trying to understand

I get upset sometimes by the way we're treated as "mzungus". Sometimes I think, "we would never do that or treat someone like that at home." Like when you're the laughing stock on the bus because someone made a joke about you, or when kids and adults alike constantly yell after you, and your friends blatantly ask you for money, or when people just stare relentlessly...

But the thing is, we can't compare what happens here to home. They are two completely different worlds. We don't know what it's like to live in a predominantly single-race country, where white skin most often does mean tourists with money to burn, or post-colonialist types coming in and trying to change things -- to westernize and globalize and import foreign ideas and systems that clash with African tradition and ways of life. We don't understand what it's like to be so desperate that white skin signifies a chance -- for education, for escape, for a meal. We are walking opportunities, because we come from a world where these things are commonplace, a privilege taken for granted. And they can't help but try to take advantage of it.

That's why they welcome us, chase after us, befriend us, and beg from us...even sometimes rob us or harm us. There's been a long history of violence and exploitation between us. "We" used them, took from them, ruined them. And now, we are their livelihood. It doesn't make it right, but of course we're treated like this. It's a mixture of fear, resentment, respect, envy or admiration, and pure desperation.

It bothers me to be accosted and harrassed, and it infuriated me recently to have someone follow me and steal my cell phone from my backpack. And because of this, sometimes I am cold toward people and overly suspicious. But most people are just trying to survive, and as angry as it makes me sometimes, this is something I have to keep in mind. Because I have never wanted for anything in my life -- a fact that I often take for granted, but for which I am extremely thankful -- and I don't know what that feels like.

We need to see things as they see them in order to understand why things are how they are here, why people do what they do. See things with their eyes more often. Because we can't compare our worlds, we can't measure them against one another. It's just too different. And if we continue to just look at things through the lens we're used to, we will never understand.

Trip to Katesh

Last weekend, my housemates and I decided we needed to take a trip somewhere and see some of this country. We decided to head west to a little village called Katesh, home of Tanzania's fourth highest mountain, Mount Hanang. The thought of climbing Kilimanjaro tempts us just about every day -- I mean, it's right there -- but unfortunately, it costs about $1,000 to tackle Africa's tallest mountain, and that social justice education of mine makes it hard for me to accept and want to support some of the things that go on up there. That will have to be the subject of another entry, but to say the least, it's not a good situation for a lot of Tanzanians. But Hanang is cheap and can be done in a day (Kili takes a week), so we headed to Katesh to satisfy our adventure lust for the time being. And an adventure, it definitely was.

We made a quick stop-over in Arusha to visit some friends, and then we hopped on a bus to Katesh. This turned out to be one of the worst travel days of my life thus far -- from the very beginning to the end. The minute you show up at the bus terminal, you are immediately rushed by a crowd of touts asking where you are going and offering "good deals" on fares. But we know better by now that there are no "good deals" for mzungus, and if you do pay the cheap price, you will be going with a company that operates below any quality or safety standards that may exist here, at least on paper. We hurried past them to the main office and were then quickly ushered onto a crowded bus and, once we had pulled away from the station, were asked to pay a fare much higher than we had anticipated -- or budgeted for. After arguing with the conducter for awhile, we managed to bring the price down a little, but for what we endured over the next several hours, we should have gotten some kind of a refund. What we thought would be about a 2-3 hour trip was more like six, the bus was repeatedly crammed full of people (though this time the driver got a ticket...costing him a measley 2,500 shillings and well worth the "trouble"), it was hot and dusty and bumpy, and about 8 km outside Katesh, the bus broke down.

We didn't realize it was 8 km (someone had told us it was only 4 or 5), so we decided to leave the bus sitting in the middle of the road and walk the rest of the way. We stumbled into town sweating, covered in dust, and desperately needing food and water. Katesh is a tiny, friendly place right at the foot of the mountain. We liked it immediately -- the people are extremely welcoming and we began to realize that we hadn't heard a single "mzungu!" since we had left the bus. Foreigners are treated very differently outside of the tourist areas. They are a lot more interested in why you are there than in trying to get your money. In Katesh, there have also been a number of Peace Corps volunteers over the years, so I think the people are a lot more familiar with the volunteer/budget traveler-type of mzungus.

We found our guest house, washed up, and set out in search of food. It was only then that some of us realized that we might not have brought enough money with us to actually climb the mountain. Luckily, the woman that runs the guesthouse is a SAINT and she offered that we pay her later for the rooms, since it just so happened that she was coming to Moshi later that week. She even called up a friend of hers that she recommends as a guide for the mountain, and he came right over to make arrangements and preparations for the next day. The four of us were dumbfounded; we have gotten so used to being taken advantage of, it has begun to strip us of our trust in people. Helpfulness and sincere, unconditional kindness like that, I'm sorry to say, is something we have not experienced in awhile.

The next day was incredible, but I have not been that exhausted in a long time. We set out at 6:30 am after a quick breakfast of chai and chapati, and began our 10-hour expedition (that's right...10 hours). Thankfully, the clouds stayed with us most of the day and kept us cool as we hiked through forest and clambored up steep and rocky slopes, pausing frequently to take in water and the incredible view. Mt. Hanang is a volcano, and therefore stands alone in the middle of miles and miles of bush, the Great Rift Valley spread out before it as a testiment to the awesome power of tectonics. Trees, small farms, and villages are scattered throughout, matching the mental images I have always had of what "Africa" looks like. Mist continued to roll across the mountain's summit for most of the morning, hiding what still lay ahead of us. By lunchtime, we had only reached summit #1 (evidently, there are 3), but decided that was good enough. By this time, my muscles were screaming and I had already gone through a liter and a half of water. "Safari," our guide, reassured us that by reaching that point, we could officially say we had climbed Mt. Hanang, and with that, we began our 4-hour descent.

The trip down was equally as challenging as the trip up, just for a different set of muscles. Some places required sliding down on our rear ends to avoid tumbling head first down the hillside. The sun began to burn through the clouds, and then proceeded to burn through a few layers of my skin, but it made for some gorgeous photo opportunities (which I will have to upload later). The four of us shuffled into town, thoroughly dehydrated, hungry, and physically spent. Safari looked completely unphased and probably could have climbed it a couple more times before finally breaking a sweat. (He wore a knit hat and a huge winter coat the entire day.) After washing up, he took us to a local BBQ place where we stuffed ourselves with ugali and grilled meat, and then we headed back to the guest house to promptly pass out.

When I awoke the next morning, I could barely move and in my exhaustion, the scratchy throat I had started out with the morning before had developed into a full-blown cold. It was a miserable 10 hours back to Moshi. The bus managed to stay in one piece this time, although once again it stopped every few miles to be crammed full of people, have its tire changed, and sit for hours in one spot for unknown reasons. Our seats were in the front of the bus, so we had an excellent view of every near-death encounter with other vehicles, people, and livestock along the way. When that bus finally pulled into Moshi later that night, I was so happy I could have wept.

It was an excellent weekend...a much-needed trip away from town, and a much-needed boost in my faith in people.