things I will miss

Seeing Kili
The purple flower trees
The ‘Christmas’ trees
Those flowers that smell amazing
The huge pterodactyl-like storks that perch in the trees
Mango trees, papaya trees, avocado trees
Pineapple season, avocado season, mango season
Pineapple slices on the street for 50 shillings (less than 5 cents)
The smell of mahindi choma (grilled corn)
Chapatti na maharage (chapatti and beans)
Chai ya maziwa (tea with milk)
Chai break (10-11 am)
The Azam ‘trucks’ (bicycle ice cream carts)
The sound of the rain when it really rains
Hearing Kiswahili, speaking Kiswahili
People’s mannerisms and little expressions (the taxi hand, the ‘njoo’ hand, Shikamoo, Marahaba, people yelling into their phones, ‘eeeee’, JAMANI, yesu!, alah!...)
The salimia (greeting) process
People calling just to greet me
Mage and Karin
The quirks of Mama Ngowi, John Kessy, James, Raphael, Stigidi
The masses of school girls walking to/from church on Sunday
The impromptu dancing/singing whenever there’s music, the Tanzanian dance
The mosque’s calls to prayer
Sharing tables with strangers at lunch
Eating with my hands
Kiti moto on a Sunday afternoon
Weddings – the goat cake, the cake ceremony, the gift dance, the brass band in the pick-up truck
Kids screaming and running away from me…it’s funny
Traditional drumming and dancing
The crazy man that walks down the middle of the road wearing no clothes
Konyagi and Bitter Lemon
Stoney Tangawizi, Fanta Passion, fresh passion juice
Kangas and kitenge the women wear, all the bright colors, crazy patterns, and sassy messages
The short-sleeved one-color suits the men wear
The colorful shukas the Maasai wear
Women carrying everything on their heads, from handbags to buckets of water to huge planks covered with bananas
Babies on backs, wrapped up in kitenges and knit hats
The hairdos – creative braiding designs, the wigs, dreadlocks
Funny English – on signs, in newspapers, that people speak
The geckoes and orange and blue lizards
The handshakes
Bongo flava music, taraab music
The street boys trying to be gangsta, the ridiculous American slang they use
The bibis (grandmas) sitting around and drinking out of buckets of mbege (local brew made of millet and fermented bananas)
Getting clothes made at the tailor
The beautiful people
The African body image: big=good, especially the butt, so have some more chapatti :)

things I won't

The mocking, nasal voice people use when talking to mzungus
People yelling “Mzungu!” everywhere I go
Being harassed daily on the street, especially by men
Being harassed on daladalas, the coin snap in the face when it’s time to pay, ‘bado hamsini’ from the conductor (trying to get another 50 shillings out of me)
Getting charged the mzungu price for everything, people trying to cheat me all the time
Being talked about right in front of me, people assuming I don’t understand them…and not being able to effectively retort
‘Nipe pesa’, ‘nipe pipi’ (Give me money, give me candy)
‘Can you find me a sponsor to go to school in the US?’
That kid that yells at me almost every day
Squat toilets and bathrooms in general – the logistics, no TP, no soap and sometimes not even a sink
Greasy chips (fries), greasy chicken, greasy everything
Starch, starch, starch
Soda, soda, soda
Meat that you can’t chew through, meat that still has hair on it
The mangy stray dogs that we can’t get rid of (with some exceptions)
Daladalas and transportation in general, fearing for my life
Groups of school children, especially the boys…they think they’re so funny
The disappointing feeling that everyone just wants something from me, that I have few true friends here
Being the ‘token white girl’ at parties, weddings, gatherings, funerals – especially when I’m asked to give a speech and fussed over
The lack of customer service, being ignored and dismissed at places of business
Being touched by random people walking by, like I’m some rare creature
The hiss, the kissy noise they use to get your attention
The church next door – being woken at 8 every Sunday to a synthesizer, random worship services at 2 am, having to listen to bad singing at all hours of the day, having to listen to exorcisms and other craziness that sounds like someone’s being maimed
Being asked by everyone I meet what religion I am, and then the look of confusion and pity they give me when I answer honestly
Being constantly deferred to, given special attention for everything, always given ‘mzungu priority’ as some call it
Pickpockets, especially ones that slash your pockets trying to steal your cell phone on the daladala in Arusha
Being stared at shamelessly
The impossibility of anonymity, never being able to blend in or have any privacy
People picking their noses in public, peeing in public
The general attitude of resignation and helplessness, lack of innovation and motivation
Seeing so much sickness and poverty and not being able to do anything about it
The street kids
The attitude and stigma toward AIDS, refusal to use condoms, general culture of infidelity
The ‘giving dilemma,’ not knowing what is the right thing to do, feeling constantly conflicted
Atrocious mzungus -- poor representatives of western culture and the reason life can suck for the rest of us here actually trying to do some good
Being associated with/mistaken for other atrocious mzungus
It always being assumed, first and foremost, that I am a tourist and that I have tons of money
The redundancy of the salimia (greeting) process
The repetition in conversations, feeling like people aren’t understanding or they’re not really listening
The formalities for everything
The way tourists treat Maasai and other people here like they are objects or animals in a park
Body odor, lack of cologne or deodorant use
The dust, the mud, always being so, so dirty
Malaria-carrying mosquitoes, the flies, the Nairobi fly (a.k.a. blister beetle)
Taking anti-biotics every day and still getting malaria…twice.
Rats in the ceiling and occasionally in the kitchen
Cockroaches, giant spiders, very weird-looking insects of all kinds
Internet cafes – slow internet, cramped spaces, computer viruses that infect your flash drive and delete your folders
‘Tanzania time’ – how everyone is always at least a half hour late for everything
The pollution, trash everywhere, how people just throw bottles and plastic bags on the ground, the smell of burning trash in the morning
The corruption and the stupid police who do nothing about anything, except beat people up, and constantly extract bribes from people
Sleeping in a net, having to boil water
‘The beep’ – when people call your phone and hang up before you answer, and then expect you to call them back so that they don’t have to pay…and when you don’t call back, they keep doing it, every 5 seconds, until you do
Almost being run over by taxis and daladalas trying to pick you up
Being afraid to be out alone after dark, always being a target
$8 boxes of cereal, expensive cheese, bad candy, weak coffee
Hand-washing my underwear, having no dryer, having to iron everything to avoid mango fly larvae from burrowing into my skin

Ali and Witness

Aisha's kids

funerals

I will never forget how Witness looked, laying there in her bed, unable to move, hardly able to speak, extremely thin, like a skeleton already. I’ve never seen anyone looking so close to death. Aleya could tell it was bad just from my face, she said. I hope I didn’t scare Witness by revealing my horror and sadness at seeing her like that. Aleya put on a good face for her. I wish I’d have been prepared for that. But I was ushered in to take her picture. How horrible. James didn’t even ask her first. I’m sure she saw the guilt on my face, too. All I could say was, “Pole sana, mama.” And she said “asante” and asked me how I was doing.

Witness died on a Thursday morning. Friday we went to her funeral. Aleya and I joined the other women inside the house, welcoming neighbors and friends in to give their condolences to Aisha and say goodbye to Witness, wrapped in kangas in the next room. We listened as family members wailed and sobbed at their loss. The young kids looked scared and worried, seeing their mothers crying, but not being allowed inside to see why. When they brought Witness out in her coffin, one of her granddaughters finally realized what was happening and started screaming, “Bibi!” (Grandma), over and over as they loaded her into the truck and drove off toward the church. It was heartbreaking.

The funeral was nice. There was a procession back from the church, women singing beautifully, carrying purple flowers, and wrapped in bright, colorful kangas (so much better than our somber, black funerals). The men of the village took turns shoveling dirt over her coffin, after lowering it into the ground near the house. On top of her grave, we took turns laying flowers and palm wreathes, and frail Aisha put on the finishing touch – an arc of woven palms and flowers. It looked quite pretty. The pastor said a few words about the dangers of AIDS, the importance of protecting your health, and the wrongs of discrimination. He made people laugh, which definitely lightened the mood, but I wondered if it lessened the seriousness of his message. The village chairman then introduced James and they called Aleya and me out from the back of the crowd to the center of the circle, as he told the gatherers about our work and why we were there that day. It was way more attention than I wanted and, as usual, too much unworthy praise, and it really bothered me. This was not about the mzungus, this was about Witness. I wasn’t there for recognition; I just wanted to attend her funeral like everyone else, to shed my tears and say goodbye.

Afterwards, we found Aisha to give her some food we had brought them and tell her again how sorry we were. She looked scared and, as I said goodbye, I looked her in the eyes and told her that we would see her again soon. She asked us when – could we please come back on Monday? We told her we would try. But, we didn’t go back on Monday. Aisha died two weeks later, and we hadn’t gone back at all.

I felt awful. I had told her we would come back, but we got busy with other things and before we knew it, we got the call that she had died. I can’t help wondering if there is something we could have done – brought more food, taken her to the hospital, something. Maybe it would just have been prolonging the inevitable, but that would have been more time she could have spent with her kids. Those poor kids…it was so hard to even look at them at Aisha’s funeral. They did not realize what was happening. They were playing and laughing, just like any other day. I was talking to them at one point and asked them how old they are; Ali said he is two (he’s 4) and Witness said she doesn’t know. I asked her why and she replied, very matter-of-factly, “Mama anajua.” Mom knows. I just about lost it.

Aisha’s funeral had a different tone to it, though I’m not sure why. The pastor focused more on talking about discrimination and how the community needs to keep an open heart and come forward to help this family, especially the children. The kids’ father showed up that day, and the pastor directed some strong words in his direction, as well. He won’t take them in, which is best for them anyway, but he should at least take some responsibility and help to support them. They have nothing now, for god’s sake, and it’s thanks to him.

It’s so, so hard here sometimes.

transportation system

Tanzania’s transportation system is terrifying. Not only because of the rate of road accidents and fatalities, but also because no one does anything about it. The regular means of public transportation is the daladala, a mini van that they cram to maximum capacity (so that people are standing and sometimes even hanging out the door), whose conductors fight (sometimes physically) over passengers, and whose drivers play passing games with each other. Some are so old and worn down that the seats are coming apart and the conductor has to hold the door on. They are not reliable or punctual at all – they will wait at the bus stand until they have a full car (which, depending on the time and where you are going, can take an hour or more) and twice now I have been on one when it ran out of gas.

The larger, inter-city buses are even worse. Most lines also cram people in until they are standing (at a reduced fare, of course). This is illegal, but when stopped at police checkpoints, all it takes is a little cash, and they are on their way again. For some incomprehensible reason, the bus drivers do not bother to service the buses before assuming responsibility for several dozen people’s lives. Easter weekend was a perfect example. On our way to the Usambara Mountains, my friends and I saw a baby girl’s skin burned right off her body when one of the radiator pipes came loose and scalding water and steam poured down the bus’ steps. On our way home, winding down the narrow roads with steep cliffs on one side and mountain rock on the other, our bus ran out of brake fluid. This was unbeknownst to most of the passengers at the time, most likely to avoid panic, but to get us down the hill to the nearest gas station, the driver used a mixture of clothing detergent and water as a substitute.

They drive extremely recklessly, driving dangerously fast and passing every car driving a reasonable speed. Just a few weeks ago, a coach driver misjudged his ability to overtake a tanker and ended up killing 25 people (many of them school children returning from Easter break) trying to avoid a head-on collision. They drive so fast, it would be impossible to avoid an accident if the car in front stopped suddenly or something happened to run out into the road. And if anything goes wrong while you are in the bus, it would be difficult to get out – the windows are tiny and hard to open, there is little leg room, the bus is crammed full with people standing and sitting in the aisles, and there are often suitcases and sacks of various things all over the place. Many buses are essentially a death trap if anything happens.

It’s a scary experience, traveling in Tanzania. I sat next to a man on a daladala once who was visibly frightened and extremely nervous. He kept watching the road and gripping the seat in front of him every time we passed another car or braked suddenly. This is a problem. One should not have to fear for their life every time they get in a bus. Nor should they have to put up with the extreme discomfort of the typical bus ride. And yet, people put up with it. Yes, they get angry when the driver does something dangerous and they yell at the conductors for waiting too long at a bus stop and they complain about the bus being too full. But, they keep getting on, keep paying the fare to risk their life, whether it’s going across the country or just going across town.

Yes, this is because they do not have many other options. There are a few bus lines that view safety as a priority and ensure that everyone has a seat and the driver drives at a safe speed, but these cost more (which is well worth it to me, but for many people, more than they are willing or able to pay) and they do not go everywhere you want to go. Traveling to certain places, like the Usambaras, you do not have much of a choice of bus lines, unfortunately. But why not? Why aren’t there more decent, safe buses in this country? Why aren’t people demanding this? Why don’t they refuse to get on a bus until it meets certain standards of quality and safety? There supposedly are regulations, but the acceptance of bribes makes them meaningless. Why don’t the police stop buses that are carrying too many passengers and refuse to let them continue, instead of pocketing the cash or writing up a ticket that is so inexpensive it makes it worth the risk to the drivers?

It doesn’t make sense to me, but I was raised as an American – taught that if something is not right, stand up and force a change. Tanzania’s history, however, has been one of accepting things as the way they are. As a result, Tanzanians have incredible patience and tolerance, but they lack that sense of injustice and activism that it takes to bring about social change. I wish more people understood that things can change, their lives can improve, if they would just do something about it. In the meantime, it’s safer to just walk.

Aisha

Yesterday, we went to visit Aisha Juma and her family. We had gone to visit her last month, after James got a call from the village leader saying she was not doing very well. She said they needed food and wanted us to come. So, we went, with bags full of rice, beans, sugar, flour, and salt…to which she responded, “This is not enough.” It was hard to hear, especially since we had spent a lot of money buying that food and all that is needed in return is just a ‘thank you.’ But, try being in her position…it’s not enough.

Aisha and her mother, Witness, both have AIDS. They live with Aisha’s two young children in a small 2-room house made of mud and sticks with a grass roof. It leaks when it rains, and in December, we helped to rebuild their wall which had collapsed. I’m not sure if the two children are HIV positive or whether they’ve even been tested, but they show definite signs of malnutrition and skin problems that are often associated with HIV. It would not be surprising.

We found them yesterday in serious condition. Aisha and her mother look much worse than the last time we saw them. They are literally skin and bone…I’ve never seen someone looking like that. Witness couldn’t even get out of bed. Aisha’s been coughing up blood and vomiting; she may have TB, but she hasn’t been able to afford the medicine. Her pen pal sent some money for her, so hopefully she will use that to buy it. I don’t know how much longer they will last. It’s the worst feeling in the world to watch someone dying little by little, and not being able to do much about it.

Those poor kids…they are beautiful, so full of energy, with curious eyes, vibrant smiles, and laughter that tickles you to hear it. I wonder if they know what’s happening inside their house. It’s almost painful to see Aisha and her children together, such a startling contrast. You can tell that they exhaust her, but every once and awhile something they do elicits a smile from her. I watched them play outside the house with a dull knife blade they found in the road, threatening to cut each other. They can’t be more than 5 years old.

What are we to do? Aisha and her mother are dying alone in their mud house, while their children play outside. There is no one to take care of them except Aisha’s 12 year-old sister, who is supposed to be going to school, or Witness’ 70 year-old mother. They live far from town and any proper medical facility. There is no hospice where they might go to die in comfort. In fact, if they lived in a place where they could get adequate nutrition and have access to the necessary medicines, they might not be dying at all right now. But here they are, wasting away in a community that shuns them and discriminates against them…that turns a blind eye, because to die of AIDS is a shameful thing and we don’t talk about that. Yet, this is one of the most highly affected areas around, and the reality is that many people will die in this village from AIDS. Maybe even the majority, because people just keep going on the way they have been, ignoring the meaning behind what is going on inside that little mud house with the two children happily playing outside.

Kilimanjaro Marathon 2007

I ran 21.1 km (or 13.2 miles) in the Kilimanjaro Marathon this year, along with over 500 others from all over the globe. It was pretty cool. Felt like I was somewhere different...Moshi completely changed for those few days. It was a beautiful course, right underneath Kili through coffee farms and banana plantations. And a good race, considering I had just returned from ultimate laziness on Zanzibar 2 days beforehand. My time was 2:15:56 -- not too shabby, eh, LaRae?! I got a t-shirt (lame compared to the ones for the other races) and a shiny medal. Yay.

First pic is me with my buddies Stigidi and Kassim (from WOY) selling tshirts. The second, the start/finish line.

Zanz pictures

1. me, rachel, and aleya

2. the beach where we stayed

3. the girls by the glow of a beach bonfire

4. smellin' some spices

5. the storm

Zanzibar

Dr. David Livingstone really said it best: “This is the finest place I have known in all of Africa…An illusive place where nothing is as it seems. I am mesmerized…” Pulling into the harbor, I knew right away that this place was going to get me; I was immediately enchanted.

Aleya, Rachel, and I had boarded the bus for Dar-es-Salaam the morning before. It was a long, hot ride from Moshi, with one pit stop along the 8-hour route and a horribly depressing Tanzanian movie playing at an unnecessary level of volume. I was unimpressed with this ‘luxury coach.’ Apparently, ‘luxury’ here means no air conditioning and a roach problem. But we did get a free soda and candy…

We found our hotel – a basic backpacker’s place down a very sketchy alley, but conveniently close to the bus station and the ferry port. Baba Mageni (the father of my Tanzanian family in Moshi, who lives and works in Dar) met us there and, at the insistence of Mama, helped us purchase our ferry tickets for the next morning (we finally got to put our Temporary Residence Permits to use and were allowed to pay the Tanzanian price!) and then accompanied us to the airport. Miss Elizabeth Heitkemper, one of my very best friends, was flying in to spend a couple weeks with me and see some of this beautiful country. I was so excited to see her – we have been dreaming of going to Zanzibar ever since we watched the PBS “Africa” series our last year of college (an excellent series, by the way; I highly recommend it).

The next morning, we got up early, ate a very basic (but included!) breakfast, roamed around the neighborhood for a bit, paid Tanzanian price for our hotel (yes!), and headed out to catch our ferry. The ferry proceeded to be a semi-miserable experience. We had been told the slow ferry would take about 3 hours to reach Zanzibar. This is what we thought we had bought tickets for, but we soon realized after boarding that this was more of a cargo boat than a passenger ferry. There were passengers, and they all seemed prepared for the 7-hour (not 3) passage, but the primary concern of this particular vessel was stacks of mattresses, countless sacks of maize and other foodstuffs, a few vehicles, and even some animals. We’re still not sure whether we were intentionally ripped off, or just grossly misinformed, but in any case, we were not quite prepared for it. There was little food, Beth got sea sick, and we had to nap sitting up, as the Tanzanians had claimed all the lying down room before we realized what was going on. We drifted into Stone Town as the sun was setting – not a great time to be arriving in a new place -- made it through immigration (even though Zanzibar is part of Tanzania), found a taxi, and headed across the island to the east coast. An hour’s drive to a little place called Paje beach.

We stayed at Paje for 5 blissful days of doing nothing but soakin’ it up. It was perfection. White sand beaches, palm trees, turquoise crystal-clear water, dhows everywhere, local fishermen and seaweed farmers, tons of sun. Too much sun; it’s a little intense. Our first night, I passed out twice at dinner from severe dehydration and heat exhaustion, scaring the girls to death and evidently causing quite a commotion in the restaurant (for days afterward, I had strangers approaching me to ask if I was feeling better). The Italian owner saw me, came over with a bottle of water, and told the girls, “She needs water, seen this 100 times, just keep her drinking.” It’s a funny thing, being half-conscious. You can hear what’s being said, but can’t respond. I just remember thinking, ‘oh, thank God, I’m just dehydrated.’ It’s a bit concerning to come to and hear you’ve just passed out twice, and to not know what the hell is wrong with you. That was it, though. Three liters of water later, I was feelin’ much better.

I could easily have never left Paje. The ocean there is amazing. Water so warm, it’s like bath water, and unbelievably clear. The sand is perfect, so fine and soft – the kind that gets all over you, like you’ve been dusted with powder. Dry, it’s almost the consistency of flour, and wet, it’s like ice cream, if you can imagine that. One morning, we took a dhow out snorkeling (which took a while because we picked the one day without wind), and we saw some beautiful fish, the craziest starfish I’ve ever seen, and we caught 3 octopi and a blowfish! Well, we watched our guide, ‘Mr. Cool’, catch them, and then got to tote them back to the boat. And later, we got to eat them. Beth enthusiastically offered to help Mr. Cool beat the octopi with a stick (to tenderize them) after we returned to shore, and I think he was charmed (to say the least…). That day at lunch, we were surprised with blowfish soup, and that night, we were invited to Mr. Cool’s place for pweza (octopus) in coconut sauce and chapatti. Oh my God, it was heaven. And surprisingly tender, thanks to Beth’s excellent pulverizing technique.

When we weren’t surrendering ourselves to ultimate relaxation on the beach or swimming in the ocean, we spent our time watching a local soccer game (the culmination of Beth and my dreams about being in Zanzibar…watch the series, you’ll know what I’m talking about), getting henna tattoos, exploring the coral forest and watching red colobus monkeys swing through the trees, or sitting around a beach bonfire, listening to the local boys drum and sing, and dancing under the stars. It was great, and so very beautifully Tanzanian.

We, somewhat reluctantly, said goodbye to Paje, and headed back to Stone Town. Immediately upon arriving, we realized that the day and a half we had allowed ourselves was not going to do it justice. We decided to forfeit the day we had planned to spend exploring Dar in order to spend as much time there as possible – we’d take the late boat back (no worries, the speed boat takes a mere 2 hours).

As the Rough Guide to Tanzania puts it, “Above all, Stone Town is a cosmopolitan city, its ability to absorb and blend outside influences and cultures discernible in the faces of its inhabitants: African, Indian, Arabian, European, and every possible combination in between. It’s a place of contrasts: in the harbor, wooden dhows bob up and down beside modern hydrofoil ferries; women in black buibui veils chat on mobile phones, with kids dressed in baseball caps in tow; and Internet cafes offer broadband access from glorious old mansions with crumbling facades. Yet somehow everything, even the tourists, seems to fit.”

It’s completely enchanting, the fusion of cultures and influences, modernity and antiquity. Narrow, cobblestone streets, crumbling buildings with elaborately carved Persian doors, mosques rising out of the colonial European facade as constant reminders that this is definitely not Europe. The majestic-looking dhows sailing on the horizon, their huge cloth sails billowing in the wind (looking strong despite their simple, hand-carved construction), returning fishermen to land as they have done now for centuries. There are reminders of the slave trade everywhere and the wealth that it brought to the island. We visited the site of the former slave market – the world’s last – where 20,000 slaves were traded from Central and East Africa each year. We also stopped at a cave where slaves were kept and continued to be traded during the 30 years after abolition (1873). Disturbing, to say the least.

On our first night in Stone Town, we witnessed – no, experienced – a remarkable natural event. As we were getting ready to enjoy an incredible meal at Mercury’s Restaurant (as in Freddie Mercury of Queen – he was born on Zanzibar and they are very proud), the lightening in the distance quickly developed into a full-blown storm right on top of us. It was intense – things blowing all over the places, glasses knocked off tables, sheets of rain being thrown against the cloth curtains they put down to shield us from the storm. Some people looked a little concerned, but the whole thing was excellent dinner entertainment. We just crowded around a dry table with an Italian couple, held our plates in our laps, and enjoyed the show. It lasted a good hour and a half. Extremely amusing, watching all the chaos. A very cool storm; would have been a little scary had it gotten any worse.

In sum, Zanzibar is amazing. I almost did not leave. I was pretty close to never going back to Moshi, or anywhere else for that matter. It is the kind of place where you go, find pure bliss, and never return. It’s really that good. I fell quickly and deeply in love with Zanzibar, trying to come up with ways to stay and live there forever. But, I grudgingly shook myself back into reality; I had a race to get back for.