connective tissue, pick bone bits out of my teeth, etc. I get more protein and I have lost less good weight than he. Being that I am a total foodie, the effect on me is more morale based than anything else. You see, we can’t really cook for ourselves very often, and when we do it’s sort of a production. So, one of the nights we struck out to go to a really good restaurant. Many of our Peace Corp friends recommended this Ethiopian place to us (also, by Tz standards, absurdly expensive). We invited our fellow volunteer, Catherine (a retired professor who takes a very motherly stance toward us) and her son and his wife who were visiting to join us. One of the brothers sent us a really strange text asking us directions to the place. It was really weird because it was almost as though he (the monk) was trying to take over the plans that we had originally thought of. Long story short, they weren’t going to meet us. Sort of the whole point was to get to meet some of Catherine’s family and spend a night relaxing, so we decided to save it for another day (note: when Andrew went back to Dar, around new years, they went to the restaurant, and evidently it was amazing). So, because of the new developments Andrew and I just took the Dalla downtown to find some place to eat. We thought we would just end up getting chipsi kuku or something********. Walking down the street, as women, who were clearly prostitutes, walked past us, wwe smelled/spyed a sign in Chinese. There is a large Chinese ex-pat/guest community in Dar because of the economic interaction between China and East Africa. We thought, okey, we gotta check this out. And so we did. It was a Chinese restaurant. When the waiter came to us, we asked him in Kiswahili if they had ugali. Ugali is the staple food in Tanzania. It is complete ubiquitous. I dunno if I have described it before, but it’s like corn meal porridge, but more fine, less liquidy, made with white corn, and tastes completely like a piece of cardboard that sits in a congealed lump in your mouth********. So, the waiter though it was hilarious. The also had whiskey. At this point, I had not consumed whiskey for almost 4 months. There was a bare, gaping, porous, pathetically sputtering part in my heart where no bourbon, Tennessee whiskey, Irish whiskey, Scotch whisky, or, hell, even Japanese whisky had not touched. Nothing comparable to even McMasters or Black Velvet. Nothing. I repeat again for emphasis, Nothing. Nothing. Andrew ordered a single neat. I ordered a double. They had Jameson, but they were out of it. I ordered Teachers because it was cheapest. When the food came, I learned something. So, there is authentic food and then there is the food adapted to the market of another culture. I uphold that, though certainly not authentic, Americanized Chinese food is the “ized” food in the world. Europeanized Chinese food simply is not as good. Tz Chinese food bore more resemblance to the European version. I did not care. It was food without too much salt and bad cooking oil as the only flavorings. It was wonderful. We spent about 1/5 of our month stipend on that meal (like a king’s ransom), but we didn’t care. For a long time I felt a great deal of guilt about blowing money on things like booze or really good food when people are malnourished, etc. Now I totally don’t feel bad about the occasional extravagance (note, not a lifestyle of it). Hell, if one stupidly expensive meal allows me to hang on and actually work my ass off for things I believe in, so be it. Guilt doesn’t do anyone any good. No one is Superman. And on a side-note, we notice while we were there, all the tourists and ex-pats ate wonderful, flavor-filled Chinese food. All the Africans ate chips kuku.

 

       We walked out, completely full from the absurd amount of food we had consumed. We were not entirely sure where and when the dalla left to where we were going, or if they still ran at night. So, we walked in the general direction. It was dark, and rather sketchy, but we felt comfortable, in our element, and euphorically satisfied (and it wasn’t in the super sketchy part of town). In some pathetic attempt to trump the liability of our skin color, if a person of dubious-looking repute walked by, we started to speak in Kiswahili, as if we had not learned that people here did not often distinguish between rich-ass tourists and busted-ass volunteers. So, after the, quite possibly, sketchiest stretch I have ever walked, we made it to the bus stop. The moment we notice a dalla going our direction we hopped on it. Because we went a pretty dang direct route it was neither overly complicated not overly crowded (like 40 passengers instead of 55).

      

       And thus, Andrew and I entered onto the dalladalla. The konda or konducta told us we needed to pay 1000 shillings. The price was 250, clearly printed on the side of the van. Keep in mind this entire conversation took place in Kiswahili, but I will translate (though I think the story is better in my broken Kiswahili). So, at first we realized that he was lying to us in an effort to steal from us. We asked him if it was true, and he said “absolutely.” We replied that he was, in fact, a liar. He then told us that it was a special night price. We refused to pay, and then observed him take the normal fare from other passengers. So, at this point I must admit our mistake. We only had 5000 shillings after going to the restaurant, and if we had made sure to have exact change, it wouldn’t have been as much of an ordeal. He came back to us and I said, “brother, the total is 500 shillings, okay?” At that point he started trying to argue with me in English rattling off random numbers. Getting increasingly more frustrated, I yelled “no, speak in Kiswahili.” At this point the rest of the passengers took notice. Before, they maybe thought that he was just ripping off some tourists going slumming, but, instead, they realized that we spoke a decent amount of their language. They were completely shocked and awed. I’m sure the thought process went as such: yes, they are wazungu, but they speak Kiswahili, and this guy is a thief. He soon replied with something to the effect of “I know I am ripping you off, but it doesn’t matter because you are white people.” A few people laughed. Angrier than I just about have ever been, I, a giant in his eyes because of proper childhood nutrition and pre-natal care, put my face almost next to his and said, “Kaka, Fuck You, je umenielewa?” This translates to, “brother, fuck you, do you understand me?” I don’t think he dared to blink. So, Kiswahili doesn’t have a whole lot in the way of swear words, so what I said meant exactly the same thing it does in English, except it was harsher. In other words, he thought I was about to kick his ass. Frankly, I almost was. I moved away, fuming, but content with the level of thorough humiliation I brought upon this slimy motherfucker, the other passengers began to treat us in an extremely friendly fashion, offering us seats, helping us find our stops, etc. So, let me admit, I don’t speak Kiswahili that well, but I knew a few words from making jokes that related really well to the situation. I talked to the guy next to me (and I am employing the direct translation using Kiswahili phraseology and everything). “That one, he is like a pirate, he is like a bandit.” Everyone else was not only rolling in laughter at this guy’s expense (and not mine, for a blissful change), but they also thought we spoke substantially more Kiswahili than we actually do.

       I got off, barely able to contain my excitement. That guy was not going to fuck with another white person just because they were white any time soon. I said to Andrew “let’s get a beer.” I was karibu na cloudi ninei (I just made that up, it’s not something people say). We drank a beer and I got a sausage (most Tanzanian sausage is like a hot dog, funny because here it is a status food, where in the States or Europe, sausage originated as a poor person’s food). The konda did rip me off by about 500 shillings, (about 40 cents), but I didn’t care, it was a small price to pay for the most dignity I held based solely on my actions and nothing else for a damn long time. Did I mention I’ve become much more assertive here? I mean, I’m not sure I could have done that in the States. I got myself in a potentially dangerous situation because some jerk tried to rip us off less than a dollar each. I didn’t care. I’ve decided, sometimes you simply need to demand respect. I think one of the most valuable things I have learned here is how to become a person you don’t want to fuck with. I have subsequently told this story to many Tanzanians, most of them have found it hilarious, and shocking that I didn’t pay the full mzungu price. I mean, kondas will rip Tanzanians off too. I also tell the story with one of my favorite phrases in Kiswahili, which translates to “I have not become such a fool.” As I said, for the rest of the night, nothing could touch me. The next day did not quite go the same way, but I cannot say I have any real complaints.

       Steph and Nick arrived the next morning. After we had gotten situated, Andrew and Steph went to the tailor with our friend Upendo, Nick and I got a couple beers and played some pool. Operating on Tz time, we all ran late. We had planed to go to Zanzibar that day, though we missed the ferry by about 15 minutes. This was probably for the best because Stephanie and Nick got a chance to recover from some of their travel weariness. Our day in Zanzi would have to wait. But when it came, it came with a vengeance. So instead we rested, got another beer or two etc.

       We showed up to the ferry well early the next day. Waiting in line was rather uneventful. One guy who worked there walked up and down yelling in Kiswahili. All he really did was ask people to form a path between two lines. If he had that job, he definitely could speak English, and he was obviously just trying to scare the shit out of tourists. When we got to the boat itself, we notice that almost all the tourists paid the extra price (like 20 bucks) to get seats in the more comfortable upstairs. I simply snuck up. Most of the ferry ride, Nick and I spent on the aft-deck getting covered by salt. At one point some people took a picture with us. They didn’t even really speak to us, not knowing that I could speak Kiswahili (and, to be fair, I don’t know if they did either). I could just see the thought process: do we get a picture of the beautiful seascape? Oh look, let’s get a picture with the white folk. Whatever, I thought it was funny. We had arranged to meet with a guy Rainery knew who would show us around. We were filling out our immigration tickets when we called the guy and he found us. He came up and said some to the effect of “man, you’re residents you don’t need to fill that shit out, let’s bounce.” Wait, wha? He not only knew American slang, but that bit of American slang. I thought to myself, “this is going to be ridiculous.” Little did I know. We walked to a car where a friend of his waited for us. Later Andrew said he felt like he was in Jamaica (an he’s been to Jamaica). These guys looked, for lack of a better description, fucking cool. Like the dudes people at festivals in the States are trying to emulate. One had Tz flag bracelets and bent spoons up his arm. The other had sort of baby dreads and I think a sweat band. One almost looked like a member of the Nigerian band that everybody loves here called “P Square.” Neither wore shoes.

       We walked straight past where tourist gathered and ate and went to a local spot. “we’re gonna show you a real Zanzibar breakfast.” And it was delicious. The folks in the hole in the wall restaurant liked us immediately when we started speaking in Kiswahili. I’m sure they found it refreshing to hear foreigners speaking their native tongue in one of the tourist capitals of Africa. We all made fun of the lack of spice in mainland food. We ordered, chabatie, spinach, and beans. This was much more delicious than you might think. Chabatie is a sort of flat bread, when I’ve eaten it in Hanga, it’s way too sweet, and they make with too many eggs, so it almost has a scrambled eggish texture. The stuff in Zanzi was slightly salty, but not overly so, and had a texture somewhere between nan bread and a tortilla. The spinach was creamed with coconut and onion, and the beans slightly spiced. So in Kiswahili, chai means tea, but all they have is black tea. When the tea came it was the wonderful spice chai that we think of when we hear the word. I topped it all of with a really good, spicy chili sauce. Keep in mind that the chili sauce in the rest of the country lists the first two ingredients as tomato puree and salt, and does not have actual chilies in it, but chili powder. I’m going to digress. I have been numerous times been called a drunkard in Kiswahili, but eating spicy peppers or chili sauce. Not just these guys, but nuns, villagers, etc. I have a theory that this is because people only use chili sauce when they eat kitimoto. The only time people eat kitimoto is when they are getting stupid drunk on pombe. This time, I didn’t deny it has vigorously as I usually do when I am with monks or students. It was kind of nice to be in a situation where an ability to throw down is not a bad thing.

       We left the place and our two new friends (okey, so I totally forgot their names), and they lit what must have been their 3^rd or 4^th cigarette of the day. Keep in mind that is was like 9 in the morning. I sat outside with them when Andrew paid for breakfast, (probably less than a quarter of what any tourist paid that day). They asked us what we wanted to do. We said, “yeah, all we want is to chill on a beach and eat some good food.” We hopped in our ride and they started to drive us toward their village. The whole time we just laughed our asses of, these guys were a riot. We rolled up to the petrol station to get some gas. While waiting, one of the two hollaed at some guy asking if he had some weed, it was slang laden, so I didn’t really understand it, but I got the jist based on the context. We paid for the gas, and filled up the tank. It was expensive, like 30 or 40 dollars American (we paid for gas on the way back too), but heck that’s what I would have done for a friend showing me around in the States, and they had taken most of the day off to show us around. They began to tell us more about Zanzi. The island has had a bad taste in its mouth since it joined with the mainland country of Tanzanika to form Tanzania. They talked about how the mainland just leached the wealth of Zanzi without solving their problems, for example, they had been without electricity for about two weeks. “This ain’t no government, man, it’s just a bunch of ganj smokers.” I told them the dalladalla story in Kiswahili and they thought it was hilarious. They started call me this slang word for big and strong. I really wish I remembered more the slang they taught me, nguvu means strong normally, but the new word was cooler. “No, man, we have to give you a Zanzibar nickname.” We drove along at a super fast speed. I commented about how crazy motorcycle drivers, or pikipiki are. One guy said something like “man, they just like to pretend to drive crazy, shit, when I drive piki, I like to pretend also.” These guys were fucking crazy. The kept saying ridiculous shit like “man you just wait till you see what we do with these soulja-boys, you gonna laugh so hard.” I would soon find out exactly what that meant.

       We drove up to the first checkpoint along the road. The cop flagged us down. My friend in the driver’s seat turned to me and said in Kiswahili “I don’t want him to see my eyes,” as he pulled his sun glasses onto the bridge of his nose. He actually pulled us over voluntarily, just so we could fuck with the cops. He saw the white people in the car, but then we greeted him in Kiswahili. He then asked us for 5000 shillings. I said, “no, why, I’m a resident.” I proceeded to pull out my passport, and our friend driving told me to put it away, turned to the cop and yelled, “hey, fuck you, man,” slammed the transmission into gear and burned out speeding off. I was half torn between thinking, “I am in a car full of mad men, I am going to die,” and fits of laughter. We soon stopped at a fruit stand to get some of the best mangos I’ve ever had. We stopped at two more checkpoints, and they kept saying stuff like, “hey man, you handle the next one, fucking soulja-boys, this ain’t no government, it’s just a bunch of ganja smokers.” I soon found out that we were, in fact, doing something illegal, (besides the aqualung full of weed these guys had probably consumed). Andrew and I were fine, because we are residents, but technically those guys needed a special permit to drive people with a tourist permit. They explained that if the cops weren’t rude assholes, then sometimes they would bribe them, but usually they just drove off. The cops weren’t exactly going to arrest them or anything, they were breaking the law themselves.

       We arrived at the beach still trying to figure out how Rainery met these crazy bastards**********. While at the beach white guy with a gut and dreads walked by and they yelled “hey, Rasta.” The guy just sort of looked at us, mumbled something unintelligible and walked a way, probably frightened. We laughed so hard. So, I know that it’s lame to turn around and laugh at someone when I am (for once) not the one getting made fun of. But, screw it, it’s chumps like that who create the attitude towards white folks that gives me hell everyday. Besides, I didn’t ever go as far as to make a Jack Johnson joke or something. Have I ever mentioned that I hate “trustafarians” and jam music with a burning passion?

       We found a spot on the beach to put our stuff and Nick and I started walking out first. A bunch of kids were running around and they yelled in Kiswahili something to the effect of “look at the Europeans, they can’t speak Kiswahili, only European language.” I whipped around and yell in Kiswahili “I am able to speak Kiswahili, and I’m not European, I’m American.” They asked my name, some younger kids near by began to play with me. Did I mention that I love not being a fanny pack toting, Bermuda shorts wearing jackass with a large bank account? Well, maybe not being broke as shit all the time would be nice… We walked further out onto the beach, it was extremely low tide so we never actually made it out the surf. At one point we saw some guys hacking up a giant stingray that had washed up on shore. We kept walking avoiding the pressing danger of an unruly number of urchins and playing with starfish. We just walked out and kicked it. I knew Steph from college, but I had never met Nick before, so it was good to get the chance to get to know him better. I think the funniest part of our conversation happened when I mentioned it would me nice for a woman to be interested in me for something other than American citizenship. Nick responded, “yeah, I was going to ask you about that, how is it?” “Fucking terrible,” I responded. I soon got a couple nasty cuts on my water soften feet by bits of coral.

       We soon realized that we had walked really far out and we were starting to feel sunburnt. Really sunburnt. That is because we were. Really sunburnt. We got back, and gave Andrew and Steph their chance to walk on the beach. Nick lay down to rest and I went to go get soda or beer. Our friends had told us that everything is more expensive on the island and even locals get the island price. I walked around hobbling in pain looking for an affordable beer or soda. I walked by several tourist traps, including on at which our Rasta friend was sitting eating at a joint that charged two or three times the local price. Vindication is sweet. I continued on, to another place where two women advertise a “Swedish Massage.” They asked me if I wanted to them, and I told them that I was very sunburnt. What I said translates directly to, “I am not able, my body is burnt/roasted because the sun is fierce.” Luckily I just happened to say it correctly, even though I didn’t really know how. They laughed, and I doubt they were completely familiar with the concept. I went into the nearby hotel to enquire about the price of beer and soda. The people who worked there told me the price and I commented on how expensive it was. We then proceeded to make fun of the tourists for getting horribly over charged. Whatever, they couldn’t understand a word of it. Further, anyone who could have understood, say, a volunteer or broke student, wouldn’t be eating such over-priced food. We all laughed pretty hard, and the tourists looked rather shocked to see me speaking the local tongue. On the way back, I greeted locals and not tourists. If I did greet tourists they sort of scowled at me with a look that clearly said “why the hell are you bothering me on my holiday, you stupid American.” Plus, with the locals, it’s the culture to greet everyone. I think it made them happy that I was able to do it properly to boot.

       When I returned, I bought some soda at the place our friend dropped us off had, which turned out to be the only place with local price in the area. When Andrew and Steph returned, our buddy had arranged for one of his friends cook us a big lunch. We were going to have this black snapper fish that sounded delicious, but because the refrigerators were out of commission, and they hadn’t gone to the fish market that day, we had chicken instead. Each got a bowl of wonderful chicken in coconut milk curry and a pile of steaming flatbread. It was probably the best food I’ve had in country. We finished and we had to race back to catch our return ferry. We didn’t have time to mess around with the cops our second time around, so we hunkered down and hid behind tinted windows. We got back with plenty of time to spare, and, in one piece. We said goodbye to our new mental ward escapee friends and got in line. The line pretty much sucked because of the sunburn. On the way back, I expected a shitty, low budget, Tanzanian in-boat movie. I was mistaken. Instead they played “Hard Target,” a John Woo movie starring Jean Claude Van Dam. Shear absurdity and gratuitous violence. Any movie is an enjoyable movie here.  I was happy.

       Back at the hostel, a whole bunch of German tourists had arrived. It was really frustrating because they took over the place, without consideration for us. A couple of them were really nice and I had some conversations with them, but the rest stood aloof and snobbish. For example, we had to go somewhere else to hang out with Rainery because there wasn’t any tourist-free space for us to go. After dinner one night, I cleaned up with the monks and nuns, and the tourists didn’t so much as thank me, or the other people for that matter. I do so love it when important people display exactly how important they are. I would rather be around a bunch of wasted drunk and loud Tanzanians who ask me for shit. So we went back to the Kilwa Road pub instead of staying.

       We soon departed back to Hanga. This was the most miserable bus ride I have experienced in my life. 14 hours on a bumpy bus with one of the worst sunburns I’ve ever had and dehydration, with shitty Tz movies playing loudly is not exactly my ideal way to spend a day. I suppose I did get to see every single P-square music video in existence. My taste in music is really going down the shitter. We did not arrive in Songea until, like 8 at night and we woke up to get to the bus station at 4 A.M. We spent the night at this hotel, the Angoni Arms, operated by a guy we know named John. He hooked a bunch of us volunteers up for a party we attended in October, and I’ve seen him a few times since. He always gives us a 5000-shilling discount, which is really cool. We ate there, got a beer, and I got to watch American T.V. I never thought I would be that excited to see American T.V., but to be fair, it was stuff like The Simpsons and The X-Files.

       The next day after breakfast, I had a short conversation with John. I had originally thought that he gave us volunteers a deal because he’s a cool guy and it made economic sense for him to do so. It turns out, he grew up in a really shamba village where they didn’t have enough teachers at his school. He learned English because of a Peace Corps volunteer that came to his village. It’s stories like that keep me hanging on through the shittiest of moments here. I said goodbye to the rest of the gang. They were all going back to Hanga for Christmas, where the same sucky-ass German tourists we dealt with in Dar where also going. I instead met some other volunteers in a friend’s village. In some ways, I feel bad because I didn’t kick it in Hanga for Christmas, but really, I had a much more enjoyable time.

Continued in part 2.

 

 

*Bongo is Tz slang for Dar Es Salaam.

** It means resting. It’s one of my favorite verbs in Kiswahili. It captures the concept much better than resting or relaxing.

*** Kushangaa means essentially “shock and awe” or “surprise,” the word definitely comes from Arabic (like 35% of Kiswahili). It makes me think whichever government PR type that came up with “shock and awe” in the Gulf War must be both a linguistic genius and the worst sort of person.

**** So, this is a really fun habit I have picked up from some of my Peace Corps friends. I often Anglicize Kiswahili words.

***** Shamba means “field” or “farm” in Kiswahili, though it also refers to someone or something that is country (country as in bumpkin).

******* I don’t remember the exact statistic, but Tanzania is like 50 countries ahead of the United States on the safest countries list. Though, to be fair, there are some extremely sketch areas of Dar at night even for locals.

******** Chips Kuku means chicken and chips (the U.K. kind).

********* You know when you eat “Cream of Wheat,” and sometimes there are those nasty lumps? Well, it’s like that, but the whole thing is like that.

********** I mean, Rainey is a straight-laced, legit guy. He’s a teacher is going to become a monk. I later found out he and Paul, a past volunteer with BVC who stayed in Tanzania for three years, randomly met the guy when they were leading a group around.