Part One: Living with a Tanzanian family for Community Based Training or The Real Training

Part One: Living with a Tanzanian family for Community Based Training or The Real Training

9 October 2012

As I type this, I am currently in my bedroom where I will take residence with a Tanzanian host family during Peace Corp’s Pre Service Training. I can smell food being cooked and hear the racket of activity with people talking in the kitchen. I have been sweating from unpacking and trying to settle in my bedroom. With a handheld battery charged light that my Tanzanian mama gave me along with my own hand cranked solar radio/light that I brought from home, I move them around to help me see what I am doing in the dark. No electricity in this house. Meanwhile, I can feel flying critters landing on my skin; their bites will add to my already collection of red bumps.

Three other trainees and I, making us a small group of 4, (we are one of the two wazee group, the “the elder group”) will be living in the same village, Lusanga A in the district of Muheza. For the next 10 weeks, we will be formally learning the Swahili language in order to effectively work and integrate into our new life in Tanzania. On certain days of the week, we 41 trainees will reunite at MATI (Ministry of Agriculture Training Institute) to be educated and informed on technical, medical, developmental and everything else that will pertain to us as future Peace Corps volunteers.

The mini van dropped each of us from my group to our host families. Since I was the last one, I was able to see the other three’s new home and their mamas coming out of their house to greet them. When the third person was dropped off, all of the sudden, two friendly Tanzanian teenage girls happily entered the van with enthusiasm sitting next to me. I received my first “shikamoo” greeting from them. This is the most respectful greeting people give to their elders. It means I respect you, elder or literally it means I touch your feet. Needless to say, I was stoked upon hearing that venerable word directed to me and I replied accordingly. Yeah baby, it pays to be old. Old is gold! I asked our language facilitator who accompanied us who they were. They are the sisters of the last family and they will be showing the driver the way to my house. I have been told that the family I would be staying with is new; they have never hosted a Peace Corps volunteer. This should be interesting for them…and me as well! When our vehicle began to approach my house, I see a young African woman beaming at the doorway of a brick house. She looked like the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland; I see a huge wide smile with lots of white teeth. I have arrived at my new home...and clearly someone is extremely happy to see me. I existed the van and immediately, my new Tanzanian mama gave me a long and tight hug as big as the Kilimanjaro! She welcomed me as If I was her long lost daughter stranded on an island for 10 years and now I’ve just returned home to her. Hell, nobody back home in USA where I live is that happy to see me! Her children, my two younger brothers and sister followed suit with handshakes and their mother’s contagious smile that resembles an elongated horizontal crescent moon. The mother took my computer bag and someone else took my soon to be ripped duffel bag containing what I will need for the next 10 weeks. As I entered the house, I was pleased to see a house clearly well kempt.  There is not much to the house and to western standard, it may be horrifying in its lack of everything, but it is orderly nevertheless. My mama must be a good housekeeper. I was taken to my room and I can see brand new bed sheets with a pillow and a blanket provided by Peace Corps that had been prepared for me. Nice job Peace Corps… with the blue and violet floral print linen! Mama showed me a metal basin of hot water she had boiled and transferred it to a plastic bucket. I understood it to be my drinking water that will remain in my room for my personal consumption. For that extra room service, a knitted doily covered a drinking glass on top of the bucket lid. I was glad to see my room sufficiently comfortable with a bed and 2 tables with a chair. Most of all, I can tell mama readied the room for a guest to arrive. Soon afterwards, mama took me outside our house and introduced me to bibi, who is my Tanzanian grandma, her mother-in-law. Village children and neighbors soon greeted me and I tried my best to speak in my extremely limited Swahili. When I finished schmoozing with granny, mama asked me to come inside the house and I see that she has prepared on the table 2 bottles of orange Fanta sodas and a pack of biscuits. She served me and although I was not hungry, I graciously accepted and ate and drank what was offered to me. I took some pictures of the family and mama was beaming as usual. She is a very outgoing person and I think she would make for a great game show contestant. I can see her going nuts in The Price is Right. The door of the house is never truly closed and neighbors’ children and friend’s of my brothers and sister continued to enter the house to greet me. More “shikamoo” to me and I’m digging it big times. Back at home, if my own daughter doesn’t respect me or if my nieces barely acknowledging my presence with a greeting when they first see me, hell...I’ll take respectful greetings from complete strangers in Africa. I have 27 months to pimp and enjoy my status and it starts today! I must say the welcome reception of my arrival was most heartwarming. My first impression of a Tanzanian village and its people are positive, as they are friendly and live in harmony because relationship with people is highly prized in this country. Swahili terminology for greetings is endless. There will be a mini dialogue about asking people and family, work, time of day, situation’s well being before a conversation can begin. The purpose of a long drawn out greeting session is to maintain good relationship with one another. When I ran out of things to say in my less than 25 Swahili vocabulary, I excused myself so I can start unpacking.

Mama called me for dinner. She gave me a kanga to wear. Not sure what she is saying about this. Am I to dress for dinner? I wrap the kanga around my grungy pants and went into the main room of the house that has furniture. Mama put out a spread as I see on the table there were plates, a teacup set, a beer mug and several plastic containers in several sizes, a bottle of condiment and a big thermo. Mama uncovered each plastic container to reveal the following: rice, chips (giant French fries), peeled bananas, beans, and a very small bowl of meat. Mama asked me to serve myself first so I obeyed. I used a spoon on the table to dish out each item on the plate and when I was satisfied with my portion, I put the spoon I had served on my plate ready to eat. Mama took my spoon away and said something I didn’t understand. Soon I got her drift. I will be eating with my hands. Namaste, I’m back in India, again! I was not hungry at all as I had a late lunch and the welcoming snack of soda and stale biscuits, which dampened my appetite. I must be a proper guest, or a daughter in this case, so I finished my plate. Mama and I got to sit in front of the table, one of my brother and his sister sat on chairs but had their plate on their laps, and the little brother ate on the floor. Finally I meet the father as he entered his house. I knew I heard a man’s voice in the kitchen earlier. The husband was equally young like his wife. I’d venture to guess they must be in their mid/late thirties to early forties. But I really can not tell. I think Africans are like Asians; God knows how old these people are? Early when I asked mama if she was married, she answered blah blah blah in Swahili. My assumption was that she may be a widow as when I saw the name of my family, it was a Ms. and not Mr. and Mrs.. Mama explained about baba (father) but again, I understood nothing. Well, I guess there is a father in this family after all. I am happy for the kids. I like the father already when he walked in.  He is a tall man with shiny bald head, small bumps on his face, has a very deep voice, is formal and seemingly calm and gentle in demeanor. Kind of reminds me of the singer, Seal. I didn’t understand why he came in late and when I asked if he would eat dinner with us, the reply was that he would eat later. This young couple with 3 children, 1 girl and 2 boys, ages 12, 10, and 9 respectively is my new family. Baba spoke to me and naturally I understood nothing except for welcomes and greetings. After dinner, I gave them gifts. My family was very appreciative and it made me happy that they were happy. For the parents, I offered a generous box set of lotions and potions with candles and body sponge from The Body Shop. I think some indulgence is nice; besides, you really need to bathe big times living in Africa. To my brothers, stuff animal, key chain and big chunky ballpoint pens. My sister clung on to me as if her life depended on it as she was thrilled to receive her gifts of a leather handbag, a pink shimmery lip gloss, a pen, and Hello Kitty brooches. Back home, these are nothing to get excited about but when you live with nothing and have nothing, these are treasures to a teen girl in poor rural Africa. I know what I gave as gifts to the family may be a lot more than what volunteers usually give ie. hard candies, postcard, calendar, or a small trinket of friendship. Without knowing how many people or the gender and age of my host family, what I brought was perfect. Good job, Wendy.

Mama and baba and their brood do not speak English. If they did, they’re doing a great job of pretending not to. I can tell, since this is the first time they are hosting an American; they are diligently following Peace Corps’ guideline. They only speak Swahili to me and mama is very adamant in showing me how to lock the door to my room. Even as I took my bath, she is asking me to lock my bedroom. It’s really okay, I trust you guys, I don’t have to have my door locked 24/7.

Mama didn’t give me enough water for my bath. I’m wondering if I’ve taken all the water there is available at home for today. As I am bathing, suddenly I had concerns and a moment of a scary realization, which is my present reality. This harsh living condition is now very real. Coming from one of USA’s most expensive zip code in southern California where homes are multi million and everyone drives an imported European car as common as a taxi…all of the sudden, I am currently and will be living in rural poverty where I have to fight bugs on the ground and those that fly on a daily basis. The floor to the house is unfinished cement and the bathroom is a room with a pit latrine squat toilet and also where one bathes from a dirty bucket of limited supply of sometimes-murky water. To have a warm bath, one would have to boil water. No running water and no electricity make life burdensome. I have to walk around with a battery charged light. Taking a bath in the dark with no place to put your toiletries is a challenge. One hand I am holding a plastic container of water to rinse myself and the other hand holds toiletry. You don’t want to put anything on the ground…I should have brought a plastic container at the market at Dar es Saalam. I have to budget my money as I am now living under Peace Corps’s stipend. Another realization is that I will be facing health threats. A supposedly innocent bug bite on my right foot is now a swollen right foot. I fear I will wake up tomorrow with a foot looking like the elephant man’s and I won’t be able to walk. Right now it is swollen and when I move my foot, I can feel some pain. I think I may have an infection. I suck! Not even a week and already I have a medical issue! Chasing bugs and critters will also be a constant combat. I put some antiseptic lotion and antibiotic cream on my bug bite covered with a Band-Aid in hopes that tomorrow the swelling will go down. If not, I feel screwed. I know it’s not a major problem but it’s somewhat concerning as God knows what the hell bit me for it to become swollen and in pain.

I may die from malaria as there is no mosquito net over my bed. Tomorrow I will have to set up the one courtesy of Peace Corps. I remember that nightmarish night in Gaya, India where I was literally eaten alive by mosquitoes and it was impossible to sleep. Early this evening, I saw a small clump of dirt on the bed…was that insect dropping?

10 October 2012

I woke up in the dark as I heard the call to prayer, crowing roosters, my body a playground for bugs to bite where I can’t keep my hands of it, and an overloaded bladder.

Before dawn, mama wakes and I can hear water sound. She is either preparing breakfast or washing clothes…or both, I don’t know for sure. The walls in this house do not continue up the corrugated tin roof. Everyone can hear everyone’s business. I continue to swat flying critters and my body is uncomfortable with itches. What a damn nuisance. My right swollen foot is stable. As long as it’s not getting worse, I will feel better for it may just take time to fight the infection. I don’t want to have to take antibiotics…but I may have to.

In the morning, mama walks me to school. Today is the first day of formal language lesson. I learn foreign languages super fast. For me, it’s easy to comprehend the mechanics of a language and to memorize and to properly pronounce. I have an ear for it. Ironically, I have been placed with 3 other trainees who are struggling and partly I would say it might be due to their age. We are 4 of 8 older trainees in our class of 41.

 At the beginning of class, day one of Community Based Training, one of my classmate announced she has decided to ET, an acronym for Early Terminate. As I sat there stunned and listening to her concerns, fears, and sadness, I softly cried with her as I can empathize with her pain. Although it is not me who is leaving Peace Corps, I am completely sympathetic to her plight as it can be terrifying to live under hard core conditions. To some, like my own mother, it would be horrific and she would be traumatized if she sees how I am currently living. For mother dearest, this may be a near death experience. She is an indoor cat who lives in luxury. No way Jose, could she last for 5 minutes. This morning for a brief moment, I think back to what my mother dearest had said to me back home. “Why don’t you just travel luxuriously instead of serving Peace Corps?” This trainee divulged some things why she could not continue and mentioned there were other issues on a deeper level. I immediately respected her honesty when she acknowledged that she was not the tough bitch she thought she was. In less than 24 hours of living in Tanzania… “Peace Corps style”, my fellow trainee gave up and decided to return home to USA. I respect past, present and future volunteers who have successfully completed their service because unless you serve in the Peace Corps, there is no way one could ever understand the extreme harshness of the condition under which volunteers live and work. It’s an experience only a volunteer will ever understand. Peace Corps is not living in an exotic location being Mother Theresa. It is hard core in every sense, especially in Africa’s rural poverty. The simple act of hand washing is challenging if there is no sink. So far, my hand washing routine consists of a jug of water that is poured onto my hand. The amount of water I would accept is only modest enough to satisfy the task. I’m not kidding myself as I know it’s not proper hand washing; it’s merely wetting my hands. I shake my hands dry and there is no soap we use at home. I do this every time before and after a meal. At home for breakfast and dinner, I have to eat with my hands. I am in an African home where people use hands to eat and I will integrate into their culture even if I had brought utensils from home. I brought chopsticks. I understand my classmate’s struggle and agree that it may be best to immediately leave the country and return home instead of waiting it out when you know you will not last because it’s just too damn uncomfortable. Just to prove how traumatic or unacceptable different cultures living at the poverty line can live, we from the west weren’t even able to last a mere 24 hours. If that wasn’t dramatic enough, another classmate started to cry in class. She is struggling in Swahili class. She had to leave the classroom to compose herself. I suppose when you’re older, learning a new foreign language doesn’t come easily. I hope she doesn’t ET, but if it does happen…at least she’ll return home to electricity, hot running water and all the modern amenities and goodies that currently I can only remember as a distant memory.

Today I roamed a bit in the village practicing my Swahili after my classmates had gone back to their home. I chatted up with a small group of village people. I used my limited Swahili. One man’s English was decent so we talked about American presidents, my role in Tanzania, and answering the man’s question as to why I don’t have a boyfriend. 

I am getting the hang of using only one bucket of water to wash face, brush teeth and body. There is not enough to do a second rinse. Every splash from the plastic container is to productively rinse off all suds. No extras! My body is constantly itchy. I see small bugs on my bed and this evening, mama put up my mosquito net. I think there are bed bugs in my bed. Damn!

I really enjoy walking around this small village and feeling like a community where everyone knows everyone. The vibe is relaxed, slow, friendly, and highly communal. To learn this language will be simple as there is no lack of people or occasion to practice in a small village. In a culture where greeting is king, by default, one has to talk to one another.

In a rural setting without electricity, after dinner, it pretty much is time to retire and go to sleep as there is truly nothing to do. I honestly think the chances of friends and family visiting me from abroad is slim to none. I’m having second thought as to whether I want Fendi here or not. Unless I put her up in an upscale hotel in a big touristic city, I don’t think my kid can survive. She will ET on me upon arrival…

12 October 2012

This morning, a Peace Corps staff came to the classroom in my village to give me antibiotics to treat my condition. I have been diagnosed with Cellulitis. I have an infection due to a spider bite. The bug carried a Staph bacteria and I have been told that it must be treated if not, it will worsen and will not heal on its own and would be treated with an IV drip.

Yesterday, the Peace Corps Medical Officer showed us common illnesses and other medical diseases prone to Tanzania Peace Corps volunteers. I think many people would not have applied to join had they know the maladies they may get in the name of humanitarian work. There’s a lot of nasty scheisse and I hope I don’t get any of them. The swollen foot is enough.

We did learn how to make a water filter system from 2 plastic buckets, a spigot with a knob, and a ceramic water filter. With some elbow grease using a knife to cut holes in the plastic bucket and its lid, we were able to fashion a way to safely drink water…very McGyver-ish. I left my Steri-Pen back home…I should have brought it with me for that extra pre-caution. Oh well…when in Rome, do as the Romans.

Tonight’s evening bath was only half a bucket of water. With toothpaste in my mouth and a soapy face…oh Jesus…how do I ration water to rinse my mouth, face, and to wash my body? I have been putting off washing my hair. This morning I came up with a strategy of either washing hair or body…impossible to do both unless I have a crew cut. Did I mention that fortunately I am wearing disposable underwear thus this is one less thing to have to use water? I may have another day or two until I need to start wearing real underwear in which I will have to hand wash them during my bath time. Then, the real test begin as how do I wash my hair, body and face, brush my teeth, and wash my underwear with just a modest sized bucket of water? The water is brownish gray color and thank god I’m in a dark toilet room where I can not see the semi opaque bathing water. Ignorant is bliss when you live in poverty.

Meals at home are taken with my mama; we both eat together at the table. A sibling or two may eat with us in the room but they don’t eat the spread that mama has prepared for me on the table. So far, I rarely see the father except for a very brief moment in the evening when he has returned from his chill time with his buddies drinking coffee in the village. When I do see him, he speaks to me in his dark deep voice. I’ve yet to completely understand him. He is polite and proper. I’m glad that after I retire to my room for the night, he and his wife can spend time together when he may be enjoying his dinner. Since you can hear everything in this house, I am assuming that if the couple wants intimate time, it would have to be in the afternoon or in the morning when all the kids go to school. I do wonder if I wasn’t in their home, would the family all eat together? I haven’t seen this so far.

My mama’s cooking is good, although she has a tendency to over salt some dishes. The major food groups are covered. Lots of starches, some greens and fruits and tiny portion of meat in which it’s usually reserved as a side dish and not a main dish in this country. So far, an interesting dish or food item is raw green long baby bananas. It’s starchy and different, a different variety of plantain. Last night for dinner, mama made ugali. I was looking forward to trying this national dish before arriving in this country. I have to say, I dig it. It’s like very soft fresh Play Dough in consistency and bland tasting. It’s a great vehicle to scoop food up as you roll it with your fingers to make a small golf ball and dip it in sauce, food and whatever. Before and after meals, mama pours some water over my hand. This is our home method of washing hands.  There is no sink in this house. There is no mirror in this house. It’s a good thing I don’t know what I look like now. I have to eventually show my family the basic hygiene of using soap and water to wash hands.

I greet almost everyone I see in the village, young and old. The people in Lusanga A are very friendly and always up to chatting. The lifestyle is typical straight up communal village. It’s a world where everyone knows everyone, kids play with each other and run around the village barefoot, people congregate and gather around spending time together because there is really nothing else to do, family and friends come visit homes because the front door is never locked or even fully closed. Some houses have chickens and chickadees walking inside the house and a cat’s purpose in life is to kill rodents and other unwanted animals that would disturbingly intrude a home. People own cows, goats, chickens, cats and I’ve yet to see dogs. Villagers don’t wear shoes as I’m assuming they don’t have any or it’s a habit of going barefoot. They walk on the red clay with their bare feet and are constantly sweeping the floor in and around the house. I don’t know yet where mama goes to fetch the household’s water supply. I may have to fetch my own if I want to wash my hair and body at the same time….

After couple hours of lying in my bed, a great big lump of hole has been imprinted on the mattress. My body weight is making the bed sag; I am now sleeping in a hole. Do I miss the simple luxuries we in the west take for granted? No. Do I want the simple luxuries we have in the west? Yes. Although I am living in one of the world’s poorest country and TRUST ME, this is downright hardcore and rough as hell…presently a dead spider and a big bee or fly lie on my room’s floor because I had just ended their lives early this evening and spider webs cover the corners of my room... albeit the unsanitary living condition, people are happy as they are constantly smiling and giggling…why I don’t know…this is contagious. It makes me happy seeing them happy. Actually I know why they are happy. They are happy because they have no modern stress and live harmoniously within a tight community. Their only concern is survival. Each day is another day to live peacefully within a united society. As long as you have water, food, and shelter…you’ll live. Everybody helps everybody here…now that’s really an ideal world, isn’t it?

13 October 2012

This morning at the choo, the toilet, I decided to give a try and see if I am able to adequately wash my hair with one bucket of water. This would mean no body washing. As I’m washing my hair, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to take the shampoo suds from my hair and lather it on my body. I guess I did wash my body after all…it was too tempting. When it was time to rinse, I was extremely conscientious to not waste every drop of that precious water. Somehow I managed to rinse myself of all the sudsy soap. I’m certain I’m not the cleanest but I have no choice but to accept the end result. I noticed some debris in the water, like sand, at the end of my rinse from the bucket of water.

I attended my first communal village function: a funeral.  A lady of 52 years old died from a leg infection from a fall. I don’t know the entire story but it sounds unfortunate and completely preventable. Sanitation is almost nonexistent and medical health care is extremely limited. As we, the villagers, paid our last respect by walking around her casket, I see her mouth and nose stuffed with cotton or tissue paper. I’m not sure what this means but I held my breath as a stench immediately assaulted my nose. I couldn’t distinguish what kind of odor it was. My mind thought perhaps a corpse in the African heat would reasonably start to become foul and especially in the humidity.

During dinner tonight, my mama tells me her and baba’s age. My Tanzanian parents are younger than me; they are both 32 years old. I give my sister my brand new pencil, eraser, a used pink highlighter pen and another Peace Corps Swahili English phrase book. My dada (sister) always gives me the happiest hug as if I had just given her the keys to my Porsche. Two days ago when I gave my mama a kitenge (a long version of a kanga); courtesy of Peace Corps, her reaction rivaled receiving a Louis Vuitton handbag as a present.

After a full day of training or language class, my siblings always happen to find me returning home in the village. They take my heavy bag like a valet and with the warmest smile and eyes that twinkle, they affectionately greet me with “shikamoo, dada” again, literally translated as I touch your feet, sister. I put my hands on them or we hold hands and happily like one jolly family, we all walk back home together. This pleases me and it makes me feel very good to be temporarily a part of this family, village, and community in Tanzania.

I have always wanted to live in a real village because people are authentically content and peaceful. They may not own shoes, clothes may be tattered and dirty, their homes a sanitation nightmare and meals limited in variety…but I’ve yet to witness an unhappy soul. Even the village mental case seems pretty chillin’ as the villagers do not ostracize him. Everybody happily coexist. Children play with each other; I think the companionship is what matters because they don’t have toys. They play with mud. Ladies gather together and sit on the floor to weave stalks of hardy leaves to make roof material for sale or do the dishes and laundry together and men hang out with other men to kill time. The open market consists of several small stalls selling a handful of tired vegetables, beans and dried fish, definitely not appetizing or abundant. In the evening, I am too exhausted to go out to see where the loud music is coming from and the chatter of people. Back home where I live, my neighbors would already call the Newport Beach Police Department to complain about loud noise after a certain hour and would give you dirty looks the next time they see you. Here in small African villages, neighbors look out for one another, interact with each other and actually like each other. It’s extremely cozy here…the village is like one big happy family. If I have a better command of the language, I can easily be one of them…actually, they already treat me as one of them.

14 October 2012

I’m not sure how to exactly feel about doing my first laundry, Tanzanian style. I am sitting on a small stool washing my clothes in the toilet. I use washing powder that I purchased yesterday and a small chunk of laundry soap from the house. I vigorously rub my clothes the way my mama showed me. The plastic basin filled with my dirty clothes is now filled with a nondescript color of water. It’s black-brown-grayish color water. It’s your standard dirty laundry water. The entire time I am wondering if this one bucket of water will be used to wash and rinse. I have a bra, 1 towel, 2 pants, 2 t-shirts, a long sleeve shirt, a long dress, and a kanga. Am I to properly clean these items and rinse them well with only one bucket of water? Mind you, the bucket is of medium size; it is not a big bucket.  After mama and I finish my load, she tells me that we will go outside. Dear Lord, please let us go to the village well or some water source where there will be additional water to rinse in which it is the reason we are leaving the house. As I followed mama, my heart sunk and face grimaced, as I understood what’s to happen. Jesus, this is it…I’m going to get a skin infection and allergies from dirty soapy water from my clothes. We began to hang my clothes over a wire line. I say to my mother in broken Swahili…”no water”? What I truly wanted to say was the following: “Woman, are you crazy! You give me only one chintzy bucket of brown water to wash and rinse all my clothes and I’m supposed to wear this shit afterwards? It’s dirtier now than before I washed it!” Mama may have smelled fear in me for she reassured me that it’s very clean and you can smell the soap. No shit, Sherlock mama…of course it smells of soap…cause the soap is still in the clothes!!! For my sanity, I reason with myself. How many deaths have occurred from wearing dried dirty soapy clothes? Probably none. Mama has given me clothes and kanga to wear before and they appear harmless so I’m going to blindly trust her and go with the flow. Perhaps they kill the cooties with a hot charcoal iron pressing. I won’t immediately judge and freak out just yet. When I have my own house, I’m paying someone to wash my clothes and tell her that please…rinse at least 100 times even if that means walking 100 return trips to fetch water!

This morning, mama showed me how to light a charcoal and kerosene stove. Now I know what the awful smell is from in the mornings, it’s the lighter fluid. Am I going to have carbon monoxide poisoning or get the black lung disease from daily inhalation of toxic fumes? Cooking in an African kitchen is no small feat. You sit on a small stool and depending on what kind of heating source you are using, you do everything sitting or squatting down where everything is on the ground. A kitchen is merely a room where there is a small portable heating source. Why, some people cook with fire wood, too. That is it. No electricity, no appliances, no gadgets, no countertop, no storage space. Nothing. It’s just you and the cooking apparatus with the food on the floor, an uneven unfinished floor with a live chicken walking around…for that rustic rural feel. It’s cave man time, primitive and raw. Camping, basically. Surprisingly, I have not had diarrhea or any gastro intestinal problem from the local food. But then again, my stomach of steel can basically take a lot of strange things. Perhaps growing up in Taiwan eating street food has already built my immune and body to tolerate not the most hygienic preparation of foods. There is an absence of sanitation in my current living situation and I am grateful for each day of not being sick. Many trainees have already suffered the runs. Not fun!

Mama took me around the neighborhood and introduced me to her friends and the people around her home. I held a 4 days old baby in my arms. I don’t know if the child is a premature baby, but that human I held is extremely tiny. The face is smaller than the palm of my hand. He slept quietly while I held it. It was odd and surreal; he looked dead.

Some very tall exotic fruit trees surround the house I am living. We have bananas, papaya, avocado, coconut, and jack fruit. Mama gave me some jack fruit segments for dinner last night which was amazingly delicious; it’s nature’s candy. I now have a favorite food item in Tanzania. I also love mchicha, a hardy green vegetable similar to collard green but more tender, Tanzania’s version of spinach.

Since it’s Sunday today, we do more visiting. I visit my maternal grandma and other relatives. As I speak in my limited Swahili and gesticulate, the Tanzanians laugh and are jovial. They appreciate my attempt in their language, my fondness for the people and my family, and my willingness to integrate and be one of them. Integration is the key to successfully live and work in a foreign country.

My mama gave me a Tanzanian name. I’m called “Mwaza” in her country and back home where I am from, my name is Wendy.

15 October 2012

This morning, a fellow trainee in my group announced to us her decision to Early Terminate and gave her reason for departure. We are now 39 from the original 41. She claims that in the two years with Peace Corps, she believes that the work is not impactful enough and she doesn’t want to use what time she has left to work in teaching people how to wash their hands in Africa. She says that she is able to do more important things at a bigger scale back home by writing grants. Although I respect her decision to leave Peace Corps, I do not fully believe that is truly the reason as it is way too premature to know what she will or will not be doing during her service. We have not yet even begun technical training let alone been assigned a site to work. Therefore, how is she to determine what she will be working is not important or impactful? The Peace Corps even offered her a job assignment with a leadership position working with NGOs. The volunteer is the ONE who can make a difference if she or he chose to be proactive and initiate projects. No one ever said that Peace Corps would be easy. The site possibly could be your oyster and if there is a will, there is a way to make a difference even if it is to one single person. Everything starts with an individual. I think many chose to separate themselves from the Peace Corps because the living condition is extremely challenging which can be traumatic, uncomfortable, and down right miserable! It is very okay to admit that living in the poorest country on the globe is not what you signed up for…ideally it sounds noble but in practice, it’s highly challenging because of the lack of infrastructure, absence of sanitation and hygiene and most of all, illnesses prone to the country is a stark reality. There can be an inherent physical danger, security and health issue in serving Peace Corps. But on the flip side, the experience is unquestionably, one-of-a-kind and can be positive. Obviously, I have weighed the pros and cons. I can die in my bedroom back home from a devastating Californian earthquake or a mental nutcase on Prozac who got dumped by his boss or wife deciding to shoot everyone in public because his day was going shitty. I opted for an adventure abroad.

This evening after dinner, I brought my cup of tea and coffee mixture outside to see what my sister and her friends were doing outside our doorstep. She is ironing her school uniform on the front step of the house. I held and tried the very heavy old fashion charcoal iron. Hot charcoals are placed inside an iron, which creates the heat to iron. I sat down with the young girls and began to chat them up. Soon afterwards, kids start to surround us. I now have an entourage of 9 young boys and girls and they enthusiastically answer my questions and clap their hands in approval and appreciation if I said something well or interesting. I now have an audience to my broken Swahili in front of my house. With what limited vocabulary and grammatical concept I own, I was able to hold a crowd’s attention and carry on a semblance of a conversation with a question and answer session. I absolutely love talking to children, as they are the best teacher for learning a foreign language. I tell them that every evening we will be talking in Swahili outside my house. Village kids roam around barefoot and visit friends to hang out in the warm summer nights. For them to come visit a foreigner is most likely fun and a novelty…plus they get to see me struggling and succeeding in their mother tongue in which I can imagine is a hoot for them. The entire village is my school where I can safely learn; just so happen, children are my favorite Swahili teachers.

17 October 2012

As I am walking back home around 5:30pm after several pit stops of the obligatory greetings to villagers and being accosted by one young woman who wanted to befriend me and asked for my mobile number, I was stunned and for a moment had to readjust myself as I wasn’t expecting such a sight near my house. In front of me were clusters of living color. Many women congregated and sat in front of my home and mostly were in front of bibi’s.  I had absolutely no idea for the reason of the celebratory occasion except clearly it was a female gathering, a party…a happy event of some sort. I started to take photographs as the scene was highly photogenic and a fine example of quintessential African village life where people are joyous and living in unity and harmony. I went closer to the big group and found myself dancing. Immediately, the women cheered, laughed, and clapped as I shamelessly and happily danced away showing my dance moves which would make any respectable African proud! The crowd was my very attentive and enthusiastic audience. There was a speaker blasting African music where I swayed and boogied to the melody and beat. Like a stripper, soon women were giving me money as I danced away to oblivion. Some gave me coins and one gave me a bill of 500 local currency. I was still clueless as to what the occasion was about but it didn’t really matter because this was the highest integration of the highest order. I am a foreigner dancing solo in the middle of a big crowd who supported and are happy that I am part of their community. I danced by myself on the red clay dance floor and mama soon joined me. The crowd continued to clap, laugh and cheered on. My little brother wanted to be a part of the action so we both danced and the crowd went wilder. I have been dancing for a good time now and the crowd and onlookers were still attentive and interested. I mustn’t disappoint so I will continue to dance away in my Teva sandals. Who cares that I’m sweating and on the verge of getting a blasted headache. As I was dancing and having an enjoyable and most memorable time, I think how unexpected life can be. Who would think after a full day of dry Peace Corps training would I come back home for an evening of fun, camaraderie, cultural experience and relationship building with a community? I found out later that evening that this was a celebration for my family’s relative soon to be wedding.  After couple sessions of dance and taking a break, my last performance involved getting children to do the congo. I made each kid put their hands in front of another’s shoulder and they followed me while dancing. The adults approved and were happy, as did the kids who were having a great time. I was very happy tonight not only because I love to dance, but also most of all was the community accepting me in a warm and supporting way. I am not shy and will always at every opportunity look for ways to build relationships and involve myself with cultural integration. After two fellow trainees living in my village gave up on Peace Corps to return to home, I could only imagine my mama’s nervousness in that I may leave too. I have reassured her many times that I will be staying in the village and have no plans to go back to USA. My dance show tonight not only proved that I can dance in front of big group of strangers, but that I can naturally integrate and it is very obvious that I am happy to be where I presently am. I feel like this is home for now. My mama should be confirmed of that this evening. When it is time for me to leave Lusanga A in the district of Muheza, I know I will miss the village and her people. I can only hope that my site, which will be my home for the next 2 years, will be equally hospitable and accepting of me. I am very happy to be a part of the community. I’ve always wanted to experience living in a traditional rural village, somewhat under developed, after having spent some time in a Mexican village where I got my first taste of this kind of lifestyle. “Me gusto mucho”. Now I’m in Africa and I can say, “nimefurahi sana.”

18 October 2012

This late afternoon as I returned home was one of those days that I didn’t feel like talking or interacting with anyone. Too pooped from last night’s heavy dancing. Sometimes you just need your own quiet space and not have to talk and schmooze.

A half bucket of water to bathe is easier to manage now and food is continuously repetitive. I suspect my left over dinner is remains for the family member who haven’t eaten or my breakfast if it a fruit item. I find myself consciously leaving food for the family and not finishing everything by myself. By design, I don’t take much meat not only because there is hardly any to begin with, but also because meat is expensive and I rather that my prepubescent African brothers and sister eat it as they are still growing and need it more than me.

My sanctuary is hiding inside my mosquito net where I am in my private world to rest, read, or type on my laptop. I still occasionally need to swat flying critters inside the net. I tuck the net under the mattress so where the hell are they coming from?

Tonight I finished my last antibiotic; the swelling has gone down but there still remains residual soreness. Yesterday at Peace Corps training during our soda break, I opened the bottle of my Coca Cola by using the table top as leverage to push down on the soda cap. My own strength had caused the carbonation of the soda to explode where the metal cap flew onto my face where now a visible scratch draws attention. I was stunned when something hit my face so hard and even more so when I saw blood. My second Peace Corps mishap.

19 October 2012

After Permagardening training, I returned home to plant some mchicha and tomato seeds next to my family’s existing disorganized garden. As I started to till the soil with the hoe, neighborhood children came around to check out what I was doing. As I dug and dug some more, I tried to explain by showing to the kids that gardening is easy, useful, and that anybody can do it. Afterwards, you get food to eat! When I was finished, I tried to whack off some wild weeds per my mama’s instruction. After 10 minutes of it, it was getting boring and tiring. I let the kids do it. Initially everyone was shy but soon afterwards, kids became eager and wanted their turn with the hoe.

Kids make good slaves. The more the merrier.

This is it; I am filthy from sweat, grime and dirt. My hair reeks and my feet are covered in clay soil remnant from an entire day’s of gardening. I need badly to wash my body and hair. I had no choice but to do it.  Yes, I was able to wash my hair and body with only 1 bucket of water. It was not luxurious but it accomplished at least getting the superficial filth away. I’m no longer skeptical but a pro. Hell, if you can properly wash hair, face and body with 1 bucket of water, you can do anything in life.

These days, I don’t know why we are no longer eating on the table during dinner. We sit on a straw mat with the dinner spread out in front of us on the ground. Mama tells me which way to face and essentially, food is next to me and not in front of me. The twisting of my body is not comfortable. Eating with your hands and not having soap and hot running water to wash them afterwards is also getting some use to. Last night’s dinner gave me fishy smelling right hand as I ate a bite size piece of fish. I hate going to bed with a hand that smells of food. If one has to sit on the floor to eat, it’s a good thing there is no electricity, which means there is no light to witness honker cockroaches scampering around the concrete floor while I eat dinner. Yesterday, I chased one in my room with a can of bug spray. When the toxic fume successfully targeted it, the cockroach keeled over and its legs were flaying in the air. To make sure he was properly extinguished, I stepped on him. The slimy mess of its corpse lay in front of the kitchen. When mama returns from fetching water, she’ll see it and I’ll let her dispose of it. My job is done as the terminator.

I think this is what is going on regarding my family’ eating situation. My sister and brothers are more or less fed dinner before I’m called out to eat. Before dinner, I usually take my evening bucket bath or resting in my room. Mama always eats dinner with me. Occasionally my siblings may join us but I only seeing them eating beans and ugali. I don’t see the “better food stuff” being offered to them. What is prepared in front of me I don’t see anyone taking except my mama and myself…and even she is modest with it. My baba is out in the village having coffee with his peeps. By the time I finish dinner, I immediately hear him returning home and I assume he eats his dinner, which would be my leftovers.  Or maybe a portion has been saved for him? On a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being extreme hunger and 10 is stuffed to death; I like to be a 8 to 8.5 on the satisfactory scale. Those who know me or have been my dining companion at parties or dinner soirees could attest my voracious appetite. I’ve been called truck driver or the human trash can. I apologize to none since I’m not obese which is my saving grace. Since food is somewhat scarce and refrigerator doesn’t exist, I purposely leave more food behind. I only take 1 bite size piece of token meat from the tiny plate of 3 pieces as a show to my mama that I like and appreciate it. She asks me to eat more and I say always “mama, unakula” or wanakula, kaka na dada” which means, “mama, you eat” or “they eat, brothers and sister”. I go to bed with a stomach satisfaction of a 6.5 or 7 if the meal consisted of rice, ugali or some other heavy starchy item in which it will guarantee to be filling. I never go to bed hungry; there is enough to eat and I am able to tolerate well the repetitive food items.  When you’re hungry and someone else is doing the cooking in a room that looks like a tiny dungeon… trust me, everything is tasty and just fine. I am grateful. I better enjoy and appreciate being fed now because once I arrive at my site, it’ll be my turn to squat on the floor and gather twigs and wood to make a stove if lugging a heavy propane gas is not feasible where I live.

22 October 2012

After Swahili class, a classmate, the only remaining trainee from my group, and I go have our favorite soda, a nice cold refreshing Tangowizi. It’s Tanzania’s answer to a better tasting more gingery ginger ale. Afterwards, we go to our nearest dumpy junction town, Muheza, to celebrate our language facilitator’s birthday. It’s a shithole of a place with nowhere seemingly decent to eat. We left the first dive after we seated ourselves as they were out of this and that. We found a second dive. My plastic chair’s seat was broken so an unbroken one was replaced for me. The lady began to wash down our table with soapy liquid and a dirty rag. She than proceeded to take the table away and repeated the task on a different table which eventually became our evening’s dining table. Our original one had wobbly legs so I suppose the second one was less wobbly. But still wobbly, nevertheless. No menu existed and we were told there were chicken, goat, chips (chunky french fries) and ugali. Basically, there is nothing to eat. Why the hell are people in Muheza opening a restaurant when there is no food to serve? We were told however that patrons liked the ox tail soup to drink with their beer. I love ox tail soup but in a dump like this, I better stay with the safer bets. Safe means not getting major diarrhea. We opted for goat and chips. Supposedly, we ordered 1 kilo of goat which is 2.2 pounds of meat for us flesh eating women but when it was served to us, the quantity looked more like 2.2 ounzes. Three adult women eating a plate of meat the size of a big teacup saucer was big times chintz. What little meat there was and some shabby fries made a skimpy birthday dinner, but our Swahili teacher was very happy today because her birthday was celebrated.

When we returned to our village, the sky was dark and I was careful to not fall on my face walking back to my home amidst loose scattered dirt and rocks. I took my evening bucket bath and tonight, I went all out! I saw that mama is filling my bucket full and not half filled so I decided to do everything and I mean everything. The works: brush teeth, wash face, body, hair and even underwear! Oh yeah baby, I did it; it was successful and I’m very proud of myself.

I was called out for chai. Wasn’t sure if this was dinner or a late night snacky poo. Who cares, I love to eat and I’ll eat again even if I just had some dry wimpy goat pieces and soggy fries. Mama said she made scones. (Pronounced exactly like in English) Unless Tanzania’s scones are soft, they are straight up Pillsbury Boy’s dinner roll. Mama really did make them fresh and from scratch because the white dough boy doesn’t exist here but I am guessing these bread rolls are called scones in this country. What I’m impressed besides its soft yummy texture is how it must have been baked. I would love to see how my Tanzanian mama McGyver-ed an oven. There is neither a conventional oven nor a solar oven. She must have put the dough in a covered pot and over fire, it somehow “baked”. I know you can bake things in a metal mail box and have it on top of a small bonfire. Dutch oven. I took one dinner roll and ate the entire plastic container of jack fruit. In the middle of our late supper, baba comes home and for the first time, he sits on the floor to eat with us. This was quite nice. My father is a daladala driver twice a week driving from Tanga to Muheza and the remaining days he works on the family’s farm. My teacher told me that drivers are, using her words, “hot cakes”. I asked her exactly what that mean? She tells me that some women see them as attractive commodity. Well, my Tanzanian daddy is tall, speaks in deep manly voice and he wears button down shirts…so I guess he can be “hot”.

Yesterday, I bought a sturdy ball and offered it as a present to my siblings. They were ecstatic to say the least. With my siblings and the neighborhood kids, we played ball together. Afterwards to rest, we hang out in front of my house to talk. Mama gives us a mat for us to sit on. The neighborhood watoto are my best friends in Tanzania. Children in villages, from what I have seen, don’t have toys to play with. I saw some children rolling bike tires with a stick and a little girl taking an extremely short rope or twisted string of some kind and tried perhaps to jump rope. When I saw that, two things entered my mind as my heart fell for her. First, where can I get a longer rope for her to play and second, how can I order wholesale of jump rope to distribute to village kids. I’ll even pay for this out of my own pocket.

24 October 2012

This morning, I woke up with a painful sore neck on my left side. I am assuming it must be last night’s humping over with my neck down while I flatten dough with a rolling pin to make chapati for dinner. It takes forever to make chapati with mixing and kneading the dough, making them into balls and then to roll them flat and then to fry them with oil in a skillet over a small charcoal burning stove placed on the ground. Beginning to end took an hour. Consumption took 30 seconds. Three words: Not worth it!

After Swahili lessons this afternoon, the Peace Corps Tanzania Health Program Director interviewed me for eventual placement of site. I gave a brief bio about myself that would be relevant to a suitable job assignment. I described my skills and attributes in what I believe would be qualities conducive to a position that I feel would suit me. Peace Corps Tanzania only has our updated resume and an aspiration statement as their source of main foundation in their decision of placement. I would imagine they would receive more feedback from our language facilitator and other Peace Corps training staff to access our strength and weaknesses. We are being observed during this entire training time as they’re checking us out to examine our technical and language skills and personality. I tell the interviewer that because I have a daughter back home in college, I need to be reachable if she is to contact me. I can sacrifice living in scorching summers, bugs and creepy crawlers, no electricity or running water, but I must be in a site where there is reasonable access to communication, ie. INTERNET and reliable CELL RECEPTION! Unreasonable would mean trekking 20 kilometer to find an internet café. I expressed the necessity that as long as I am able to connect to the internet via a dongle plugged into my laptop and have decent cell reception, problem solved! I CAN NOT disappoint Fendi! I promised my daughter that she could always reach me, her mother who is oceans away in another far away continent. Before being invited to serve, I had expressed this point to Peace Corps in a manner possibly to be interpreted as imperative. It was somewhat of a make-or-break-deal for me. After further discussion with my placement officer in Washington DC during our final interview, he told me that this is an important request I will need to address with Peace Corps Tanzania during the placement process. So with my energetic personality, skills and needing to be at a site with reliable communication access, I may have hit the site placement jackpot. A great house in Mbeye! Assuming that this site will not be reneged on me, I may be 1 of 3 people out of our entire Peace Corps Tanzania 2012 who will have a house with electricity. Without requesting a specific geography, the recruiter plans to place me in the southern highlands in Tanzania. A former Peace Corps Return Volunteer and a current Peace Corps Volunteer both told me this is the best region. I never really inquired what does “best” mean? I know it will be cooler so there is no scorching summer heat which is a positive big times as heat is prone to diseases, bugs and other health issues. This house will have a front courtyard, existing furniture, reliable internet connection, no lack of water, and electricity. The house is super close to a clinic, which means I will also be working in a clinic setting, which is my preference over schools. The only negative I can tell so far is that geographically speaking, it’s far from travel destination spots as I will be more in the western part of the country. I would have to travel long grueling hours to arrive in Dar es Saalam for future Peace Corps in service training and the biggest hospital if my local facility was unable to accommodate my medical needs. It is also very far from the places I’d eventually want to visit such as Mount Kilimanjaro, Ngororo Crater, Serengeti, Zanzibar and the coast. At the end of the day, it makes sense to live as comfortable as possible for the next 2 years and suck it up for rough traveling during my holidays rather than easier commute for traveling and a shitty site to live in for 2 years. We 39 Peace Corps trainees will be at the mercy of our Health or Environment Program Director who will decide our fate for the next 2 years of our lives. Hopefully, this site will be given to me as I was told another trainee had expressed interest for this exact spot. I believe in karma; I’ll get where I need to be sent for reasons unbeknownst to me now. At the proper time, I will know why I have been chosen to live and work at a specific African village on this globe.

25 October 2012

The Health Program Director tells me that a mzee, which means an old person, from another group wants the site he plans to assign to me for her health reason. Needless to say, I am disappointed because I have heard that the house is “sweet”. Sweet is relative. Instead, he may send me to the region of Iringa, instead, which is still in the southern highlands region.  Everything is tentative and nothing is confirmed. I may or may not be chosen for Mbeye. I still believe where my future residence is karmically linked. It’s either meant to be or not.

Earlier this evening, mama, my two brothers and I went to a bar to have orange Fanta sodas. The bar in my village is basically sitting on plastic patio chairs outside and drinking sodas.

I watched how my mama made ugali. It’s one big blob of white corn meal in solid form. For dinner tonight, the simple task of eating was challenging: no utensils or plate to use. Your right hand will pinch the ugali in which you make with your right fingers into a bite-sized ball. With that, you dip it in side dishes. This kind of food requires straight up utensils, namely a spoon. In Tanzania, I eat with my right hand and it’s becoming a fucking pain in the ass especially eating slimy okra and wet beans. Eating pizza, fried chicken or spare ribs with your hands is understandable, reasonable, and even possibly enjoyable.  But to eat the kind of food I’m eating with my one hand is becoming sloppy and burdensome. I get food particles under my nails, the right hand is a slimy mess, I have to tilt my head back so the food doesn’t drop and fall on me which I just had a bath and wearing my nightwear with a kanga wrapped around my body for further modesty and tradition. Food inevitably fall from my fingers onto the mat we are sitting. I don’t know why this evening, I didn’t get a plate as usual. Tonight, we ate communal with our hands all over the food to our mouths with no plates. I’m not the one to suggest to Tanzanians to eat at a table, use placemat, plate, and a fork…oh and how about some napkins? I freakin’ burned my fingers too from the hot piping pot of beans. Ouch! Can you imagine eating hot wet beans with your hand? Why can’t we use a spoon as an exception for eating beans? Worse than the beans are the SLIMY okras. How am I to capture the slime with my fingers? Someone, anyone, just tell me how?

Every night since I have been in this country, I fall asleep easily and am physically exhausted. I wake when it’s still dark because I hear noise. The entire day is either Peace Corps training or Swahili class. Upon returning home, my mind is exploding, as I need to think and speak in Swahili with my family and villagers. Taking bucket baths in the dark with a tiny hand crank tiny light and eating with your hand are all too much work as well.

The last time I spoke to my mother dearest back home on my Tanzanian mobile, she said that my aunts were asking why I would chose to live in poverty when I live in luxury back home. Great question. At times, I ask myself this too when I bathe in a toilet room reeking of well…a toilet and sitting on the floor to eat dinner where my shoes may have stepped on animal dropping, dirt and dead insects. There are times when I do think what I’m giving up: a marble slab bathroom the size of a bedroom with its own toilet room, a big steam room shower and a color therapy air tub and a $30,000 USD bone china dinner ware set with gold plated utensils. I’m proud of myself that coming from an entitled lifestyle, I am able to adapt well to rural poverty. I contribute my ease of adaptation to my flexibility from early childhood of being an avid world traveler. I’ve seen it all, more or less. Nothing shocks me…not yet, at least.

26 October 2012

Today is a Tanzanian holiday for Muslims, Idd el Majid. I woke up at 6 AM and immediately per my mama’s request, swept my room with a $ .20 broom and with a bucket containing soapy water and a filthy ripped rag with holes, I washed my floor. I removed my bed sheets and was surprised to find a pile of straw under my mattress on the bed. I put them in sudsy water to soak in a plastic basin. I attended only 1 hour of Swahili class to return home as promised to my mama. After chai at home, I couldn’t wait to do my laundry as I no longer have clean clothes to wear and moreover, I needed the clothes to dry as long as possible out in the sun. Mama was trying to help with my laundry but I immediately became annoyed and irritated, as I was completely adamant that I needed to do the wash my way. I let her know that I needed more water because there was NO WAY JOSE that I was going to succumb to that last fiasco of only 1 bucket of water for wash and rinse and to hung soapy clothes only 90% dry. Screw that deal! That was the first and last time. I felt somewhat guilty as my tone of voice to her was firm and I spewed some English words out of frustration as to why she doesn’t understand that the final rinse needs to be clear water and why I’m not fluent yet in Swahili. You’ve been in the country for less than a month, give yourself a break, dude! As usual, she had her Cheshire Cat smile and laughed as she was keeping peace and allowed me to be in my foul mood for fear of not having enough water and too tired to articulate in a foreign language. I’m not happy at all. I’m sitting on a stool in a toilet room smelling the God damn choo while hand washing my clothes in dirty water. Meanwhile, a gaggle of young girls, my sister’s friend, stood at the doorway of the choo to watch me do my laundry. What the hell is there to look at? Surely you can find something more interesting than watching a muzungu do her laundry in a choo. I continued my chore without turning my head to give those girls a dirty look as a sign to leave me to my misery. After finally breaking my back and having dish pan hands, my youngest brother takes me outside to where I will hang my clothes to dry. He’s irritating me too so once we arrived, I tell him to scram by saying that okay, he can go home now. DAMN, never a space for privacy because as I hung my clothes over the clothes line, a woman and her baby chats me up. I’m really so tired and in a pissy mood and I’m definitely not into a neighborly Swahili chat session under the hot blazing sun, asante sana! But she is too sweet, holding a baby with her young daughter wearing a soiled party dress by her side who was constantly smiling at me, I decided to be chattier as she also tells me that she likes me.

29 October 2012

This Tanzanian Muslim holiday was a 2 days affair with my family. Although they claim to be Muslims, they are clearly not orthodox. The women do not cover their head and I’ve not seen my family visit a mosque on Fridays. They don’t eat pork, so I suppose that’s good enough practice for them.

My mama is somewhat of a personality. Her physical size betrays her energy. She is short and petite; a size 2, I would guess and has an outgoing and friendly manner. She enjoys being a housewife. It’s tough being a woman in this country as household chores are traditionally a woman’s task. Fetching water and carrying buckets after buckets on top of your head, slouching over a tiny stool and preparing meals where everything is all made from scratch and extremely labor intensive, washing the laundry by hand, housecleaning, food shopping, child rearing, and whatever other manual labor are all things that would make me want a sex change operation if I was born a Tanzanian woman! It’s a common sight to see men congregate together and literally do nothing but sit on their ass while women work. There is inequality in this country and gender roles are very specific. Perhaps slowly, but things are changing if the men have been exposed to the idea or traveled abroad seeing other men performed duties supposedly reserved as a female role. I only witness my baba eat and hang out with his friends at home. Surely, he works and probably he works hard too to support his family but I have yet to see him “work” at home. My siblings are respectful and affectionate with me. My 12 years old sister, Mwatumu, helps out with household chores. She always wears the Hello Kitty brooches I have given her. Unbeknownst to her yet, I plan to give her more brooch jewelry, which will please her immensely, this I guarantee. I constantly see her ironing her school uniform in the evening. What 12 years old girl back in America constantly irons her clothes? My 10 years old brother, Indirisa, to my discovery this evening, may have a reading problem. He skips words and reads the wrong word. I asked him if he can read and his reply was that he is not a good reader. Do your parent know this? I can tell he is a sensitive soul. His face expresses great pleasure and satisfaction when he sees me bonding with his mama. I can tell from the smile of his eyes that this makes him very happy. Something tells me he will be a responsible man when he becomes an adult. My youngest brother, Salimu, 9 years old is a runt. He has a tiny voice that lacks strength and vigor. He sounds like he has been screaming nonstop and is losing his voice. He loves to hold my hands when we walk together and I have mixed feeling about his affection. He is definitely a sweet little boy, a cute one too. His hands are always dirty, as they feel grimy and sweaty. I always end up accepting his hand but often I would break apart our hand holding so I could hold his wrist where the skin is dry and feels clean. He would break free from me and readjust where my hands are holding his hand again. We would repeat separating and holding of hand until either I give in to his grimy paws and pray to the Good Lord I don’t catch some cooties because hand washing with soap with hot water is basically not an option at home or he’s too tired and let me hold his wrist because both our hands are getting sweaty and icky. I do not want to refuse a small boy’s affection, yet I struggle to touch those palms for I worry about getting germs and become sick. He has been to the hospital at least twice since I’ve lived in their house for what ailment he has suffered I do not know for certain. Mama showed me the 3 kinds of drug he was taking. I only recognize an antibiotic. The kid has an infection somewhere.  He loves to dance, like me, and wants to get in the action be it on the dance floor or hog the camera lens for he loves having his picture taken from my Iphone. This little boy truly digs me and I can tell he is protective of me. When my siblings see me approaching home in the village, out of respect, they immediately grab my belongings and take them inside the house, which relieves me of having to lug my heavy messenger bag filled with Swahili books and other training material. In the West, individualism and youth are emphasized and encouraged. “Respect” is a song sung by Aretha Franklin and not a concept widely practiced. In the East and other cultures in the world, Old is Gold where one’s age is valued and cherished for his/her wisdom and experience.

My favorite activity in Tanzania so far is enjoying the village kids by talking with them. They are highly engaging, warm and mature for their age as young people like small kids quickly learn survival skill hence they need to grow up soon compared to their more affluent counterpart who are overprotected and spoiled. After a day of either training or language class, to relax, I sit out in front of my house and on a mat, like the magic carpet, a bunch of kids come to me and we chat. I ask them whatever I am able in my limited Swahili. They are quick to answer and are never bored with my questionings that are often repeated. They are really subjects with whom I practice my Swahili.  I constantly say to them and adults alike, ninapenda sana watoto, wao ni walimu wazuri! I love children; they are great teachers! In my village, originally we were to have 4 Peace Corps trainees. Two have already left Peace Corps to return home and the third one lives on the other side of the road where it’s quieter. I am the only trainee/foreigner in my village where the action is and this has given me an advantage in that I can deeply integrate, as I have no one to hang out with but the villagers. Kids are the best. When I first arrived in the village during my first week, when the kids and I would fist bump, I would say to them “give me tano” which means give me five. I then would say, tano, kumi, ishirini for five, ten, and twenty and we would bump accordingly. They love this and would crack up. Later, I have witnessed the children play this with other Peace Corps trainees in a neighboring village where my initial game has now traveled elsewhere. I am perpetually curious and as long as I’m in the mood to be a Chatty Kathy, I would either simply respond to a greeting or initiate a greeting and from that icebreaker, I would start a convo going and a crowd will eventually grow and inevitably children will begin to swarm me and I now have an audience to the “Wendy Liu Show”. Tonight’s episode was approaching a honker slab of meat with an entourage of flies or half animal corpse. It is one of my favorites subject to photograph because they are flat out disgusting and I’m a visual pervert. I just truly want to be close to that skanky slab of beef and its innards and if I remember or if suggested, would whip out my Iphone and start photographing the nastiness of it all. In order to prolong my presence, I would have to ask questions and as the villagers are always so friendly and talkative, there is no lack of words to exchange. To have a foreigner live in their small village is probably interesting and who wouldn’t want to check out or talk to that Asian woman who always carries a messenger bag and wears a hat in the morning. The villagers can actually monitor my language progress from hemming and hawing to simple elementary sentences to an actual exchange of a meaningful conversation.

Yesterday, like a Tanzanian female villager, I carried buckets of water on my head from our local water source, the well. The villagers were digging this sight! A Chinese chick wearing an African kanga with a bucket of water on a rolled scarf placed on top of her head. My challenge was not the bucket of water or the weight on my head but to carefully walk the path from well to home where the ground was uneven, hilly, and some areas steep with debris. This is so third world rural poverty activity: carrying a load on top of the head. Welcome to Tanzania, Karibu Tanzania! 

30 October 2012

This morning, my CBT (2 of us) and a neighboring CBT, making us a total of 8 Peace Corps trainees visited a school and presented the importance of hand washing with soap to students. This was practice/training for us future volunteers to use our Swahili and to interact with school students. I’d say we did well; I gave an introduction spiel on the significance of hand washing with soap and how germs affect the health.

Next week, we will be having our mid written exam and a Language Proficiency Interview in Swahili. Although this will not be graded and has no consequence, except total embarrassment, low self esteem and self hatred if you score extremely low because you’re a retard, it’s still highly nerve wracking. Although I’m confident I should be at intermediate mid level, I’m frustrated that I’m still hemming and hawing in Swahili. It’s technically not a month since I’ve begun formal lessons but since I love to talk, it is challenging being clueless all the time because I don’t understand yet what everything is being said. I know well that language acquisition takes time and is constantly a learning process.

A trainee is currently in Dar es Saalam receiving medical attention as his back is out and worsened from the traumatic ride in a Tanzanian public vehicle, the daladala. I hear that he is not able to sit now and if he continues to not improve, he may be medically evacuated and possibly be forced to return home to USA for treatment. Unless he can improve in the 45 days given to volunteers for recovery, he would have to be medically separated from Peace Corps. His wife would, of course, give up serving Peace Corps because of her husband’s health issue. I would be sad if they leave because they are, in my opinion, one of the nicest people in our 2012 Tanzania group. A daladala is a human traveling sardine can on 4 wheels. They squeeze in as many live human bodies as physically possible. I’d venture to guess that there are only 10 to 12-ish seats available give or take in these mini van-ish sort of bus, but the conductor allows the world to enter the bus along with their numerous belongings like bags of rice and containers of oil. I think my fellow trainee probably didn’t have a seat so he was forced to stand. Standing is not just standing, it’s exactly like the game Twister in which your body is contorted to accommodate the 20 million bodies in the bus. Unless you’re a midget, your physical mass takes a lot of space in a small area and with everyone else who is also standing, every body needs to figure out how to position themselves “harmoniously”. The last time I rode in a daladala, I thought I seriously was going to pass out! Before the vehicle started and more people ascended the bus, for a brief moment panic struck me as I didn’t know if I’d be able to quickly exit the bus on time before fainting. I had a seat but how do I get myself out of the bus with the other 29 billion people next to me and was blocking the exit which technically is only probably 6 footsteps away? I immediately started to find the opening of the window on my left and shoved that glass as my life depended on it as far as I could and gasped for air. A headache soon ensued. During the entire drive, I tried to face the wind to avoid the nauseating body odor smell but the dude behind me closed the window, as he didn’t want wind blowing his way. Why not, dude? Can’t you smell the full on b.o. of 20 billion people crammed in this container of a bus in the stagnant air in this heat and humidity? I’m dying here in this tiny bus, help me!

To the Liu Family,

It is with our deepest condolence and sincere regret to inform you that your daughter has suffered an untimely death due to insufficient air circulation and suffocation of body odor of the foulest kind in a Tanzanian public transportation, the daladala, or better yet, the death ride. To compensate for your loss, you may keep the remaining stipend in her bank account of US$67. Sincerely yours, the US Peace Corps.

PS. To honor your child so her death was not in vain, we will give a name to this new cause of death: Sudden Stale Stench Syndrome.

Speaking of humidity, another trainee had to go to Dar es Saalam for treatment because of an ear infection. Peace Corps is truly not for the faint of heart. Those who deny this are the following a) liar b) pretender c) blind and d) all of the above or a combo of. As I type, I can smell the toilet which is directly located in front of my room and as a matter of fact, last night I felt asleep with my bed sheets covering my nose because the toilet stench was so raunchy. It’s time like this that I test my resilience.