I am a Peace Corps Health Extension Volunteer sent to work in educating, training and facilitating under the framework of health needs in rural poverty of an African village. I am not an Education Volunteer, which is to be a full time teacher teaching English, mathematics, or other science classes.
However, in addition to health education, I have proposed to work like an Education Volunteer, as I see there is a clear need to teach English in one school and offer a new subject to another, which possibly may be a once in a life experience for these impoverished children from a rural farming community.
I live in a big spread out village with 2 primary schools. Primary School Image is in front of my house with a student population of 450 and 2 kilometers away from my house is Primary School Makula with 270 students. Both schools teach standard 1 to 7 which is basically, grades 1 to 7.
At exactly 6 AM, I am awoken by the klang klang sound of a stick banging on the rusty metal by a student at Image. This is when students will begin their morning chore. I get up as my "alarm" has called me from my slumber, and if my bladder is to explode at any moment, I quickly go to the backyard and relief myself. If I have a minute to spare before incontinence sets in, I make my bed and assuring that the mosquito net is securely tucked in the bed which would be more comfortable if the length was longer to accommodate my entire feet since I'm not exactly a short person. First order of business is squatting and scrubbing last night's dishes and other kitchen implements. Afterwards, dress, eat if there is last night's leftover dinner (rare), pack my knapsack and walk out to a store shack to buy my daily breakfast and snack of greasy and unhealthy fried dough bread. I'm always early but I'm waiting to be picked up by a teacher from Makula to take us to school where everyday from 8AM until lunch time, I teach English to standards 5, 6 and 7.
Makula only has 5 teachers for the 270 students. Yes, understaffed...to say the least. With me joining the crew, we're now at a whopping 6 teacher team.
With 7 different grades and prior to my arrival, one grade would be free without a teacher and 2 grades would be combined and share the one classroom because in addition to not having enough teachers, there is also an issue of not having enough classrooms and don't get me started on books! 32 students with only 4 books to share. Lack is too mild a word. The 2 grades sharing a classroom works like this: simultaneously, one grade is being taught by a teacher while the other grade shuts up and sit in silence while the other class is in session. Now that I've offered to be on scene, a class will now learn instead of twiddling their thumbs and playing in the mud.
My experience as an English teacher has been bitter sweet. Bitter in that at times, so far it's most of the time, I want to take the chalks and throw it at the crappy chalkboard, call them "retards", storm off and to never return, ever! Sweet in that it is thus far, the most satisfying thing I've done in my life. Before I continue to rant and praise at the same time...I have a newfound admiration for teachers and educators. Before this self-imposed teaching gig, I was a docent or a facilitator at an art museum which is the closest to teaching I have done. In a role as an educator, there is immense satisfaction and emotional reward. I now understand first hand, the need to have passion, love, and unbelievable patience and compassion to be able to teach children. You don't go into teaching to make money or to climb the career ladder. For me, not having a formal teaching degree or certificate in education...literally, I'm now having to completely wing it. The Head Teacher just handed me a weekly time table and that's it! GO TEACH! No curriculum, syllabus, not even a chalk. I'm totally on my own. I assume because I am from America and speak English, voila...I need no direction or input about teaching English to Tanzanians. This absence of information or guidance suits me perfectly well. Thank you very much. I'm highly independent and prefer to be in complete and total control of my classes, anyway. I relish the complete freedom of how I want to teach my class of nearly 100 students. With the exception of wanting to smack the closed shaved kinky heads of almost a hundred kid at times, I love teaching! I have such an urgent desire for them to learn and to move forward if possible in life. Even if 90% will most likely remain in the same village their lifetime being a peasant farmer like their mother and father, at least they received a language class from someone from USA. Perhaps being in contact with a "foreigner" may encourage some ideas. Technically, each class is 40 minutes long but I without fail, go over the time and my next classes gets short changed in time because I've been completely immersed in my teaching that I forget about time. There is no bell except for my own watch or mobile phone's clock to track my time. I walk from classroom to classroom while my class waits for my arrival. As I enter, I am greeted with formal and polite salutations while students stand before I allow them to sit back down.
After more than 3 hours of teaching in Swahili and English...along with the entire student population, I either get a ride or walk the 2 kilometers road back home during lunch time. There is no such thing as a cafeteria, snack time, or lunch at school. Students walk back home for lunch of ugali and a side dish. Nutritiously minimum.
Once I arrive at home, I cook and or I hunt for food to buy at least to supplement for dinner. Many times, there is nothing to buy at my God forsaken village. Tomatoes are always a staple but the issue is... Is the shack store even open!?!? Half of the time, it's a negative. If possible, I also continue working on my Village Situational Assessment report.
At 4:30PM, I leave the house to teach my after school class of French, English, and Art at Image, the other primary school where I teach the entire student population of 450 students. Each day is a combination of different grades together. Only Friday is grade 7 as is. Monday is grades 1 and 2, a full house with students needing to stand at the back, crowded and uncomfortable as hell.
My offering to teach this subject is complete voluntary attendance for the students. After school, they can chose to return home or remain in school and learn French (incorporation of English as review) and drawing. It's primarily a French class...but I throw in cookies of drawing and English. The turn out has been overwhelmingly popular and successful. Even teachers and the medical officer sits in to learn. The continent of Africa is francophone as well; therefore, it's somewhat practical if not an opportunity to be exposed to something new. Who knows, this may give idea to a kid who maybe later will go study or work in north or west Africa, where they speak French. Any exposure to something positive is wonderful, in my opinion.
Per Peace Corps' policy/philosophy, projects volunteers undertake need to be politically sustainable and so on...I have thought, after my completion of service, how are the students and school able to sustain the French class I've taught for 2 years? Frankly, it probably it ain't gonna continue. Why am I doing this? Since I have the knowledge and am contributing my personal time and effort, students should use and abuse me in that I'm offering a new subject and it gives them something to do aside from returning home and getting muddy from house chores; moreover, my true hope is that students will be inspired, challenged and motivated by the simple fact a foreigner is teaching them something completely out of the ordinary from their curriculum in which they may never have this opportunity again. In USA if you have money, you can learn anything: fencing, archery, taxidermy, flying a plane, Greek, whatever the hell you want. In Africa, sadly that's not the case. There is no money and there are no resources for many things. Students wear dirty torn school uniform which means they only have one set. The parents can only buy used clothes, pen and a flimsy wimpy notebook.
My students are enjoying my French class. How do I know? Well... I'm standing in front of 450 students a week and I see and feel everything. I think as a teacher, you must be very intuitive, sensitive and sharp of the entire class dynamic and situation. I don't miss a beat in all my classes. I teach with such intensity and focus that my supposed one hour French class gets dragged out for 2 hours 15 minutes. How? I love what I do and the students are hanging on the edge of their seats. It's exciting for them. Their pronunciation is impressively decent. When primary school kids want to continue in my class and not go home, absolutely, I take this as a sign that they are engaged, learning and mostly, finding the class of value. I see their eyes fixed in what I'm teaching.
Although I highly enjoy teaching students because I gain tremendous personal satisfaction, it is at the same time, equally highly frustrating. Without being judgmental, I'm struggling with the students' capacity and ability to think and analyze. And maybe learn. The saying, "not the sharpest tool in the shed"...I have intimate first hand knowledge of adjectives such as dull, dim witted, slow, dense, hard head, etc. I recall an 80 years old something twice Education Peace Corps Volunteer, John, who teaches mathematics telling me that in his classes, the students don't get it and just are not motivated and are not doing well except maybe a few who can do the work. I remembered what he shared was interesting as it gave me a glimpse of students' ability or inability to learn. In my 3 English classes, I'm seeing exactly what John was talking about. The majority are clueless as hell. John was a math teacher back home in the states and his first PC stint was also teaching in South Africa. Although by profession I am not a teacher, with absolute confidence, I can teach and I feel I'm pretty damn good at it too. A missed calling? So is it us or them that's the problem? It's still too premature to assess why but from what I have observed, these are what I think: Lack of teaching supplies and educational material for students in and out of school, living environment not conducive to learning, no role model or encouragement for life advancement, nothing inspiring, uneducated parents who are farmers/peasants, no promotion or aspiration of any kind, no resources, no critical thinking because life is repetitive and rural; hence, everyday is the same, and etc. They don't really need to use much brain work. They need to use lots of hand work. In my village, everyone is a farmer. They dig, plant, cultivate and harvest and repeat. When you live in an underdeveloped country, you're not exposed to the outside world. Life is rustic and primitive. I think intelligence can suffer. It's not their fault, again, it's the living condition that produces people to not be able to think critically. However, I believe, students living in towns or cities would be sharper and able to think. In impoverish rural villages, students' parents are uneducated; therefore, it's the environment that produces children to be like their parents. They are happy and good at rote repetition of words, over and over again like a robot. Once you ask them a question like what is 1 plus 1 ...you'll wait an eternity for a response for the answer 2. But ask them to repeat the number 1 over and over again until hell freezes over... No problem. Easy. They'll happily oblige.
Assuming other projects will not impact my current teaching, I will try my level best to continue working with them for the next 2 years. As a teacher, I am strict, no nonsense, very clear and I give 120% because I care. I care a lot. I have a lot of energy and my time in Africa will be devoted to giving all my energy to les enfants...watoto.
Saturday, February 2, 2013
Rants...
It's been a month plus since I have been a victim of a cyber crime in which a theft illegally withdrew all my money from my Tanzanian bank account. How was this done? I don't know for certain. Hidden cameras installed where ATM card and PIN code could be detected and then the act of cyber robbery by Bulgarian gangs? Probably. I discovered my unfortunate financial situation on December 27, 2012. The criminal was a step ahead of me in that he cleaned out my bank account before I had a chance to clean it out myself that same day. This was one time that I would have the most money because it was my monthly living allowance and moreover, my settling-in allowance, a chunk of sum to furnish our home and buy necessary things to set up house.
Boring details aside, I've filed a police report per protocol. The Investigation Crime Dept. officers, at the Njombe Police Station, dressed like they raided a Goodwill store back in the late 70's preparing for a disco dance off with a gangster or zoot suit theme. I appreciate their choice of formal professional wear. Their effort was commendable and taste utterly awesome. In Africa, most western clothes are rejects from the West. What your and my clothes didn't get sold at Salvation Army, Goodwill, Thrift stores and other random tidbits from second hand clothing shops will eventually all get shipped to the continent of Africa. I won't be surprise in this 2 years of Peace Corps service, I'll end up seeing my clothes I donated to the Salvation Army 3 years ago ending up on the grass in my village on a Sunday after church service. Highly ironic and comical if I buy my own clothes again. Talk about the circle of life and what goes around comes around. Karma, baby!
I don't plan to buy clothes or continue to have clothes made even if my special friend, a seamstress, is only charging me $2.00 bucks to make a blouse and skirt outfit. It's dirt cheap and the quality...well, I suppose like all craftsman, it depends on their skill and workmanship. I wear the same couple pants and several shirts over and over again. If I want to retire my summer camp counselor look, I'll wear my African outfit and maybe even wear earrings and some make-up just to remind the villagers I'm capable of looking presentable should one day they elect me as Village Chairwoman...haha!
Since there's no telephone landline and computers but a sea of children, which translates to free labor or child labor exploitation, these small unsuspecting humans are my conduit to receiving messages from the outside world of my house. Across my house is a primary school where 450 students for your use and abuse. Here's my calculation: you use one kid per day and in a year, you've only asked 365 kids and you're left with a good amount as left overs yet to be used. So it's not that bad. All they have to do is to come to my house to give me a note. I've yet to use them as a pigeon to be my message delivery system. These kids in red sweater and blue skirt or shorts invade the village with their mass. Each teacher has a piece of land growing crop near the school ground given by the village, aside from their other personal farm land which is what they live off of. Guess who are the worker bees to these teachers' piece of land with crops growing? Who digs? Who pulls out weed? Who fetches buckets of water when there is no rain to water the crop? Who plants and cultivate? Who harvests? Who's doing all the labor farm work? Yes, les enfants... watoto. They dig up unwanted weeds with a hoe that each bring from home and then they bent over with their little hands pulling them out one by one while preserving the new crop. Pain in the ass work. Fun has just begun. Aside from being teachers' little free farmers, they return to school and are divided in groups for the next slave gig: cleaning every classroom. They wash and clean the school ground and classroom with pathetically dirty old and holey rags. Of course, the aftermath of all the effort still looks the same as before. When the cleaning job is finished, then some goes to work at the Head Teacher's new house being built, where they do more manual labor work like clearing debris and more gardening work. We're not done here. All the teachers' water supply is fetched from who else? Yep, the students. Technically, they're suppose to fetch me water too, but lucky for them, I'm the rain hoarder so I don't need their help now. In the morning at 6 AM sharp when the "school bell" rings, it's actually an old piece of rusty metal car wheel part or something like that...with a stick, you hit it to make a klang klang sound, this signals that the cleaning crew must commence. Bright and early, students are again, cleaning and sweeping the school ground, toilets, or other manual labor. There's no such thing as a janitorial service or a maintenance crew. Students ARE the janitors and the maintenance crew for the school and farmers for the teachers' small farm on school property. Recently, I saw the wife of the Head Teacher, a teacher herself, beat the shit out of a little boy. She whacked, whacked, and whacked the kid's ass as he lay on the ground crying. Appalled and broken hearted, I asked another teacher whom I was walking with what the child did to receive corporal punishment? She replied that he didn't clean. Unbelievable, I thought. Kids in America are clueless of their good fortune as they don't know any better of the entitlement and luxuries they have. Ship your spoiled brats to Africa and I guarantee they'll return home postulating to you and kissing your Jimmy Choo clad freshly French pedicured feet...or Bally if you're a father reading this.
The luxury and comfort we have back home are excessive and the poverty here unspoken and horrific. The dichotomy is too extreme. To compare is like describing heaven and hell. The living condition is pitiful and so unbelievably undeveloped in our 21 st century. However, I must claim that people in this part of the world are happy and content. No such thing as a weekly therapist or a shrink, Prozac and other mental candies to pop, depression and other modern emotional and mental affliction, needs for self help books, new age guru seminar and workshops, sleeping pills and Viagra, retail therapy, Dr. Phil, Dr. Laura, Judge Judy, Oprah, Deepak, Chicken Soup for the Soul and the likes of countless thousands of self help gurus and other psycho babble doctors to assist you managing life because "life is so hard", 1-800-help, suicide hotline, group therapy for plastic surgery addiction, and other "help" because we have too much time on our hands to feel bad about ourselves. We're self-absorbed, vain, placement of priorities and values askew. Cut to the chase: narcissism to the max. People in a poor country are happier than people in a rich country. There needs moderation and a sensibility of what's truly important and what is fluff like lint. The Tanzanians, from my experience, are hospitable, kind, helpful and generous. It's not only to me, the only foreigner...so we better impressive her so she'll think our country men are good people. On the contrary, they help each other because that is their culture to live communally. I see this first hand with children. I work with children. I interact with children more than adults, so I see innately the mentally of the people as little adult. There is unity and a group mentality. I don't see competition or individualism which may be a detriment to one's success or advancement. There's no ego so there's no attachment. When you live communally and the daily task is working and or farming so food can grow which is to feed your family and everyone around you is going through the same thing, naturally there's no threat. If your neighbor is hungry, you feed him. I'm astounded by the level of communion between people who, though not materially rich, have full hearts. The culture here values interdependency and working for a collective good over independence and individual gain. Worship of individualism has in part led us to the unhealthy culture of narcissism that is so pervasive in modern western society. We can all learn to be more communal and interdependent instead of radical individualism as a general psyche.
I've attended two funerals thus far. The last gig was a big turn out as the deceased was the son of a "well known" villager. Well known means everyone knows him. He is not famous. He is "well known" because he has a forest, small shack store and he has a lorry that people pay him to take them into Njombe town so they can transport goods they've bought in town to sell it in the village. The price he charges depend on how much you're lugging back. Moreover, his name is funky: Pesa Mbili. It means "Two Money".
I've been somewhat paranoid after witnessing a rat, the size of a 8 week old puppy, bravely, enthusiastically with vim and vigor trying to climb his dirty rat ass up my window. I've also seen a mice come out just to hide back in the storage room and up my kitchen shelf to go up inside the ceiling board, a gecko on my bedroom wall where there was a battle between him and my broom which after a lot of effort on my part, gladly I can claim victory and a big gnarly black beetle clinging onto my kanga as I sat on the ground during the funeral because the preacher's spiel was never ending and I was thirsty and tired as hell. A slight movement or shadow and immediately...like the president's body guard, I'm vigilant and ready to kill. I am seriously so overwhelmingly fed up and disgusted with having to live with bugs, insects, rodents and things that give you goosebumps! This is almost enough reason for me to bail the country. It's inevitable, it's the surrounding and the deferred maintenance in these poorly constructed houses... or moreover, shacks.
Here, villagers live in squalor. If my mother dearest see my living condition and lifestyle, she will not be able to sleep...
I've lost track in what I'm eating. I live on lousy inferior low grade made in Italy spaghettini with a "sauce" made of simply onions, which small or medium red onions are what onions are here and Roma tomatoes. There is only this one variety I have seen. If I have additional veggies, I'll add them in the mix. My cooking is simple and boring but it works for me. I feel my body is missing nutrients: minerals and inadequate protein. My calves are on the verge of cramping. I think I'm not getting calcium. A week ago, after church, I saw a man eating a piece of bread, wheat bread to be exact. I hit the jackpot, I think to myself. I asked him where he got it and he replied that a woman is selling them who's walking down from the church. I wanted to ditch the old man to buy some pieces of bread but Mr. Chatty Bread was quite enjoying our little meet and greet convo. I tell him, I gotta go dude, I gotta get me some bread... so I jammed. I found bread lady and she was selling a piece for 200 TZs each. I asked for two pieces but one woman kindly bought me one so I only paid for one and without tasting the bread, I automatically proposed to set up a weekly bake and delivery arrangement asking her to bake me a big bread and come to my house to deliver it. When asked how many days it can keep, she said 4. Knowing how I love bread, I thought, "piece of cake"... I can finish the whole round loaf without any problem. On my third day, I cut a piece of the bread from inside a bag where contained this bread and smeared some goopy peanut butter on top. I took a big bite, chew and noticed it tasted kind of "interesting". I chew some more and instinctually I headed back to the kitchen to look at the bread in the dusk and to my horror and mostly disgust, I saw an inch of white fuzz growing on the bottom edge of the bread and sides! I quickly spit what little remained in my now grody mouth. I just ate mold. The bread lasted for 3 days, not 4. No more bread delivery for me. I also learned, especially in the dark, look at the food before putting it in my mouth. Lesson of the month.
Boring details aside, I've filed a police report per protocol. The Investigation Crime Dept. officers, at the Njombe Police Station, dressed like they raided a Goodwill store back in the late 70's preparing for a disco dance off with a gangster or zoot suit theme. I appreciate their choice of formal professional wear. Their effort was commendable and taste utterly awesome. In Africa, most western clothes are rejects from the West. What your and my clothes didn't get sold at Salvation Army, Goodwill, Thrift stores and other random tidbits from second hand clothing shops will eventually all get shipped to the continent of Africa. I won't be surprise in this 2 years of Peace Corps service, I'll end up seeing my clothes I donated to the Salvation Army 3 years ago ending up on the grass in my village on a Sunday after church service. Highly ironic and comical if I buy my own clothes again. Talk about the circle of life and what goes around comes around. Karma, baby!
I don't plan to buy clothes or continue to have clothes made even if my special friend, a seamstress, is only charging me $2.00 bucks to make a blouse and skirt outfit. It's dirt cheap and the quality...well, I suppose like all craftsman, it depends on their skill and workmanship. I wear the same couple pants and several shirts over and over again. If I want to retire my summer camp counselor look, I'll wear my African outfit and maybe even wear earrings and some make-up just to remind the villagers I'm capable of looking presentable should one day they elect me as Village Chairwoman...haha!
Since there's no telephone landline and computers but a sea of children, which translates to free labor or child labor exploitation, these small unsuspecting humans are my conduit to receiving messages from the outside world of my house. Across my house is a primary school where 450 students for your use and abuse. Here's my calculation: you use one kid per day and in a year, you've only asked 365 kids and you're left with a good amount as left overs yet to be used. So it's not that bad. All they have to do is to come to my house to give me a note. I've yet to use them as a pigeon to be my message delivery system. These kids in red sweater and blue skirt or shorts invade the village with their mass. Each teacher has a piece of land growing crop near the school ground given by the village, aside from their other personal farm land which is what they live off of. Guess who are the worker bees to these teachers' piece of land with crops growing? Who digs? Who pulls out weed? Who fetches buckets of water when there is no rain to water the crop? Who plants and cultivate? Who harvests? Who's doing all the labor farm work? Yes, les enfants... watoto. They dig up unwanted weeds with a hoe that each bring from home and then they bent over with their little hands pulling them out one by one while preserving the new crop. Pain in the ass work. Fun has just begun. Aside from being teachers' little free farmers, they return to school and are divided in groups for the next slave gig: cleaning every classroom. They wash and clean the school ground and classroom with pathetically dirty old and holey rags. Of course, the aftermath of all the effort still looks the same as before. When the cleaning job is finished, then some goes to work at the Head Teacher's new house being built, where they do more manual labor work like clearing debris and more gardening work. We're not done here. All the teachers' water supply is fetched from who else? Yep, the students. Technically, they're suppose to fetch me water too, but lucky for them, I'm the rain hoarder so I don't need their help now. In the morning at 6 AM sharp when the "school bell" rings, it's actually an old piece of rusty metal car wheel part or something like that...with a stick, you hit it to make a klang klang sound, this signals that the cleaning crew must commence. Bright and early, students are again, cleaning and sweeping the school ground, toilets, or other manual labor. There's no such thing as a janitorial service or a maintenance crew. Students ARE the janitors and the maintenance crew for the school and farmers for the teachers' small farm on school property. Recently, I saw the wife of the Head Teacher, a teacher herself, beat the shit out of a little boy. She whacked, whacked, and whacked the kid's ass as he lay on the ground crying. Appalled and broken hearted, I asked another teacher whom I was walking with what the child did to receive corporal punishment? She replied that he didn't clean. Unbelievable, I thought. Kids in America are clueless of their good fortune as they don't know any better of the entitlement and luxuries they have. Ship your spoiled brats to Africa and I guarantee they'll return home postulating to you and kissing your Jimmy Choo clad freshly French pedicured feet...or Bally if you're a father reading this.
The luxury and comfort we have back home are excessive and the poverty here unspoken and horrific. The dichotomy is too extreme. To compare is like describing heaven and hell. The living condition is pitiful and so unbelievably undeveloped in our 21 st century. However, I must claim that people in this part of the world are happy and content. No such thing as a weekly therapist or a shrink, Prozac and other mental candies to pop, depression and other modern emotional and mental affliction, needs for self help books, new age guru seminar and workshops, sleeping pills and Viagra, retail therapy, Dr. Phil, Dr. Laura, Judge Judy, Oprah, Deepak, Chicken Soup for the Soul and the likes of countless thousands of self help gurus and other psycho babble doctors to assist you managing life because "life is so hard", 1-800-help, suicide hotline, group therapy for plastic surgery addiction, and other "help" because we have too much time on our hands to feel bad about ourselves. We're self-absorbed, vain, placement of priorities and values askew. Cut to the chase: narcissism to the max. People in a poor country are happier than people in a rich country. There needs moderation and a sensibility of what's truly important and what is fluff like lint. The Tanzanians, from my experience, are hospitable, kind, helpful and generous. It's not only to me, the only foreigner...so we better impressive her so she'll think our country men are good people. On the contrary, they help each other because that is their culture to live communally. I see this first hand with children. I work with children. I interact with children more than adults, so I see innately the mentally of the people as little adult. There is unity and a group mentality. I don't see competition or individualism which may be a detriment to one's success or advancement. There's no ego so there's no attachment. When you live communally and the daily task is working and or farming so food can grow which is to feed your family and everyone around you is going through the same thing, naturally there's no threat. If your neighbor is hungry, you feed him. I'm astounded by the level of communion between people who, though not materially rich, have full hearts. The culture here values interdependency and working for a collective good over independence and individual gain. Worship of individualism has in part led us to the unhealthy culture of narcissism that is so pervasive in modern western society. We can all learn to be more communal and interdependent instead of radical individualism as a general psyche.
I've attended two funerals thus far. The last gig was a big turn out as the deceased was the son of a "well known" villager. Well known means everyone knows him. He is not famous. He is "well known" because he has a forest, small shack store and he has a lorry that people pay him to take them into Njombe town so they can transport goods they've bought in town to sell it in the village. The price he charges depend on how much you're lugging back. Moreover, his name is funky: Pesa Mbili. It means "Two Money".
I've been somewhat paranoid after witnessing a rat, the size of a 8 week old puppy, bravely, enthusiastically with vim and vigor trying to climb his dirty rat ass up my window. I've also seen a mice come out just to hide back in the storage room and up my kitchen shelf to go up inside the ceiling board, a gecko on my bedroom wall where there was a battle between him and my broom which after a lot of effort on my part, gladly I can claim victory and a big gnarly black beetle clinging onto my kanga as I sat on the ground during the funeral because the preacher's spiel was never ending and I was thirsty and tired as hell. A slight movement or shadow and immediately...like the president's body guard, I'm vigilant and ready to kill. I am seriously so overwhelmingly fed up and disgusted with having to live with bugs, insects, rodents and things that give you goosebumps! This is almost enough reason for me to bail the country. It's inevitable, it's the surrounding and the deferred maintenance in these poorly constructed houses... or moreover, shacks.
Here, villagers live in squalor. If my mother dearest see my living condition and lifestyle, she will not be able to sleep...
I've lost track in what I'm eating. I live on lousy inferior low grade made in Italy spaghettini with a "sauce" made of simply onions, which small or medium red onions are what onions are here and Roma tomatoes. There is only this one variety I have seen. If I have additional veggies, I'll add them in the mix. My cooking is simple and boring but it works for me. I feel my body is missing nutrients: minerals and inadequate protein. My calves are on the verge of cramping. I think I'm not getting calcium. A week ago, after church, I saw a man eating a piece of bread, wheat bread to be exact. I hit the jackpot, I think to myself. I asked him where he got it and he replied that a woman is selling them who's walking down from the church. I wanted to ditch the old man to buy some pieces of bread but Mr. Chatty Bread was quite enjoying our little meet and greet convo. I tell him, I gotta go dude, I gotta get me some bread... so I jammed. I found bread lady and she was selling a piece for 200 TZs each. I asked for two pieces but one woman kindly bought me one so I only paid for one and without tasting the bread, I automatically proposed to set up a weekly bake and delivery arrangement asking her to bake me a big bread and come to my house to deliver it. When asked how many days it can keep, she said 4. Knowing how I love bread, I thought, "piece of cake"... I can finish the whole round loaf without any problem. On my third day, I cut a piece of the bread from inside a bag where contained this bread and smeared some goopy peanut butter on top. I took a big bite, chew and noticed it tasted kind of "interesting". I chew some more and instinctually I headed back to the kitchen to look at the bread in the dusk and to my horror and mostly disgust, I saw an inch of white fuzz growing on the bottom edge of the bread and sides! I quickly spit what little remained in my now grody mouth. I just ate mold. The bread lasted for 3 days, not 4. No more bread delivery for me. I also learned, especially in the dark, look at the food before putting it in my mouth. Lesson of the month.
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