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.