tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36462196056030923712024-03-20T21:29:08.227-07:00Wendy's Peace Corps WorldA chronicle of my Peace Corps experience from day one of application to volunteering as a Health Extension Worker in Tanzania, Africa.Wendy S. Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.comBlogger65125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3646219605603092371.post-68861851623461296352013-08-03T06:58:00.004-07:002013-08-03T06:58:53.949-07:00The Soccer Ball Soap Opera<br />
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Never would I predicted or would have seen it coming that my
goodwill of offering 16 sport balls to my village as a friendship gift turned
out to be a fiasco where greed and shortsightedness in all its glory ensued. This
is a true recount of what happened to me in my village.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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***Names of people have been changed to protect their
identity***<o:p></o:p></div>
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I- Peace Corps Volunteer, the benefactor<o:p></o:p></div>
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Abe- the scapegoat, innocent and trustworthy friend, teacher
and would-be-counterpart who unfortunately got the bad rap and the victim of
threats and accusation<o:p></o:p></div>
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Maria- Abe’s colleague, a friend and who was mentioned in
the accusation along with Abe<o:p></o:p></div>
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Machiavelli- the antagonist, the soccer coach whose greed
and shortsightedness started the soccer ball fiasco <o:p></o:p></div>
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Minions- Machiavelli’s 4 teams of young soccer players in
their 20’s, <i>vijana</i> (Swahili for <i>youth</i>)<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Muppet Show- village government leaders<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Motley Crue- The Muppet Show, Machiavelli, and Minions<o:p></o:p></div>
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Hermes- an important good friend who is temporarily living
and working in the village, a soccer player and my messenger<o:p></o:p></div>
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Joe- a friend, counterpart, also a soccer player/referee who
replaced Abe as my counterpart as a result of pressure from The Motley Crue<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mack- a teacher<o:p></o:p></div>
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Doll Face- the sweetest and considerate friend, sister of
Machiavelli<o:p></o:p></div>
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House girl- my house girl<o:p></o:p></div>
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Matt and Ben- my two young good looking educated friends who
come visits me from a nearby village,
soccer players from a different village<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p><b><i>This story can easily be told as a feature movie, but to keep readers’
attention (‘cause we all have ADD these days) I’ll do my utmost best to make it
a 30 minutes sitcom, okay maybe realistically an hour TV drama, how’s that?</i></b></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>Having spent the first 3 months researching my community, I
discovered there exists no other recreation or entertainment other than drinking
alcohol (commercial or homemade) and watching a soccer match at a school field. As a gesture
of support and generosity, I gave 16 soccer balls to my community as a
friendship and goodwill gift to those who love playing and watching soccer. The
cost was almost two month’s of my living allowance, which I gladly forked out
if it meant happiness to people in which they could all partake. The beneficiaries
are the soccer players, primary school students, and I suppose anyone who would
like to play soccer. What’s the problem? The story goes like this:</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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I was told by Machiavelli and Hermes, that there are 6 soccer
teams made up from one of the 6 streets or sub villages. I decided to give 2
balls to each of the 6 teams and 2 schools making a total of 16 balls total.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After I have purchased the soccer balls, Machiavelli wasn’t
exactly truthful and may have tried to nab more balls than necessary from me. Disappointedly,
Hermes didn’t accurately inform me either of the exact number of teams. It was
only at the soccer ball distribution to the soccer team captains at a village
meeting that right there and then, I found out there are only 4 teams and not 6
as originally told to me. The coach wanted the extra 4 balls to be given as
prizes to the winning teams at the end of their match on March 6. When I knew
of this plan, I was not pleased but agreed given I was already giving balls out
in front of everyone and I just went with the flow, trusting those around me. <i>I’m basically kind of stuck now…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Shortly, someone apprised me that Machiavelli wanted to give
out the 4 last balls as prizes for winning teams because his team, named
“Poison” was the best and naturally, that meant his team would receive more
balls. Upon learning this, I told Machiavelli via Hermes that I would prefer if
the balls were again evenly distributed and not given to winning teams. He
agreed so it was decided that on March 6, I would be handing out the remaining
4 balls on the last important match.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After I gave out the 8 balls to the 4 soccer teams, I also
gave out the 4 balls to the village’s 2 primary schools. There was a formal
lining up of students where the head teachers made a speech in front of them
and then….drum roll….I give the 2 soccer balls to one boy and one girl….then
claps and cheers…photo op and then more blah blah, blah in Swahili…and <i>Wendy is all that plus a bag of chip</i>. My
speech in Swahili consisted of a sentence or two basically expressing, “<i>I’m happy to give you guys balls, have fun
kiddies!” </i>However, my presentation at a big soccer match where the Motley
Crue were in attendance was more elaborate. The purpose of my presence was so
that all soccer teams could acknowledge my gifts to them. I expressed that
being engaged in a fun and wholesome recreation is not only healthy and keeping
busy but stave off unhealthy activities such as drinking, substance abuse and
unprotected sex (HIV rate is one of the highest in my region).<o:p></o:p></div>
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Afterwards, someone asked me what about the ladies? I’ve
given balls to men and children, but how about the women? I realized that was a
great point. I decided immediately that the right thing to do is to exchange
the last remaining 4 soccer balls to different sport balls where ladies can partake.
I went to Abe, my trusted friend and chosen counterpart, to ask his opinion
about exchanging balls and the new idea. He agreed that was a great idea and I
asked him about exchange and refund policy in Tanzania. We both go next door to
Maria’s house and discussed further since she is the person in charge of the netball,
a sports ladies played, which is now a pathetic ratty torn up ball. It’s agreed
that Abe and I will go into town to exchange the 4 soccer balls to 2 netballs,
1 volleyball and I’ll supplement more money to buy a volleyball net. <b><i>I
believed this was an excellent idea and use of the last 4 remaining balls in my
possession</i></b> <b><i>as this not only supports gender equality, but a variety of different
sports now available to the entire community where even men can enjoy.</i></b><o:p></o:p></div>
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One morning, Abe and I traveled into town to exchange the soccer
balls. The new items would be available for pick up at a future date, so we
left the 4 soccer balls at the store and Abe would return by himself later since
I would be out of town for further Peace Corps training. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I tell my good friend, Hermes, about my change of plan and he
concurred with my reasoning. I asked him to inform Machiavelli since he knows
where he lives and can communicate fluently in Swahili. I knew he wouldn’t be
thrilled but believed wholeheartedly that he would understand and agree that
this was fair, reasonable, and a benefit to all since soccer players now have
extra sports to play if they wished. This was gender equality, different
recreational activity available, and total fairness<i>. </i>I was hoping that they would be grateful and satisfied for the
already 8 balls they’ve received. I asked Hermes to promise me to give a speech
to the minions on my behalf since the day of the last soccer match where I was
to speak and give out the balls was the same day I was to leave my village for
Peace Corps In Service Training in the town of Bagamoyo, a long journey from my
district. <b><i>Unbeknownst to me, it’s only later that this change of idea with the
soccer balls created an uproar and total drama rama within my village, hence
the soccer ball soap opera.</i><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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During In Service Training, Abe, my counterpart whom I have
invited to training, canceled at the last minute claiming there was an
emergency and that he was not able to attend so Joe was sent to replace him. When
Joe arrived in Bagamoyo, I asked what happened to Abe? He claimed ignorant. <i>Hmmm….in a rural village where everybody knows
everybody’s business, especially if he is a replacement…he doesn’t know?
Poppycock!</i> I figured I’d get the lowdown upon my return. <i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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After trainings, I return to my village. Abe tells me <b><i>“something
terrible, very terrible had happened! I’ll tell you later.”</i></b> I am
wondering who died or was someone hurt? Finally, this was Abe’s story:<o:p></o:p></div>
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One day at the soccer field, <b><u>minions were shouting, accusing and threatening Abe who was inside
his house located next to the field, that they won’t let him out of his home
and will throw rocks at his house if he doesn’t give the soccer teams their last
4 soccer balls. </u></b>They accused him and Maria for changing my mind. They
believed it was Abe who persuaded me in the new idea in where they now lost 4
soccer balls. The soccer players were extremely angry with him. Out of fear, he
remained inside his house with his wife and two young sons. The leader of The
Muppet Show, trying to placate the possibly violent minions, appeased the riot by
telling them they would receive their 4 soccer balls. <b><u>The Muppet Show, Machiavelli and the minions all claimed that Abe
had no right to do go training in Bagamoyo with me.</u></b> <b><u>They forbade him to go.</u></b> Their
reasoning was that as a teacher, he is not a suitable fit. He can not leave and
must stay in the village to teach. They chose Joe instead, who had been the
counterpart for past Peace Corps Volunteers. (The reason I did not chose Joe is
because after previous PCVs returned home to USA, Joe did nothing in terms of
continuing to teach or train others in the village) One ridiculous Muppet called
Abe telling him that if I’m not agreeable, I can not work or teach in the
village anymore. I almost choked on the <i>ugali
</i>I was eating for lunch with Abe upon hearing him uttering these incredulous
words. (<i>Are you serious Mr. vice chairman
of a primary school? You are kidding me, right? Aside from health topics, I am
volunteering to teach extra subjects that are not part of my duty as a Peace
Corps Volunteer and assisting in community development and you’re threatening
me that I can’t work?) </i>Abe told this Muppet that The Motley Crue are fools
for being short sighted and having “no vision.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><u>When Machiavelli
found out from Hermes my change of plan, this angered him and he manipulated
his minions in believing it was Abe’s idea.</u></b> When Hermes saw how
Machiavelli reacted, he shrunk into his snail shell and decided not to give my
speech at the end of the soccer match on March 6. Basically, he was scared and
reneged on his promise to inform my change of plan and the good reasons behind
it. I don’t blame him at the end of the day because this was ultimately was my
responsibility and not his.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Feeling pressured and forced from The Motley Crue, Abe
reluctantly returned to town and picked up the original 4 soccer balls and gave
it all to Machiavelli and his minions. Not all the apples are rotten; some <i>vijana</i> did apologize to Abe about the
position he was in and disclosed that it was Machiavelli pressuring them to
make a big stink. The majority of minions were greedy and wanted to punish Abe.
Honest Abe felt that it’s possible that many people may feel envious of him
being asked to go to training with me since there may be goodies to be had and
why he has contact with the <i>foreigner</i>.
He already has a salary as a teacher so he doesn’t need the extra fringe
benefit. Joe has no work and is a youth like them so he may receive more
sympathy since they may be from the same position<i>.</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
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After returning from training, I would indirectly ask people
I am close to what was new during my absence and what happened to Abe that Joe
was his replacement. I already had the lowdown of the incident but I wanted to
see who had the balls (<i>Ha ha…get it, get
it? Pun totally intended!</i>) to tell me the truth. To my dismay, everyone
kept quiet. I asked Doll Face and House girl and they gave me the <i>duh…I don’t know anything look. </i>I think
to myself that they are D actresses (D for dumb) and I’m playing with amateurs
here. I was most disappointed in Hermes. Joe was uncool too. They both kept
quiet. <b><u>The Muppet Show told everyone to
be silent and keep the incident and the whereabouts of the soccer balls from
me. Ssshh….it’s a secret! We can’t let her know.</u> </b><i>I wonder about the IQ of the villagers. Would I not ask about the new
balls and volleyball net? Am I not to wonder why Abe didn’t come? Am I to
believe that Joe really had no idea why he was the replacement? I know I’m a middle-aged
woman with a lot of white hair, but for the love of God and ugali, I don’t have
dementia or Alzheimer yet!!! <b><u>Am I Jim
Carrey from the movie “The Truman Show”? Everyone around me is an actor and I’m
the main character clueless at being played at.</u></b><u><o:p></o:p></u></i></div>
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OKAY, HERE IS WHERE THE STORY STARTS TO GET INTERESTING. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I approach the Muppet leader requesting a village meeting
with the village committee and asked Machiavelli to attend. Muppet leader tells
me that I should prepare a speech. I said, okay. It’s set, Saturday at 9AM. I
tell Joe about the village meeting I have just set up and I need him to come
translate, as we will be sharing with the village what we plan to do now after
training. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I texted Matt asking if he can come visit me on Saturday
instead of Sunday as I may need his help in translation for a speech I may
prepare. I never received a reply<i>. </i>In
passing, I told Hermes I will be speaking at a village meeting. I sense nervousness
as he asked me what I would be talking about. Casually, I answered that I’ll be
sharing about community projects I’ll be assisting and that my training with
Joe was successful. <o:p></o:p></div>
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On Saturday, I received an email from Ben saying he will
come see me. (He and I play cat and mouse as he is always trying to come visit
me) I thought if he comes and Matt comes too, not a bad idea as I can shoot two
birds with one stone. This will be Ben’s first visit. I met both of these young
dudes in their 20’s at my village’s soccer match. Maybe they know each other. At
9 AM, the village committee hasn’t arrived and I’m still waiting. To my
surprise and total delight, I see Matt and Ben arriving together at my house on
their bicycles! My thoughts: 1) Okay, great! You two know each other…fantastic!
2) You guys dressed real cute today 3) Aw…how sweet...you guys trekked an hour
on your bikes to come see me 4) You will be my translator if things don’t work
out as I planned. I welcomed Matt and Ben into my home and told them the scoop
of the soccer ball fiasco. I invited them to attend the meeting if they’re ever
so interested. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Two and a half hours later, at 11:30AM, (Typical of village
life and meeting, everything is always late) finally Joe comes to my house and
tells me that everyone has finally arrived and the meeting will now take place…
it’s on. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>IT’S SHOWTIME, Folks…!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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I walked out of my house and surprised to see many people
sitting outside. The meeting was not inside the village office as usual but in
front of it where people sat on the ground and a table and some benches were
set for village officials and myself. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I sat next to the Muppet leader. The village meeting
commenced. Muppet leader spoke and finally introduced me to speak. I began my surprise
attack:<o:p></o:p></div>
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I made 3 key points:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Trainings with Joe in Bagamoyo and Dodoma were
successful. We are excited and looking forward to teach health topics to
students and community members.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->The following are community projects we feel are
priority for the village. Blah, blah, blah…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->In order to successfully and effectively
mutually work together, there must be elements of respect, trust and
cooperation. Unfortunately, some village members have not shown me these;
therefore, I can not work in community development but will continue to teach
health as that is my primary role as a Peace Corps Volunteer. <o:p></o:p></div>
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BAM…THIS IS A SCENE FROM A MOVIE WHERE I SURPRISE EVERYONE
WITH MY UNEXPECTED CONFRONTATION OF WHAT I KNOW AND ITS RAMIFICATION. EVERYONE
THINKS I’M CLUELESS AND THEY’RE SURPRISED TO HEAR WHAT I HAD TO SAY. TO MY
LUCK, EVERYONE I WANTED TO ATTEND WERE ALL PRESENT: VILLAGE FOUNDER, HERMES,
JOE, MARIA, THE MUPPET SHOW, MACHIAVELLI, PESA MBILI, HEAD MASTER, AN AUDIENCE
OF THE VILLAGERS, ETC.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Joe was so shocked that he began to stutter in translation
as I caught him completely off guard…along with everyone else at the meeting. I
say to him firmly several times “Just translate what I’m saying!” He was
obedient and translated. At the end of the day, he always supported my idea and<b><u> I never gave away that it was him who
gave me the idea of changing the balls</u></b>. I protected him. The minions
would plunder him if they knew it was one of their own. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I tell the entire village that I need to clear Abe’s good
name. It was unfair and totally not true that Abe and Maria persuaded me in
exchanging the balls. I only approached them for counsel. (By punishing Abe to
not go to training is a disservice to the village since he is a teacher who has
the perfect platform to reach his audience of students. In addition, he can
train fellow teachers.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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I am extremely disappointed that the village government (The
Muppet Show) and the soccer coach (Machiavelli) had so poorly handled the
situation and what a terrible example to the soccer players, the youth
(minions). They failed to see what the outcome is for all involved.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My reasoning for changing the balls is to give women an
opportunity to play a recreational sport and also give the community other
activity aside from just soccer. This is gender equality and perhaps you may be
sabotaging your sister, mama, girlfriend, wife, and friend…of having something
fun and healthy to do. In life, you have to be flexible and be accepting of
change if it is for the better. This is a positive change. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The soccer players already have a total of 8 soccer balls,
let’s not be greedy and want 4 more. Give others something else to play with. Sharing
is a good thing. Be grateful for whatever you have already.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The million dollars question was why didn’t someone propose
to wait for my return to settle the balls? Sadly, there is no role model to
show the proper way to handle this very simple situation. The behind the back
activity, keeping silence, threats, accusations, and manipulations were all
terrible examples to the youths. This was ineffective and impotent government
leadership at its finest.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As I presented my case, everyone attentively listened. I
imagine that The Muppet Show and Machiavelli sitting next and in front of me
must be utterly dumbfounded, as they were not expecting this. I feel that they
totally deserved this in-your-face style of confrontation since they went
behind my back and never extended the courtesy of waiting for my return to
discuss how to handle the soccer balls. Instead, they bullied and tried to keep
the entire incident a secret from me. This is further demonstration of how feeble
leadership exists in our village. The Muppet Show and Machiavelli deserved this
public showdown. They never said a word during the meeting. After I was done
with my “speech”, the village continued with their meeting. I left them to go
attend to Matt and Ben whom I discovered were eavesdropping outside my house so
that nobody can see them. They thought what I said was excellent, Joe
translated well, and a woman sitting at the meeting didn’t know there were
suppose to be balls for ladies and wanted them. . <o:p></o:p></div>
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After Matt and Ben left my house, I went to Doll Face’s
shack store where one ridiculous Muppet was sitting inside. Just to proof that
I am not resentful or angry with anyone, I entered the store and bought peanuts
where I shared with all. This Muppet was not at the meeting but obviously he
knew what happened and we tried to talk as my Swahili sucks and his English
non-existent. He tells me that Abe is not a good person to go to training with
me because as a teacher, the government may transfer him elsewhere in the
future. Yet again, this Muppet strikes again with his completely ludicrous
reasoning. Anybody besides teachers can always move or die. He is punishing Abe
and was from the beginning extremely keen on the idea of me giving soccer balls
to the village. The Muppet leader enters the store with a bottle of beer in his
hand. I smiled and greeted him. He asked if I drink beer. I said yes but only
if he plans to drink the beer now that I would join him for camaraderie but I
will decline if he bought me a beer and we didn’t drink together. He said that
he was tired and will go home to drink the beer so I said okay, we’ll drink a
beer tomorrow, Sunday and he agreed. <i>That
never happened.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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Monday morning, I received a phone call from Peace Corps
asking me when I had a village meeting and what I talked about. <i>Seriously?!? The Muppet leader called Peace
Corps! </i>I explained everything to my boss. After I finished the phone call,
Joe comes to meet me as were to teach primary school students about malaria. I
told Joe what happened and he couldn’t believe the stupidity of this Muppet.
The Muppet leader essentially may have shot himself in the foot. Mack joined in
our conversation and decided we should go to the head teacher of the other
primary school and they all should ask the Muppet leader what he told Peace
Corps. We are now sitting in the office of the head teacher with Abe, Joe, Mack
and me. I explained the possible consequence of contacting Peace Corps.
Depending on what Muppet leader says, I may be removed from this village if
Peace Corps felt this situation may become a safety and security issue. <i>Nobody can believe that The Muppet Show is
making a big deal out of nothing.</i> <i>He
wanted my boss to come to our village and talk to me.</i> I returned home while
they sort out a meeting amongst themselves. Later on my Peace Corps boss
finally speaks to Joe to get the lowdown from him. After that, I spoke to my
boss to confirm that we shall settle it amongst ourselves and that this is nothing
serious to warrant any concern or his having travel 12 hours by car to come
talk to us. True to the situation, Peace Corps also questions the ability to
work with a village if their Muppet leader is calling Peace Corps over soccer
balls! My boss was very surprised and found it incredulous that he had been
contacted about some petty soccer balls. Muppet leader asked my boss to come to
my village to calm me down. <i>Huh? Calm me
down?…I proposed we drink beer on Sunday, I’m good, dude!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Since then, there have been two village meetings where The
Muppet Show discussed the soccer ball soap opera. I was never invited; hence, I
was never aware of what truly was going on. I suspect it’s just conversation
with no real action of resolution or attempting to make a satisfactory closure.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Abe texted me asking to meet him to discuss the soccer ball
soap opera. He asked me for a favor. I didn’t dig the tone of what’s to come,
so I said, “it depends.” He tells me that I should verbally tell the The Muppet
Show that I agree in getting a microscope (Muppet Show felt microscope took
precedent over a school library) for the village as a priority instead of
building a library, which is something Abe and I feel extremely strong about
being it is obviously the first priority. He tells me my agreement is to
placate them but I don’t have to do anything. I tell him this plan makes no
sense. I am here to work and assist in development. I can’t come and pretend to
work but really not working. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Long story short, without me, there had been more meetings
and a reasonable conclusion was elusive. Abe tried to keep a low profile and outwardly,
Motley Crue and I are all smiley faces. Peace Corps contacted me again and I
told them I would work it out with the Muppet Show and that all will be fine. The
Muppet leader had communicated with both Peace Corps and our district
supervisor requesting they come out to site to talk to me, again! <i>(This may possibly be the Muppet’s attempt to
make me look bad. He must be a complete fool because what do I have to lose?
His village has more to gain from my presence than me staying there)</i> Peace
Corps and our district supervisor of our region told the Muppet leader
essentially he needed to get his act together or otherwise they’ll be removing
their Peace Corps Volunteer via a helicopter out of the village which means the
village just lost their “precious” (their word) volunteer, yours truly…moi! To
lose a Peace Corps Volunteer in a village would mean potential loss for many
things. This would be unfortunate for the community and fault would be directed
towards the stupidity and shortsightedness of The Muppet Show. Peace Corps and
our district supervisor basically scolded and slapped Muppet leader’s hand for
being a child. Nobody was going to travel all the way to my village to solve a rudimentary
problem. Soccer balls????<o:p></o:p></div>
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Couple months later, Muppet leaders, dollface (clueless as
to why she was asked to attend) Mack, Joe and I finally had a meeting in the
Muppets’ office. Hopefully, the objective was to successfully resolve all
issues and decide how to proceed in future collaborations. On my end, I
clarified that Abe is not to be accused for anything and then I first
acknowledged I should have told Machiavelli the new idea myself instead of
asking Hermes to inform them on my behalf. My second admission was respect should
have given to the Muppet leaders by coming forth with my newfound revelation
and expressed my disapproval instead of publicly calling them out. (I believe
my action was justified from their lack of regard for me, Abe, and the concept
of equitableness) As the meeting continued, I was terribly disappointed that
the Muppet leaders never once apologized, acknowledged, or intended to be
accountable for anything. Protecting their ego and faces took precedent than
having an honest exchange of what went wrong and how to make it right. They
offered no resolution or admission of any kind. I was so sad not for myself
that I was dealing with cowards, but how awfully unfortunate for the community
as a whole to have such a namby-pamby for a leader. <b><i>This was straight up case of “hit
and run”. </i></b>In disillusion, I realized this is their tactic: Do not admit
guilt or wrong doing, avoid recounting the past and lessons learned, offer no
solution or future cooperation, and shift the attention completely elsewhere. Basically,
they owned up to nothing; they pleaded the Fifth Amendment. In conclusion, I
expressed that I no longer am attached to the outcome of the balls and I have
no issue with anyone in the village and will happily continue to teach. I
mentioned nothing regarding my assisting in community development, as I need
the collaboration from the Muppets. How can I possibly work with people on community
projects when something this inconsequential and petty is holding us back? The
Muppets’ suggested I apologize to them in front of the minions at a future
village meeting. I offered a far more superior idea: Have the minions apologize
to me first and THEN I’ll apologize to the Muppet Show! Needless to say, this
never happened.<o:p></o:p></div>
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To this day, there is no conclusive ending or a satisfactory
closure. I continue to teach and finally initiated community projects as I feel
the community shouldn’t be punished for The Muppet’s lack of good judgment and
wisdom in governing. The Motley Crue and I continue our demeanor as if the
soccer ball fiasco never happened. Lastly, I’ve ascertained people’s innate
character and on the spectrum where their integrity and intelligence lie. In
retrospect, did I act rashly and did the confrontation serve a purpose? One may
surmise that it’s probably best to be unassertive and not stir conflict: Let
the innocent be blamed, not to disclose knowledge, allow dishonesty and bad
behavior and worst of all is not to hold people accountable for their
responsibility or irresponsibility. I completely disagree. I have no intention
of changing the ways of people. However, aside from establishing a boundary of
acceptable and unacceptable behavior with me, Joe had been completely impressed
and in total admiration for my <b>courage
to speak up, uphold the truth, and insist on what is right and wrong. He told
me he was in awe of my strength. </b><i>Wow,
and from a woman too!</i> Perhaps, the whole village didn’t get it, but at the
end of the day, if it clearly impacted one single person in an inspiring light…I
think I have been successful, very successful. Not to be sanctimonious, but I
won’t be surprise if many in their heart of hearts agree and respect with what and
who I was defending and protecting. It’s always safer to be in the majority and
keep quiet. Nonetheless in life, we do need that one fearless person who is
willing to take a stand and create a voice for all. I’ll gladly volunteer. I am
a volunteer after all, am I not?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Wendy S. Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3646219605603092371.post-11619705499903656172013-08-03T06:57:00.003-07:002013-08-03T06:57:24.833-07:00Peace between mother and daughter in Peace Corps<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve never been afraid of death; esoterically, I believe
death is a prolonged journey and it’s peaceful continuum of the soul
progressing and hopefully evolving to an advance space and time. As a Buddhist,
death is not to be feared. If my life would end this moment…I would be
eternally grateful for the blessed life I’ve lead thanks to my <i>karma</i>. I’ve never truly struggled for
anything in life and had things or situations given or presented to me without
much obstacle. Of course, I had to “work” at getting what I desired but I consistently
prevail without much trouble. I do things that are potentially challenging but
within my capabilities and interest.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The most complex and difficult episode in my life is being a
divorced single mother raising a very young daughter without a partner for
support and counsel in our fast paced world. To be able to share the trials of
raising a child with a partner lessens the physical, mental and especially, emotional
challenges. For nearly a decade and a half, I’ve carried the guilt of not being
a “better mother” for my daughter. <i>I
could have done better.</i> Indirectly and directly, I was lead to believe
this. How do you define a <i>better mother</i>?
Like which is a better cuisine? French or Japanese? Who is the better designer?
Valentino or Vivienne Westwood? Who is the better singer? Streisand or Blondie?
Ginger or Mary Ann? Each has its own value and style. To me, a parent is a
figure who offers protection, security, and unconditional love to the child
while teaching important life skills and empowering them. I’ve never been considered
“conventional” only because next to my own family, there is a stark contrast. Conceivably,
I may have taught my daughter an inadvertent lesson that is valuable and priceless…but
only when she’s more mature would she be able to see and understand what I’ve
been trying to show her all these years. Likewise, she also learns from my shortcoming
and deficiencies. <i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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I believe the most helpful way I can be both parent is to demonstrate
by action and to reveal in thoughts and words my pragmatic yet motivating views
on life and the value and <i>sine qua non</i>
of <i>joie de vivre</i> as her inexperienced
young life have not blossomed yet to fully tasted life’s ambrosia to its
fullest aroma. I’ve always encouraged not to fear “living”. I want my daughter
to design her life and bust out of her self imposed bubble to actualize her own
happiness and not live someone else’s dream or expectation. As a mother, to
liberate and empower my daughter is my modus operandi to the max. I have no
right to judge, condemn, and shove my dogma down her throat. My mother rammed
her persuasions down mine and I turned out to be incompatible with her
expectations. Perchance, I may be a disappointment to her, but hell…as long as
I’m content with myself, so should she! I only want my daughter to live a healthy,
worthwhile, and enjoyable life…that is all I can hope for. A mother’s love for
her child is purely unconditional. In a heartbeat, I would stand in front of
her to take a bullet. I believe once I spewed that human from my loin,
automatically it’s understood that I would renounce my life if it meant saving
hers. The bold print on the contract of becoming a parent is parental sacrifice
and hoping ultimate happiness for the child. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I suppose I can understand that as a kid, you see your single
mother as a mommy and nothing else. She’s not a friend, a lover, an unique
woman and an individual. She is only a mother who should only do “motherly
things” because any deviation from that may appear foreign and will upset the
status quo. Even my appearance and dress may have irked her as I was not and
hopefully still not, <i>if God can help</i>,
matronly and dowdy. <i>Was I too hip to be a
mama?</i> The passage of finding oneself is a solo journey. The fact my only
child was not always in my journey to find self and to establish a new life has
created regret in me. Another child may be accepting and may not even blink an
eye as it could be a non issue, but for my daughter, this was something she
struggled to cope with. She struggled with me. And I struggled with her
struggling with me. I found myself a single mother at the age of 33. What was I
suppose to do? Abdicate self-growth and become a small person’s personal maid<i>? I don’t think so, dude!</i> No doubt in
the long run, I’d not only be of disserve to myself but also to my daughter
whom I want desperately to evolve and develop into an authentically powerful
and creative individual. How could my daughter learn if she sees her mother as
an aimless and unimaginative weakling?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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When I applied for Peace Corps, I did not tell my daughter.
I knew well she would be highly upset as she had already showed complete
distress over my last announcement of hiking Everest Base Camp in the Himalaya
in Nepal: <i>another one of Wendy Liu’s
crazy stunts.</i> It was only after receiving a nomination 5 months later from
Peace Corps that I had to eventually apprise her. I will never forget carefully
composing that e-mail on a hot and humid late evening on the balcony of my
shabby guesthouse in Yangon, Myanmar while puffing a hand rolled Burmese
cigarillo. I waited anxiously for days. In Kolkata, India, I finally received
her reply. I trembled with anticipation as my fingers fumbled with my Iphone
trying to open her message. I recall the uncomfortable and tingling sensation
in my limbs and the sinking feeling in my heavy heart when I intently read her
e-mail. Upon learning the news of possibly serving in the Peace Corps, my
daughter abruptly left her class to go cry in the bathroom. She immediately
wrote to her uncle, my brother, who plays a role of her surrogate father. She
is a university student, a legal adult, and she feels she still needs her
mother close by and not far away. She and I shared a mutual dilemma. A quandary
presented itself and we quickly needed a solution. She didn’t want me to leave
the country for 27 months and I wanted to leave the country for 27 months. We
were at an impasse.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Who will concede and satisfy the other? I don’t go to make
her feel secure that I’m not leaving the country for 27 months with the
knowledge that I may not have this opportunity again or the interest and desire
to apply once more in the future? Or I go do something important for myself but
disappoint her <i>again</i>? Aside from being
in contribution, I have a deep desire in wanting my young adult daughter to see
that regardless of age and where you are in life, you can still dream and do crazy
shit!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“ Hey daughter, look
at me, your ol’ mum is joining the Peace Corps!
Am I a nutbag or what…and no, I’m not going through a mid life crisis? “</i>
You’re probably not going to see many middle-aged Chinese women entering the
Peace Corps; Prada and Chanel boutiques, yes, but not Peace Corps. They’ll shop
in expensive designer boutiques buying 5 limited edition of Hermes handbags in
every color or play mah jong…but to live in hardship for 27 months volunteering
to work in a third world country? I’ve traded my Blahniks and Loubutin for
Tevas and Keen. <i>The latter are definitely
more sensible shoes!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Ultimately, I made the executive decision to enter service
and my daughter, perhaps feeling defeated, conceded and I was able to board the
plane with as much peace of mind as possible given there was some pangs of
conscience. I knew all along I was doing the right thing for myself and for her
as well. She should accept that her single mother has a life and doing
something worthy and if it’s not too conceited to say…possibly an example of
how <b>s<i>he,
herself, should also do what she dreams and wants in life.</i></b> Hell, she is
smarter than me, therefore; she will go far only if she believes she can. I
wholeheartedly know she can.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I had no internet but 5 seconds of weak connection enabled
me to see my daughter’s posting on Facebook wishing me a Happy Mother’s Day in
May 2013. If you saw me reading the message and the reaction that followed, me
howling like a lone wolf, surely you’d think I just learned the death of
someone I loved dearly. <b>The impact of my
daughter’s words has on me is powerful</b>:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Shout out to my
unconventional mother, Wendy Liu, on Mother’s Day, who is humbly serving the
Peace Corps in Tanzania doing amazing things for our world. Your showers are
cold, your stories are frightening, and your mobile uploads are straight out </i>of
National Geographic. <i>You are an
inspiration to many and I encourage you to keep on keepin’ on. Love, your one
and only<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Two months later when I finally traveled to the post office
to pick up a care package from my mother, included was my daughter’s Mother
Day/Birthday card to me. One passage she wrote:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>I don’t frequently
read your blog, but I do see the photos you post online and they are very eye
opening and intriguing. You are an inspiration to a lot of people and you
should feel proud of all the hard work you’re doing for the greater good. Maybe
you are a mother figure for someone over where you are; that would be nice.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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Wow, a mother figure to someone! That’s huge for me! Does
this mean my kid doesn’t think I’m a total schmuck as a mother and could
actually potentially be one?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will now assume she is accepting and understanding what I
am doing. I made the right choice to listen to my heart and to serve in the
Peace Corps, regardless of my daughter’s initial protest.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I oftentimes imagine what my last breath on earth would be
like. I would meditate myself into a peaceful calm so that I would let go of
earthly issues and enter the next realm in absolute peace and love so I can be
at a better place. If I wasn’t able to let go and peacefully pass on, it’s
because I’m worrying about my only child. Is she okay with me? Is she angry
with me? Has she not understood me? Does she have unresolved issues with me? Will
all this affect her life and happiness? Will I be the source of her unhappiness?
Although her message was a simple Mother Day’s wish and encouraging me to
continue my work… for me, it holds deeper layered meanings. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Only if you are a parent would you be able to genuinely
understand the profound longing of feeling the need of having your child’s
validation and approval that you’re all right as a parent, that you are not
entirely a complete douche bag of a mother or a scuzzbag of a father. When we
become parents, we weren’t given a manual on how to be a good parent. It’s all
trial and error. I may not have been Martha Stewart, Carol Brady or Ozzy
Harriet…but maybe Wendy Liu is an okay mother that can show her a worthwhile
thing or two. For this, <i>I can die in
peace knowing my child may finally get my drift...even if it’s a little drift.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Wendy S. Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3646219605603092371.post-26137014350750302422013-06-03T11:01:00.001-07:002013-06-03T11:01:14.376-07:00Do Scots wear undies under their kilts?<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve recently discovered an amusing and rather unbelievable
tid bit fact of Tanzanian culture. To preface my discovery, Tanzania is a very
conservative culture where there exists basically no public display of affection,
opposite sex don’t hold hands in public, but two men may hold hands out in the
open <i>san probleme</i>, a women’s skin is
not exposed except for her arms and lower calves, (the younger women may show a
bit of cleavage through their v neck t-shirts), female villagers do not wear
pants, only big city gals and sex is completely a secret affair. Even buying or
acquiring condoms for free is not commonly done because God forbid the
dispensary personnel or shop owner know you are sexually active or at least plan
to be engaged in <i>sexy time</i>. This is
one challenge of educating the community and population the importance of using
condoms as sex safe practice to prevent transmission of HIV.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In Tanzania, women wear kanga. It is a piece of rectangle
cloth with bright colorful patterns and has a motto written on the bottom. The
kanga needs to be cut in half and edges sewn. A kanga comes in two identical
pieces. One is wrapped around the waist like a sarong and the other is to cover
your torso worn like a shawl or can be wrapped around the head as a head scarf.
I was curious to know what women wear under these kanga as I see there is no
skirt peeking underneath, unless its shorter or the same length as the
kanga. A friend explained to me the
following:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Order of clothing for a woman<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l3 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->underwear<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l3 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->skin tight (second layer of longer underwear
that is like a girdle and form fitting)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l3 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->slip<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l3 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->4.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->skirt or dress<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l3 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->5.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->kanga<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
My reaction was, <i>“Say
what?” </i>Four layers underneath a kanga? Sometimes a women may not wear a
skin tight but will wear a slip underneath her dress or skirt: basically 4
layers of clothes, minimum. <i>Jesus!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>It gets better…as a
joke, I asked what the men wear? Little did I know I’d be in for a lil’ eye
opener.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Order of clothing for men<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l2 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->underwear<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l2 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Skin tight (that’s what they’re called…tight
long boxers) or pair of shorts (like gym shorts)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l2 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Pants<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Bewildered, I exclaimed something that corresponded with <i>“WTF?” Why the shorts between underwear and
trousers?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>There were two
reasons, which I’d be inclined to guess, that immediately swam in my mind.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo3; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->a.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->You men are afraid of being raped; therefore
this is chastity belt a la Tanzania style?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo3; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->b.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->You don’t use toilet paper after doing <i>numero dos</i>, so this is a layer that
delays stank? Or in case you get poop stained skid marks on the underwear, is
this second layer another protection?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
I asked three different males,
here were the answers:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo4; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Habit and tradition. <i>I was in disbelief. Habit of wearing 3 freakin’ layer of bottom? Who
cares...break the habit…be a rebel and end the tradition! Aren’t you hot and
uncomfortable? Supposedly, men in coastal area where it’s hot ditch the skin
tights. Thank God! I don’t even understand how comfy it is for a man to wear
cotton boxers underneath their jeans...it gets all bunched up. I think it’s too
much fabric.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><i>2.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal;">
</span></i><!--[endif]-->The skin tight or shorts over the underwear
is to cover “panty line”. <i>Serious, I’m
not joking you. I was told that it’s to avoid seeing the shape of the underwear.
I have never in my life heard of men concerned with panty line. What kind of
men’s trousers is panty line an issue? I’ve never seen men wearing tight jeans
or slim fit trousers with their underwear line showing. Unless I’m totally out
of it and completely ignorant of the male wardrobe system, men don’t wear
spanks or g-strings do they? We’re in the 21<sup>st</sup> century, maybe they
do and I’m just cluleless.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><i>3.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal;">
</span></i><!--[endif]-->The shorts over the underwear and underneath
the pants is to protect the man’s “you know what”. This friend was trying to
avoid saying PENIS so he first explained that men and women have different body
shape, and that men have a reproductive system…he hems and haws. <i>Look,</i> <i>Just say dick, cock, weenie, penis, willy, johnson…whatever dude…come
out with it.</i> I spared his elaborate description so I helped him out with
“private part”. He was grateful that I saved him. He tells me that men do many
different things and his gist was that the family jewel needed to be protected
from harm and injury. <i>I’m thinking…wear a
jock strap, dude. It’s easier and at the end of the day, when you’re on the farm,
that 1/16” of skin tight or 1/8” of short fabric ain’t really cuttin’ it when
that hoe accidently gets shoved up your willy. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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I saved the best for last: (drum roll, please….)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->4.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->This friend at least had the “<i>balls” </i>to say the word<i> penis </i>to me. He explains without
embarrassment that if the man has a big penis, the shorts is to cover it.
Basically, you don’t want your ding dong to be ding donging around in lose
trousers. A penis is not to be seen, God forbid you see the outline, the
package, its movement and the size of the contour. Total no no! <i>Come to think of it, it’s true that I
haven’t “noticed” a Tanzanian man’s package suggested beneath his pants. (Trust
me, not that I’m looking!) In the west, when a man sits, I can see his balls
settled either on the left or right side of his thigh. Even if he stands, you
can see the whole shebang, his crotch filled with balls and all. I think I’m
starting to understand this “cover up” system of wearing another pair of heavy
shorts or tight girdle over their undies. I remember a sight quite
unforgettable, in absolute horror, as a teenager back in California, I saw a
cyclist on his bike next to our car. We all stopped on the road waiting for the
green light. His testicles and penis completed busted out from his short bike
shorts. This was, I believe, an accident and unintentional. This or he was a tricky
exhibitionist. To flash his package pretending to be a cyclist wearing those
God-awful short bike shorts.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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As you can imagine, I am laughing in
disbelief, the madness of it all, the ultra conservatism and the somewhat
hypocrisy of their sexual practices. <i>This
was hilarious shit! </i>To “<i>get a rise</i>”
out of my male friends, I tell them that some men in the west, especially
Europeans, don’t wear underwear at all. Commando! I was curious to see their
reaction. Would they think, “<i>you vulgar,
uncouth pale ones!” </i>Tanzanians are too polite and will not confront, <i>“You immoral pornographic making devil
worshipping white people!” <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
Two male friends pulled down a bit of their
pants waist to show me the gym shorts underneath their pants or jeans. <i>Incredible. If Tanzanians want to get it
on…there’s lots of removal of clothes. I now know why they are perpetually late
for every thing; they’re putting on and removing clothing…lots of it.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Wendy S. Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3646219605603092371.post-41453152674802110692013-06-03T10:58:00.000-07:002013-06-03T10:58:09.972-07:00Books and Shrooms and more books and shrooms<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back home in California, I met a
Return Peace Corps Volunteer who told me that she read over 200 books during
her service. I thought at that time, <i>“Did
you even work?”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now that I, myself, am a Peace
Corps Volunteer in service, I completely understand the avid reading. Reading
is the only stable entertainment and an activity to keep one sane from dying of
boredom in a rural village and to preserve mental upkeep.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Currently, I am the lucky heiress
of over 40 hard copy books sitting on a makeshift bookshelf in my house. It’s a
plank of wood secured by 2 nails and 2 strings hanging gingerly on a wall.
Aside from inheriting these books which belonged to the first Peace Corps
Volunteer years ago who served in my village, I brought with me to country a
Kindle loaded with free reject books which comprised of lame cook books written
in the early 20<sup>th</sup> century, some books on Buddhism by unknown
authors, some unfashionable classic tales, and crazy titles like “How to make
furniture from cardboard boxes” and “ How to make wallets from duct tape”, which
I would read If I was ever desperate enough for reading material. <i>It’s free junk</i>. To this mini home library,
I’ve also added to the collection some books people have given me and unwanted
French books I’ve swiped at a hotel. <i>Pardon…</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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There is no such thing as a library
or bookstore in my village or even in my town. Book is a rare commodity where I
live. Internet is not strong enough to surf the web where I can search things
to read and I can not Google or download anything.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember growing up watching “The
Twilight Zone”, the iconic show in black and white with that ever so
recognizable hypnotic theme music. There is one episode, title unknown, where an
anti social man, a total recluse, a <b>book
worm</b>, found himself alone in the most desirable situation for himself,
after a world destruction of some kind. He could now finally enjoy reading
endlessly without any distraction in the world since he was the only surviving person
left on earth with tons of books for his reading pleasure. Being that “The
Twilight Zone” was all about irony, the paradoxical story line has it that as
he happily climbed onto his mountain of books to pick a book to read, he
accidently shattered his glasses. The sad ending is that he would never be able
to enjoy his true love: books. Without his glasses, he can not read and
thousands of books uninterrupted awaited him. He was distraught, in
disbelief…crying and wailing in tears. Life is a cruel joke. The End. It’s like
me, Wendy Liu, being able to eat without gaining weight, getting sick, or
developing cavities from the most splendid of food in quality, quantity and
variety for my feasting but…oops, I have no teeth to enjoy any of that. <i>That is sadism at its finest.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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For those who love to read, having
good books, the suitable condition, and time are essential. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have time to read, but sometimes
there is no light. If I had strong and reliable internet, the world would be my
oyster as I can read to my heart’s content. My Kindle has a light, but I only
have junk downloaded. <i>Regrettable, and that’s
what I get for being a cheapo.</i> I have a solar light, which I use at night
if I have no electricity and of course, that needs to be charged. The best time
for me to read is on a weekend daytime where I can lounge all day in bed and
read until I’ve developed serious bed sores. I’ve been ditching going to church
on Sundays just so I can fondle my books in bed. Let’s face it, going to church
for a non-Christian is equivalent to attending a real estate seminar in
Yiddish. <i>ZZzzzzzz……..total snoozer….big
time! </i>I was attending church to integrate within my community. But surely,
there’s many other ways to assimilate aside from suffering 2 hours of dullsville.
The only moment where it’s less lackluster is when the church choir begins to
sing, but it’s not exactly groovy hip hop or rap, either. My real agenda for
going to church is hoping that after the service, maybe some mamas outside the
church would be selling some food items. Last Sunday morning, as I snuggled
cozily in my bed finishing up <i>“The Da
Vinci Code</i>”, my house girl came to work for me and announced that someone
was selling mushrooms* at the church and asked if she should buy some for me. <b><i>“Run like
your life depended on it to bring me back some!”</i> </b>was my reply to her. I
got up from my bed to give her money and then hastily climbed back in my
mosquito net protected fortress of a bed to continue an exciting read.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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*I need to detour from my book story
and talk about fungi now. I love mushrooms and have never met a shroom I didn’t
like. They are fabulous odd little spores, so delectably delicious and lovely
in their texture. When I finally decided to be vertical and no longer
horizontal, I went to the kitchen and looked at what she bought. From the feel
of the bag as I never opened it to look inside, I can tell they were dried
mushrooms, real hard ones. <i>Okay, whatever</i>,
I thought. I’ve eaten dried mushrooms in Tanzania at a friend’s house and they
were not great, but whatever. Beggars can’t be choosy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I asked my house girl to cook them.
Make mushroom soup, I tell her, because she once made mushroom soup from fresh
mushrooms and they were quite good, albeit too salty as she always adds too
much oil and salt. She uses these ingredients as if she won a lifetime supply
from a contest. When her soup was ready, I looked into the pot. <i>Are those pieces of tarmac? What the hell
are they?</i> I said nothing, took a plate and started to dish the mystery
soup. With my spoon, I caught a piece of what looked like a segment of a burnt
roof. I put it in my mouth and it tasted as bad as it looked. <i>What the f*** is this? </i> I am speaking Swahili to my house girl, “<i>Did you soak this? I am eating shoes!” </i>She
laughs and I think to myself…<i>I appreciate
your appreciation for my humor, but please answer me.</i> I continue, <i>“not only am I eating shoe because it’s hard
and tough, but it tastes like crap!” </i>(okay, I don’t know how to say crap in
Swahili, so I said ‘bad’ which rhymes with crap so that’s close enough) She asked
if she should light the charcoal again and cook some more. I tell her that <i>yeah…dude, you should have soaked this
overnight and then cook it. Like beans, they need to be soaked for a while
before cooking. This is eating tree bark! </i>I then changed my mind because
aside from its toughness, the taste was God awful that eating the softer
variety wouldn’t change its unpleasant taste. It tasted bitter, dusty, muddy
and was gritty with sand. My house girl’s virtue is that she is honest and
trustworthy. I can leave my house with money and valuables lying around and it
will be untouched when I return. As for her culinary skill…let’s just say that she
better find a man whose heart is not through his stomach! Her cooking can be
hit or miss. It’s more important for me to find an honest person than a good
cook. I can cook myself, which I do the majority of time, anyway. Today is the
second day I am eating this dreaded so-called mushroom soup. I tell house girl
to heat it up. A friend came over just in time and I asked if she would like
some. She happily agreed with smiling eyes. <i>Should
I warn her that she might be eating dehydrated rat sold as mushrooms?</i>
Shortly, the head teacher from a school came over to borrow a paint brush from
me. Being the ultimate gracious hostess and to pimp away rat meat soup, I
offered Mister if he would care for some mushroom soup. With enthusiasm and the
same happy smiling eyes, he accepted. <i>Dudes,
you guys have no idea what you’re in for! </i>I already know it tastes and look
like <b>decomposed bat</b>, so no surprise
for me. I debated whether to warn them. What tastes unsavory and highly
unpleasant to me may be a heavenly delicacy to others, so who is to say it’s bad?
We three each now have a bowl of <b>black
dried tar</b>. Although I have impeccable and discriminating taste for food as
I am a self-proclaimed foodie, a veritable aficionado for the culinary arts…I
do know what is good and bad; nevertheless, my talent in tolerance and
flexibility has allowed me to have the ability to eat mass quantity and eat low
grade inferior food not only without gagging but being able to finish
everything. <i>If only this was a talent I
could use on my resume. I know definitely I will never be reborn as a starving kid
in Africa because I never waste food. </i>I quietly ate my zombie soup while
sneaking peaks at my two friends’ bowl to see if they’ve done any damage. <i>The room was quiet. Nobody was talking. I
don’t blame them, it’s shocking eating what was offered</i>. <i>Do they graciously lie and claim no longer
being hungry or suck it up and try to swallow?</i> I see them eating but many
black pieces of bat wings remained. They’re eating the potatoes and not
touching the <b>pieces of tarmac</b>. I
think these black mushrooms are the kind you put in a witch’s cauldron to make
magic potions to poison people, not the kind you feed normal human beings who
are hungry for regular food. I finish my soup and I look up to see Mister
whispering while chuckling to my friend as he pushed his soup aside. <i>I don’t blame you, dude. It tastes nasty!
I’m finishing mine only because I don’t want to be reborn as a hungry Ethiopian
boy with flies over my eyes…</i>As house girl was clearing our plates, I tell
her that she can take home the leftover bat wings (they’re huge pieces) to her
dog as there is no need to waste “<i>good
food</i>”…(cough, cough) <o:p></o:p></div>
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I read on average about 2 books a
month. I can easily finish a book in a day, but usually it takes several
sessions to finish. I’ve enjoyed every book I’ve read so far only because it’s
a constant entertainment available to me. But my experience of these stories is
like a good tasting menu with a lousy last course. Each course or chapters are
enjoyable and interesting until the end when a bow tied, white apron cladded, snooty
garcon serves me jello for dessert. Sometimes, I wonder if the author suddenly
gave up because he wanted to quickly finish the book so he just slapped on some
careless ending without much thought?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Here is a brief book review and a
rating system:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
***** Big times!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
**** It’s a quality read, story line and style depends
on your taste <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*** Not shabs, but nothing to write home about<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
** The publisher probably was desperate for
new writers<o:p></o:p></div>
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* Crud, like the dried black mushroom
soup<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. <b>***The Discovery</b>, Dan Walsh<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a sappy, sentimental novel for those who enjoy love
stories with feel good endings, nothing sophisticated and actually quite
predicable. Housewives in Middle America probably will love this kind of story,
as it’s simple and romantic with a bit of mystery…it’s something you take to
the beach on a Memorial Day weekend while eating a whole bag of Lay’s potato
chips.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. <b>****All About Love</b>, Bell Hook<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Written by a Yale professor, she examines the different kinds
of love. Insightful, scholarly and deep. It’s not a book for people trying to
get tips on how to find love in all the wrong places. It’s an academic study of
the various dynamic of love. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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3. <b>****Water for Elephant</b>, Sara Gruen<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This New York Times best seller novel is worth
the read. I wouldn’t necessarily sprint out to rush and buy the book; but if it
was available, it definitely deserves the time to be perused. The author took
time to research the 1930’s and circus life. I was given crème brulee for
dessert on this one. Good ending: I approve!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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4. ***<b>Some Girls</b>, Jilian Lauren<o:p></o:p></div>
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A biography of an aspiring
actress-cum-call girl unknowingly was sold into a harem working for a Prince in
Brunei. The technical writing and actual stories told were not bad but the
abrupt ending of not telling the reader what happened to her at the end was a
total let down. In her own admission, she even claims not divulging much. A
theme like this lends itself to total depravity and juicy dirt; instead, it was
too tame. If I chose to read about prostitution for big bucks with the richest
man in the world, I would expect only real sordid meat in all its immoral
details! The ending was a jello. Total tease. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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5<b>. ****</b> <b>Olive Kitteridge</b>,
Elizabeth Stout<o:p></o:p></div>
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Winner of Pulitzer Prize with lots
of rave reviews from its book jacket. This fiction is different in that it’s
many little vignettes about the main character, Olive, and the people in her
world. It’s an examination of her life and personality, which either the reader
will like or dislike her. Technically, it’s well written. It’s a matter of whether
you care about the protagonist and her life or not. If she was a real life
person, people would either think she’s a biatch or gets her drift and like
her. I’m neutral. I could hang with Olive. I like people who are not like
everyone else.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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6. <b>****The Village of Waiting</b>, George Packer<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is a true account of a former
Peace Corps Volunteer who served in Togo, West Africa. Not to be biased, but obviously
I can relate well to his stories, as his description of his circumstance more
than 20 years ago is my current reality. What I did not like about the book was
the author not explaining why he Early Terminated his service only after 18
months. He took a vacation to Barcelona and instead of returning to Togo to
complete his service, he decided to head back home to New York. Again, in the
book, he states his abrupt ending of the story without disclosing the reason or
continuing with the story. I was given jello for dessert on this one too. I
hate it when that happens.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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7<b>. ****Holidays on Ice</b>, David Sedaris<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is a collection of essays and
short stories by a writer who is truly hilarious! Stories revolve around
Christmas time. Reading this is like eating a big fat chocolate cake, it’s
enjoyable and filling with empty calories. I’d read it again just for the
brainless amusement, total entertainment.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
8. <b>***Hotel du Lac</b>, Anita Brookner<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Winner of the Bookner Prize, I
found this book at times hard to read. It was written in the 80’s but from the
language and tone, you’d think you’re reading English literature from the 19<sup>th</sup>
century written by Miss Prissy Prim Proper. Fancy words and contrived
expression makes this reading labored. The writing takes itself too seriously
and I didn’t care about any of the characters. I liked no one in the story! On
a positive note, there is a certain ambience created, which makes this story
about a woman staying in a hotel in Switzerland alone in search of herself, her
relations with others and her idea of love more appealing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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9. <b>****The Lamp</b>, Jim Stovall<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A friend sent me this little pocket
book written by a motivational speaker/coach. It is a tale of a couple living a
mediocre, typical boring American life going nowhere, who discovers a magic
lamp purchased at a garage sale. The “genie” grants them 3 wishes. At the end,
the “revelation” is that you are able to achieve what you want without a genie.
Excellent message but insubstantial in content, as it doesn’t explain how. Of
course, the struggling couple wants a million bucks for their first wish, how
typical!<o:p></o:p></div>
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10. <b>***Uncensored Girls</b>, Usman Conteh<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Macmillan Writer’s Prize for
Africa, this short story is about a young teenage girl in Sierra Leone, Africa fighting
for her right not to be subjugated to female circumcision by her mother who
believes that to undergo this procedure would make her daughter moral and a
better wife. This is a great story about female empowerment, especially for
young African women.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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11<b>. **</b> <b>Chelsea Chelsea Bang
Bang</b>, Chelsea Handler<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although the author is a cable
network celebrity and the book jacket claims her as a New York Times best
selling author, I gave this a low rating because it’s dumb. Truly, if it weren’t
for her fame, these collections of random personal stories wouldn’t be
published unless you’re “somebody”. I don’t watch TV so I don’t know who the
hell she is but after reading this time waster of a book, I’m glad I still
don’t know who she is. Supposedly, she is a comedian. Well, I guess I didn’t
take my funny pills when I read this book because I didn’t crack a smile…trust
me, I have a sense of humor. <i>In life, if
you are a celebrity, you can write all kinds of garbage that probably takes all
of 2 weeks to write, edit, publish and the American population will buy your
crap and lap it up from your hands making these overpaid people even more rich</i>.
This book is stupid. Please don’t support stupidity.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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12. <b>***** The Da Vinci Code</b>, Dan Brown<o:p></o:p></div>
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40 million copies sold and #1
worldwide best seller.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hmmmm….yep, I get it…they even made
it into a movie!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a thriller/mystery fiction
based on true facts regarding secret societies, documents and places. This
story is super smart, clever as hell, interesting, entertaining while
educational and simply brilliant. Each corner and chapter was a new surprise.
Never boring! Highly recommended if you’re into fiction and want something
outstanding. A possible disappointment is the ending though….it’s a big chase
for the treasure and at the end, you ask yourself, <i>“Well, where is it and what is it?”</i> The ending is subtle and not
obvious. For those seeking the answer as you turn each page, you may realize
you’ll never get the answer. A great read, nevertheless. The story takes place
in Paris, France and having lived there for 5 years and returning often, in my
mind the story is more vivid because I can see where the events are happening. <i>Ooh la la…Paris, tu me manques!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Back to the story of shrooms again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Yesterday, my house girl <b>exceedingly redeemed herself</b>. She
brought me new fungi. What a complete
detour from eating tried chunks of rubber tires to later known as eating a
piece of heaven. I am a fungi fan who haven’t met a fungi I didn’t liked. (tarmac
doesnn’t count) I asked where she got them and she answered that she picked
them herself in the forest. Slightly freaked, I asked if they were poisonous
only to see if she understood that not all mushrooms are edible and many are
potentially fatal when eaten. I would think villagers know what the hell
they’re doing when picking mushrooms to eat. Thought I just check….you know.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Dear
Liu Family,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>We
regret to inform you that your daughter has passed away from the most unusual
kind. In our 51 years of Peace Corps history, we have never had anyone croak
from eating shrooms…if it’s any consolation knowing your daughter, surely she
would have wanted to enjoy the activity she loved most before departing:
Eating!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Sincerely,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Peace
Corps Tanzania<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My house girl assured me they are
not poisonous because she ate some herself. <i>Great!
Stoke the firewood and start cookin’ the shrooms!</i> I take them out of the
bag and examined them. They looked like badly made cookies without any specific
shape but their texture and touch were extremely soft and filled with tons of
water. I was holding moisture. If moisture could be in a solid form, other than
ice, this specific kind of mushroom is it. The top looked like microscopic
sponge with holes. The color was that of butter color and they smelled sweet,
too...like apples. They are so delicate and soft, like baby cheeks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I returned home from teaching my
afternoon classes and went straight to the kitchen to see what concoction she
had made. A pot of mushroom soup! It’s gonna be a great dinner! That night, I
took my cold bucket bath, dressed in jammies, had electricity so I watched
something on my laptop and dished myself a big bowl of this shroom soup eagerly
planning an enjoyable Tuesday evening. Life can be good in po dunk rural
Africa!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Verdict: Unbelievable!!!!<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The texture was so soft that chewing
was optional. It melted in my mouth; the moisture content was out of this world.
What kind of food is so soft? It’s like the angora rabbit of the food world.
This mushroom was slick, slippery, soft, and <b>velvety and silky all in one! If heaven had a taste, I just ate it. I
would highly recommend this for people with no teeth. Your gums could just
chomp on them.</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two days later, my house girl
brought me more of the same mushrooms. She asked someone to go find them in the
forest or where ever these suckers reside and I’m asked to pay 400 TZs. <i>Are you serious? That’s all? US$ . 25! A
quarter? You sure it’s not 4,000 TZs which is US$2.50?</i> I gave her two coins
to give to that person who hunted the shrooms and couldn’t believe how dirt cheap
I’m asked to pay for the “finder’s fee”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today in my classes, I described to
my students and showed them photos of these lovelies, who are free manual labor
workers, about this gem I discovered. I bribed them:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“ Go to the forest, the field, the
bush, go where you gotta go to find these mushrooms and I will pay you. Yes, I
will pay you. “<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
True to form, this weekend, three
students came to my house and offered me bags of this beautiful mushroom. One
student brought perfect ones: round, unblemished and whole pieces. I asked
these students where they found the fungi? They answered that they picked them
at the school ground. I happily accepted although I told them today, Monday, at
school that I’m getting sick and tired of eating these shrooms now. I need
break from fungi! “<i>Wait for a bit and
I’ll tell you when I want more mushrooms”</i>, I instructed them. As payment to
these students, I didn’t have small bills or change so I offered them a choice
of either Tanzanian money in which they’d have to wait a bit or take the option
of choosing pencils or health chocolate granola bars from America. I told them
the bar in USA would cost a buck, which is TZs 1,600, a small fortune for a kid
living in a rural village. I put a stash of assorted color pencils and
different flavored bars for the two girls to choose. They were shy and
hesitated, but after some encouragement asking them to pick their prize, they
ran and grabbed everything in sight. <i>No
dudes, I said pick one!</i> A girl chose a pencil, the other a bar, and I gave
the boy a pencil and a bar since his mushrooms were perfect in every sense! (The
2 girls do not know this) I felt somewhat guilty not giving the girls both a pencil
and a bar, but honestly, <i>things </i>are
valuable here in a poor rural village. I need all the “things” I can get as
sometimes I offer stuff as gifts or repayment of some kind. Last weekend, a
student took 6 big avocadoes from her home to give to me when she knew I love
them and was asking around where avocado trees exist? As an expression of my
gratitude, I gave her a big bar of Hershey chocolate<i>. I hope she didn’t get in trouble for swiping the family’s avocado
stash.</i> Needless to say, any dumb kid would have given me some avocadoes
that our village grow randomly and can get for free or purchased dirt cheap in
exchange for a wonderful Willy Wonka Candy Bar from the land of milk and honey:
America!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Wendy S. Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3646219605603092371.post-19597744900602796892013-05-27T12:32:00.001-07:002013-06-03T06:21:22.955-07:00A village with no prior malaria educationI've been teaching, training, and promoting effortlessly the importance and gravity of malaria prevention and educating the basic of malaria science to my community, a farming village in the Southern Highlands, where this potentially fatal tropical disease is not prevalent. <br />
<br />
To my disbelief, given that Tanzania is the 3rd largest population for malaria endemic, my community is not well versed in malaria awareness, let alone do people sleep under a mosquito net...insecticide treated or not. <br />
Possibly due to the history of low malaria cases, people may not feel it vitally essential to be imparted. Clearly, malaria prevention education should be part of a brief mandatory curriculum in school. Lives can be saved by an hour of malaria indoctrination. <br />
<br />
I've taught students at primary schools, secondary school and to community members where several hundred were in attendance and trained school teachers and dispensary workers. I will continue to "preach" the gospel of malaria truth to those I've not yet reached. <br />
<br />
Several notable details and its compelling ramifications:<br />
<br />
1. Unexpectedly, I was thanked by two students in a primary school who expressed their gratitude with such happiness, that I was temporarily stunned and speechless. To have these students step out of their comfort zone of being painfully shy and unresponsive to suddenly articulate with such animated expression was truly somewhat shocking. They owe me nothing as it is my job to teach, but knowing these usually passively quiet students all of the sudden voicing their feeling was worth a million dollars in experience. They thanked me for teaching them about malaria because they were not aware that malaria could kill. Needless to say, the simple "thank you" was enough to keep me motivated in my malaria outreach effort. My first positive Peace Corps experience where I'm witnessing an impact. <br />
<br />
2. I enjoy teaching high school students, my favorite audience. Their maturity and interest level are sufficient to keep them continually engaged. After 2 hours of in-depth malaria lesson, instead of dozing into slumberland, I'm bombarded by questions at the end. To me, this is a fantastic sign that the teens are truly curious and interested. Importantly, they're paying attention!<br />
<br />
3. One elementary student enjoys malaria lessons so much that he would request more malaria instead of English lesson. Each class received from me 5 hours of malaria education where I incorporate straight up lecture, games and an audio teaching tool. <br />
<br />
4. After finished teaching several hundred villagers, a woman came up on stage to ask a question regarding one of three methods for malaria testing. She claimed in our village dispensary, there exists no Rapid Diagnostic Testing. Certain that she is mistaken or her attempt to challenge me, I asked her how she would know? She claimed she entered the dispensary and there was none. My reply was I'm fairly confident there definitely exists these kits, but i will verify with the dispensary. She was not pleased with my self-assurance and with her disparaging smile, she left the stage smirking that she's had enough of malaria education. Some people in the audience chuckled which I didn't see anything amusing. I did coincidently meet up with the medical officer shortly and inquired about the availability of these kits. He confirmed its existence. He proceeded to tell me that they always test negative even if by clinical diagnoses, the patients appear positive. I informed him that these kits needed to be kept out of heat and humidity, check for expiration date and importantly, they need to have a waiting time of 20 minutes for the test result to appear positive or negative. To my surprise, this medically trained personnel had no idea about any of these points. He tells me that he only waits for 2 minutes before reading the result. If it wasn't for the lady and her assertion of the unavailability of the kits, the village dispensary medical officer and I would not have had this important, fact revealing discussion about the proper usage of RDT kits. <br />
<br />
5. The medical officer and the head teacher of a secondary school both tell me that people do not want nor use mosquito nets. Presently, 300 nets are in storage at our local dispensary. I ask why this is? It is free to villagers and not complicated to use. What is the problem? The explanations I was given were all faulty with no base of any logic. Villagers hold tightly to their beliefs. Myths need to be banished as they are a total disservice to the well being of people. It is difficult to change one's behavior; only with constant education would one be motivated to change for the positive. <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqSv8FI6fS71OXovCgZuwgAyVM-pK7JXgmfzl16oHwt0hzcluYrtIET-zkNzHMBAR1uoZVDfhYmXYk8Zq6H_MWMM6Yha38CQi20CVUpGvzGWgamxkgxpRzUT0VUnSLmAmk_DF2l866MNw/s640/blogger-image-199275953.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqSv8FI6fS71OXovCgZuwgAyVM-pK7JXgmfzl16oHwt0hzcluYrtIET-zkNzHMBAR1uoZVDfhYmXYk8Zq6H_MWMM6Yha38CQi20CVUpGvzGWgamxkgxpRzUT0VUnSLmAmk_DF2l866MNw/s640/blogger-image-199275953.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7DcwPNI8oa-1cjR_lB71_8oXsA3RumB3VMYzeHBqL_8ZfN4CIH9kKnAcIZvJfqiL5Q6jj0dz9GyOR4f1garW2zKLT-6FpOKBW4JgOjHyQobKuGoV4jvgyPRcLvnDY2XobRLye_cdr4mI/s640/blogger-image-1915200415.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7DcwPNI8oa-1cjR_lB71_8oXsA3RumB3VMYzeHBqL_8ZfN4CIH9kKnAcIZvJfqiL5Q6jj0dz9GyOR4f1garW2zKLT-6FpOKBW4JgOjHyQobKuGoV4jvgyPRcLvnDY2XobRLye_cdr4mI/s640/blogger-image-1915200415.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy3oY9DEFpRp2riV8NObKYqwaVOlm19SPvR07QLYIcmgIQCN_VwhPWekth6kJ0O1HjUuuszkwnUZVICqczeGkUMz6OxQmZHD4NVyStUq35dK0crcn86NqBh-Rh5UNsUp2VwbCneUDzXcY/s640/blogger-image--843737707.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy3oY9DEFpRp2riV8NObKYqwaVOlm19SPvR07QLYIcmgIQCN_VwhPWekth6kJ0O1HjUuuszkwnUZVICqczeGkUMz6OxQmZHD4NVyStUq35dK0crcn86NqBh-Rh5UNsUp2VwbCneUDzXcY/s640/blogger-image--843737707.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg95Mxn6Yc-SRwu_UMGyGI2arzK4jxaBZAkoadcGImRmdSvUMf_n5EYycs9ZckzLngujtmqIOd8HedjeV0bsgBSV2-yPZ702woSgaN-y8e96-WVhJ6Ah0mQkfErk-dNd2r1F-L1TklEGwU/s640/blogger-image--523335414.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg95Mxn6Yc-SRwu_UMGyGI2arzK4jxaBZAkoadcGImRmdSvUMf_n5EYycs9ZckzLngujtmqIOd8HedjeV0bsgBSV2-yPZ702woSgaN-y8e96-WVhJ6Ah0mQkfErk-dNd2r1F-L1TklEGwU/s640/blogger-image--523335414.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEWGD67JJ5vtd2k9Xpb5L2rZKdTKSrjOzDnEvhFG6T9q3xiv107POi1h_So5mpx4CeFlChTri1qZWW8ew8QvKvEQyXeVsF8oHt_DqPBpyE3U9Z_ZiWGZ_UT0RY7jdqqddObzcyLQekUJs/s640/blogger-image-438920366.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEWGD67JJ5vtd2k9Xpb5L2rZKdTKSrjOzDnEvhFG6T9q3xiv107POi1h_So5mpx4CeFlChTri1qZWW8ew8QvKvEQyXeVsF8oHt_DqPBpyE3U9Z_ZiWGZ_UT0RY7jdqqddObzcyLQekUJs/s640/blogger-image-438920366.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHq_iWjLLnnKyshBZnGttOusKwKqeAByf7x3CS2mYIIw7hS2KXUNqFJ4OUgwQVYDZ0F6NZKn9QJaUtaQz_qwjlhr0S1YwKKF5QuhjKL_9bZrxDyKsJUKTpBrMxd4ZkOxE4FsV2MNqlPRo/s640/blogger-image-1602177059.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHq_iWjLLnnKyshBZnGttOusKwKqeAByf7x3CS2mYIIw7hS2KXUNqFJ4OUgwQVYDZ0F6NZKn9QJaUtaQz_qwjlhr0S1YwKKF5QuhjKL_9bZrxDyKsJUKTpBrMxd4ZkOxE4FsV2MNqlPRo/s640/blogger-image-1602177059.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyVV5d9ctB6ppQ7lw7UHUFVdyJuHzkk33-_01oV4T5QVLGCGmWMOwJJStpt_CMkSeyB8jXEDoyGwl8BrV8RSxtolFc3LPA6cWfyj_RPZcDKd5ohdOjl6SzFN0e1EhOOSdgaFOqJtYzGWQ/s640/blogger-image-1486413984.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyVV5d9ctB6ppQ7lw7UHUFVdyJuHzkk33-_01oV4T5QVLGCGmWMOwJJStpt_CMkSeyB8jXEDoyGwl8BrV8RSxtolFc3LPA6cWfyj_RPZcDKd5ohdOjl6SzFN0e1EhOOSdgaFOqJtYzGWQ/s640/blogger-image-1486413984.jpg" /></a></div>Wendy S. Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3646219605603092371.post-54912803160767350502013-05-17T02:58:00.001-07:002013-05-17T02:58:04.090-07:00A Life of Waiting<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Aside from the usual life activities one performs such as
sleeping, eating, eliminating, talking, walking and brushing your teeth…<i>you get the picture</i>…in Tanzania, another
activity that ranks high along with breathing would be waiting.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve not yet taken a scientific calculation using statics or
whatever the theory or science one employs to measure such a thing, but I’ll
loosely say that a quarter of my life is the act of waiting…here in Tanzania.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What am I waiting for? No, I’m not waiting for Jesus’
appearance, enlightment, a job promotion or death. <i>Well, the latter will come inevitably soon enough…</i> In Tanzania,
it’s notorious that everything and everyone is late. If you’re of German descent
and brought up with the creed of <i>“what
have I</i> <i>contributed today?” </i>I
would think living in Tanzania would make <i>sie
Deutchen sehr loco in the cabeza! </i>Punctuality and productivity are to
Germans as piñatas and tortillas are to Mexico. I looked up in the
English-Swahili dictionary to see if the word <i>punctuality </i>exists. Surprisingly it’s in the dictionary. Why would
this word exist in their language since “punctuality” in Tanzania is merely a
notion…or more, like an abstract concept?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today I was telling a teacher and my most trusted friend
that a certain XYZ is late and that he’s <i>always
late</i>. I’m slightly complaining to him that one’s time should be respected
and people shouldn’t have to wait. I am training XYZ to teach health to his
community when I leave the country and meanwhile, he and I are teaching together.
His response to my encouragement of the meritorious practice of punctuality was
“that’s <i>mzungu</i> ”. (<i>mzungu </i>means foreigner in the Swahili
language) Two concurrent thoughts crossed my mind and I had to quickly choose
which to reply. 1) The not so politically correct but emotionally satisfying response
would be something akin to<i>…”And that’s
why for 51 years in your country there’s always been Peace Corps presence!
READ: you need our assistance…<b>time is
money</b>, my friend”</i> If I wanted to delve deeper because I found myself
somewhat miffed, I would continue, <i>“What
else do you guys have going? I know you’re not stuck on the 4 lane 405 Freeway
during rush hour, that’s for sure!”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Version 2) The nice
version would be this…”Why yes, I am a guest in your country and I assume
acceptance of your ways because how pompous of me to think I can wheedle my
sentiment of a more productive way of being into your culture.” </i>To continue
the saccharine overdose<i>…”You know,
friend, I think Tanzanians’ got the right idea. Who cares about keeping
appointments on time! France has said, ‘Let Them Eat Cake!’ So Tanzania can
say, ‘Let Them Wait!’…hakuna matata.” </i>I opted for neither and mustered a
smile on my face pretending how silly of me that I would hope people arrive on
time. <i>What a dumb idea.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here are situations where I feel like I’m waiting a lifetime
and it is super duper frustrating:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><i>1.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal;">
</span></i><!--[endif]-->Bank- many customers and understaffed
employees. It takes an hour just to withdraw money and I’m one of the first people
to enter the bank. I wish I could say I was joking, but I ain’t. If I go to an
ATM, sometimes there’s no money or there’s a glitch in the machine. <i>I wonder how long it would it take to rob a
bank? <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->House girl- it’s been established that her starting
time is 1PM. Consistently, she arrives an hour and half later. I say nothing
because I am sympathetic to her duties in her own home taking care of her baby
daughter, siblings and parents. Ironically, before she leaves, I would ask her,
perhaps for my own comic relief, “What time are you coming tomorrow?” Her
answer is always 1PM. Like Groundhog Day, she arrives an hour and half later
everyday. Her inconsistency is consistent.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Village meeting- three words: Never On Time or
Most Likely Cancelled. The last meeting was 2 1/2 hours late and the one after
never existed. Why even bother having them at all? Let’s just all do a virtual
village meeting and pretended it happened.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->4.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Counterpart- he’s like a game that you’ll either
win or lose. 50% chance he’ll be on time, 50% he’ll be late.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->5.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Dala dala- this mini bus that leaves my banking
town into my village is one big cruel joke. They tell you one time but in
actuality, it is really another. I either wait forever or I have missed it. Then
we stop at another area for another hour to wait for more people to pile in. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->6.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Students- this is probably the most painful one
for me. Students in my village are painfully shy, self-conscious, easily embarrassed
and have no confidence. Waiting for an answer from them is like waiting for
thumb tacks to speak. An endurance in patience, compassion…and <i>trying to keep awake.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><i>7.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal;">
</span></i><!--[endif]-->Electricity- call me spoiled, but I’m one of
the few Peace Corps Volunteers fortunate enough to have some electricity. The
days I’m in the dark, I’m just patiently waiting for electricity to come on.
When God finally grants light, I am ecstatic and doing the happy dance, the marathon
man, the cabbage patch, the electric slide, and air whooping my fist belting
out, <i>“Yeah,
baby, electriciTAAAAY….uhhh huuuuh…partaaay time in the crib….(snap, snap) who’s
your mama??!!!!!! (pelvic thrust, pelvic thrust)” <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><i>8.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal;">
</span></i><!--[endif]-->Internet connection- this is the same as
point #7. It’s weak, sketchy, and unreliable; but nevertheless, it exists. It’s
frustrating when I receive an important e-mail from Peace Corps or family and I
can’t read it because it hasn’t downloaded from the server. Sometimes it’ll be
a week before eventually it gets downloaded to be read. This also includes
waiting for network to be present before I can add credit onto my phone for
internet service. <i>For friends and family
who has to send me an important e-mail. Please time your emergencies a week
before it happens so I can reply on time. Thanks. Oh, and I hope y’all enjoying
reading my blog ‘cause it takes forever to post and 90% are written on my
IPhone with one finger typing. Yes, talent, I know….<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><i>9.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal;">
</span></i><!--[endif]-->Phone-because my and those around me have
cheap ass phones; we do not have an answering service to our mobile phones. If
we do, either we don’t know it or we don’t know how to use it. When you call
someone’s mobile, it either rings meaning their phone is turned on or there is
a recorded voice saying, <i>“sorry sucker,
your buddy’s phone is turned off”. </i>I’ve yet encountered a voice mail
recording with, <i>“ Mambo! You’ve reached
Tyrone. I’m busy planting beans in my field and can’t get to you now but please
leave me a message.” Beep…….</i>One needs to continue to keep calling until the
party turns on his mobile and actually picks up the phone.<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><i>10.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal;">
</span></i><!--[endif]-->Garden- When I first arrived in my village,
I created an awesome permagarden. It took a while for things to start growing.
Just when things were starting to sprout, my garden became a jungle because I
was a lazy mofo gardener and I left home for training in which during this
time, it grew to be a rain forest minus the canopy part. I asked the chairman
to call some young lads to clear my backyard so I can find my toilet again.
When I returned home from teaching, what did I find? Well, yes, now I can see
my toilet, but the youths destroyed and cut down every thing in sight plus
everything that started to grow. I don’t blame on them as they were cutting
down a complete jungle and they couldn’t know what I had going on below the
earth. I saw my beloved kale and other veggies lie limp and dead on the soil…<i>sob, sob</i>. I gave my house girl what
remaining seeds I have and I’ll have to wait again for another jungle to
appear.<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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Random rants:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->I gave a seamstress/good friend a fabric to make
a blouse and skirt outfit. It took her 3 months before after some nice reminder
from me that I’d like my blouse to be finished. <i>Pretty please?</i> It’s not that she was super busy, it’s because it
was just sitting on her shelf collecting dust and spider webs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->I’m doing the favor for a secondary school in
which I need to travel and the expense is out of my own pocket to teach health
topics and French. The head teacher doesn’t get back to me if the schedule I’m
proposing is suitable for his school. Eventually, I called and it’s
resolved…but why couldn’t he get back to me? I could have taught 2 weeks
earlier!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Now that my village has a tap water system, I no
longer have to hoard rain water, but I still do as old habits are hard to
break. When I was out of water, I was waiting for the rain, which I looked
forward happily to black gloomy clouds. Conversely, when I had laundry hanging
to be dried, I was waiting for the sun to quickly dry my wet clothes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->4.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Cooking beans and corn take forever even if I
soak them for an entire 24 hours! The Tanzanian varieties are really little
pebbles disguised as beans and corn.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->5.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Waiting for family and friends’ package from
abroad takes a while and when it arrives, I feel like a castaway finally being
rescued after 10 years.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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This is the culture
and when in Rome, do as the Romans. When in Tanzania, do as the Tanzanians... <i>just wait. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Wendy S. Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3646219605603092371.post-41685869548959141702013-05-06T13:06:00.002-07:002013-05-06T13:06:43.444-07:00A Bug’s Life <br />
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A Bug’s Life<o:p></o:p></div>
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Possibly due to the colder climate now and near daily
sweeping of my house, it appears that I have fewer bugs at home….that, or I am
in the insect world known as the <i>Hitler </i>with
a reputation of being the bug exterminator<i>.</i>
They are still wholeheartedly unwelcome in their visits to my abode, but what I
have noticed is that living in the country and seeing these creatures for 7
months have trained me to become emotionally and visually immune to them. Initially,
their sight absolutely disturbed me and there was a point where I experience
anxiety when I’d be caught off guard. Now, with 7 months of this “experiential
therapy”, I’m confident to say I’m somewhat “<i>cured</i>”. I no longer shriek and the real test is I no longer bother
to even be their Grim Reaper. <i>Not really.</i>
I let them be, for the most part. It’s probable that I’m just a lazy mofo, but
now I let them hang on my walls, floor, or wherever they like to rest is fine
by me, unless they are getting into food, my clothes or somewhere they shouldn’t
be…like one time I found them inside my shampoo bottle. Yes, shampoo fortified
with bug protein for that strong silky feel. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Geckos are the worst for me, but I think again…<i>whatever</i>. I wish they weren’t there, but
I refuse to give them the power over me. I’m big and a human and they are little
nothings. I can’t let these little nothings control big me, the human.<o:p></o:p></div>
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None of these creepy crawlers are technically dangerous. At
least I’ve not yet encountered poisonous kinds. This particular animal kingdom is
just a disgusting nuisance to me. I don’t find them beautiful or cool.
Admittedly, they are interesting in their own perverted alien kind of way. <i>I’m just not a sci-fi kind of chick, so
sorry.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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When I see them, I’m not happy but at least I’m not
genuinely troubled where I’m having a mini panic attack. They are akin to
spilling something on your clothes. The reaction is <i>“oh crap, whatever…not the end of the world.”</i> These lower life
forms are exactly just that…they are puny and they lie low. Technically, they
are not doing anything to me…they are just unwanted and unloved by me and the
majority of the human species. The sight of them elicit apprehension, disgust,
and to the rare few, fascination with <i>oohs
and aahs</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s great that we have a defense mechanism. My defense to
these bugs, insects, creepy crawlers, and mofos are just to not let them "bug"me anymore. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Wendy S. Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3646219605603092371.post-59400883711689047462013-05-06T12:12:00.001-07:002013-05-06T12:12:25.621-07:00My First Birthday in Tanzania: The Bash That was Almost a Bust<br />
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May 6, 2013 </div>
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I was stoked, big times when I turned the big 40. Honestly,
I wanted to get to the point and stop lollygagging with the late 30’s. Come on
40’s…bring it on! I’m definitely happier as each year passes and moreover, with
each decade. Frankly, I don’t want to be in my 20’s again; although, I had
fuller lips, my legs were beautiful and shapely back then and I had no telltale
signs of having given birth to a human. Like the genie in Aladdin, <b><i>freedom
is all what I want</i></b>. When you’re in your 20’s… you’re broke, have pressure
about future, and worse is not knowing what the hell you want to be and do… let
alone knowing who you truly are. Oh and
the worse is “<i>why doesn’t he call me?”</i>
I’m still not rich; clueless about my future, and still figuring out what I
want to do, but at least I know who the hell I am…and it’s usually me who
doesn’t call. The difference in my psyche is that now, I truly don’t give a
hoot about any of that. I’m free from it. I’m just happy to get up from my bed
in the morning and still have my memory and can pee and walk by myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Turning 45 is no big rip. I feel good and am young at heart.
The realization I am having is that I’m now approaching the next decade, the
big 50. Okay, honestly, I don’t know if I’m totally cool with this. I’m now
slowly but surely walking down the path of Depends, Medicare, buying hair dye
by the crate, and God forbid I shop at Chico’s. <i>No offense,</i> <i>Chico fans</i>.
All of my friends are a bit older than me, so I apologize friends if I have
offended your sensibility on your ages…I may be a grandma in no time. My mother
became a grandmother at the age of 46! I told my kid, <i>get prego now and don’t look at me as your granny babysitter ‘cause
I’ve just begun to live and I ain’t lettin’ no pet and no baby tie me down, thank
you very much!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Last year I spent my birthday in Goa, India where I chilled
at this beach town for 6 weeks just doing what you do at beach towns…nothing.
Actually, that’s not entirely true. At an Indian hospital is where I completed
my exams for Peace Corps medical clearance. I read all books written by Chetan
Begat, overdosed on sugar cane juice which it’s just a matter of time before
I’m diagnosed with diabetes type 1 and 2 combined, ate lots of seafood and
drank lots of tiny cups of chai and Signature whiskey and smoked shitty Indian
cigarettes when offered. The actual day, May 6, was uneventful; although, I
wore my expensive saree to a friend’s house where his wife cooked chicken curry
and chapatti and I was given the only chair, white and plastic, while everyone
sat on the floor. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This year, I decided to do something just for the sake of
doing something ‘cause I can and it’s my damn birthday so why the heck not?
I’ve drawn and made invitation to invite some people over to my village crib
for some birthday action. I’ve invited all the teachers at the 2 primary
schools, 3 medical personnel at the dispensary, some young dudes and ladies are
who are my closest friends, and some village leaders and other figures who I
deem appropriate. Over 30 some guests invited. Due to the recent soccer ball
soap opera fiasco, I’ve decided to be kosher and invite *Machiavelli and *The
Muppet Show as a sign of friendship and that all is good in my hood. <i>“Look, I’m not angry. I’m inviting you to my
birthday gig, so I can’t be angry, right?”</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>*Characters in a
future blog currently in production. And what a story it is! Stayed tuned,
folks. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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I gave money to my house girl and asked her to travel into
town on Friday, May 3 to buy the provisions necessary for the <i>partaaay</i>. Originally, we would go
together but I plan to go to town to work and run some errands so instead of
doing the dreaded ride again, I’ll let her shop for me and I’ll go in couple
days later. Also, I hate missing to teach class. I’m doing “malaria month” and
I want to finish up the lessons.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I ended up not teaching that day as a friend and I had to
walk the village to hand deliver invitations that haven’t been given out yet. <i>I have no clue who lives where and needed a
guide</i>. I also had to find the owner of the shack store to order 2 crates of
sodas because no partaaay in Tanzania is complete without sodas, and lastly to arrange
some furniture and place some colorful kanga over tables just to make my crib
more festive and attractive. <i>Trust me,
there is nothing attractive in houses situated in a farming community in
Africa. My house is probably deluxe, primo, top drawer, and awesome compared to
other houses in a rural village. </i>Huge heavy bags of tomatoes, potatoes,
rice, meat, and other food items were delivered first. (she over bought, big
times) I don’t know where my house girl was, but I supposed she asked a lorry
who was coming into my village to drop off the stuff while she attended to a
cake I’ve asked if she can try to either bake or buy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My birthday party was at 2PM on a Saturday, May 4. My house
girl didn’t return into our village until Saturday at 12:30PM! <i>Holy crap, who’s going to cook?!</i> I have
a very keen and sensitive intuition that before an event happens, I can already
feel nervousness, as a prediction of something not smooth will happen. I woke
up feeling very okay and I thought, worse come to worse if there is no food on
time, nobody in my village expect I can cook Tanzanian food for a small crowd
by myself. <b>Plus, this is Tanzania where
everything and everybody is LATE! <o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Make a long story short, at 10:30AM, a friend had to call
the help of other friends to come cook. This was my house girl’s job to gather cooks.
Obviously, she didn’t arrange that before her departure into town. Finally 3
friends came to my rescue. Meanwhile I am peeling potatoes, grating carrots,
dicing tomatoes while developing Carpel Tunnel Syndrome. More people came to help.
Thank God for these ladies who know how to cook for a crowd. Cooking in
Tanzania is punishment, if you ask me. Firewood is used and it’s a matter of
years before you develop some kind of respiratory tract infection, lung cancer
or blindness from the wood smoke. These ladies huddled in a log cabin cooking
for me. You see them grimace as the smoke is overwhelming but they are strong
to be able to withstand hours of being in a smoke filled room. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s 2 PM and food is not ready. Thank <i>Mungu</i>, (God) that Tanzanians are late for everything. I’m not
German but I might as well be as I’m consistently punctual and even minutes
early. One friend arrived earlier but he bicycled from a nearby village, which
is an hour away. Few arrived an hour later at 3PM and still food is not ready. <o:p></o:p></div>
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People started to come at around 4PM, I suppose. Out of 30
something guests I invited, only 10 came. I had a total of 14 at my party.
Aside from giving out the invites last minute where some people had prior
obligation of family emergency and needing to go into town, here is what
happened:<o:p></o:p></div>
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*Without divulging too much as this deserves its own story,
as it’s something interesting, pathetic, ridiculous, and totally unnecessary…but
mostly, it’s a study in human nature. There is an “issue” in my village
involving myself and the village leaders, which comprise of government leaders
and those in the higher position in a village setting. The community is divided
between supporting them or me. To be politically correct and absolutely kosher,
I invited these figures…or characters as a sign of friendship and camaraderie
with no hard feelings. When I personally handed my handmade party invitation to
them, they were smiling and friendly, so outwardly, we are fine as we still
greet one another. Truth is, I don’t care if they come or not because I don’t
“hang” with them anyway, but again, in life, one must do what is appropriate
and not what one always wants. Aside from the village leaders not showing, others
did not attend for fear of appearing to be “on my side” even if they think I’m
right and do support me but again, people rather be in the majority and not
rock the cradle and be a <i>rebel.</i> The
villagers are easily persuaded and think their leaders are right since that is
what they are being told. A teacher told me that the uneducated villagers have
“low vision and don’t know how to think”, hence they are easily led to believe
whatever the government tells them. The founder of my village and the longest
running chairman was invited to my party. He asked if the current chairman was
coming to my party. He said that he would attend only if the other comes. When
I heard this from a friend who shared this with me, my thought was <i>“Holy Batman, are you serious? He’s 85 years
old and he can’t come on his own?”</i> This is a prime example of not strapping
on your big boy balls and deciding for yourself. People can still come to
celebrate a birthday and put aside their differences. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Things happen for a reason and being the ultimate optimist,
I had an absolutely wonderful time at my own birthday gig with exactly the
people who I wanted to spend time with. Life and association with people should
be about quality not quantity. I had so much fun and felt really loved by those
who came. I was sad that a female teacher and especially a young male friend
couldn’t make it due to his punctured bicycle tires. This young lad is my young
Dalai Lama in that I am his western tutor and eyes to the outside world.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Oh, she was late returning home because of the birthday
cake. I basically told her, go get a cake, go ask someone to make a cake, it
would be great to have a cake...just make it happen! But I did tell her that if
it’s too complicated, dump it! Being the obedient and trustworthy house girl
and now friend that she is…she went to a bakery in a different village and
since there was no pre ordering, she stayed to wait for the cake to be made and
baked. She had to spend the night in town to wait for the cake the next
morning. Being this is village life, she had to wait for a while for either a
motorbike or car to hitch a ride back home. All this effort because I told her
I wanted a cake. <i>Damn, that’s loyalty,
reliability and dependability…you’re hired! <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Tons of food was prepared: beef stew, potatoes, cabbages,
pilau with potatoes and meat, and rice. The next day, kids and friends came
over to eat more food as I invited all to return; it’s like a 2 days birthday
party. <i>I blew my wad feeding a village…I’m
happy to do this.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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I spent a lot of money on food, drinks and whatever
incidentals to make it happen <o:p></o:p></div>
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(half of my monthly living allowance)…but the memory of the
joyful time I spent with these folks was priceless. A friend, unbeknownst to
me, took my Iphone and camera and snapped and videoed away. I’m grateful he
documented my day. <b>Birthdays are no big
deal as everyone has it, but it was a space and time when I was truly</b> <b>happy.</b> My 7 months in country, I can
only think of 2 incidents when I can claim happiness and having fun”. My little
birthday party was the second event. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My Eddy Murphy look-alike friend brought his loudspeaker and
stereo system so we fortunately had music to boogie to…and dancing we did a lot
of. Another friend acted as the bartender as he was in charge of opening soda
bottles and the photographer was also the DJ as music was played from his
phone. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m truly touched by my girl friends who cooked for me, my young
dudes who brought music and my house girl who bought the food and all the
effort just to produce a cake, my birthday cake, so pretty with pink and white
frosting and lovingly wrapped. <i>Honestly,
I was very surprised to see this. Where did you get this? This looks American
or western. It’s too fancy for Africa!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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If I repeat this gig again next year, I’ll be sure to find a
mama in the village who can bake a cake, send our invitations earlier, organize
a small army of cooks and oh, I wouldn’t change my principles or ethics even if
it means being unpopular and nobody comes to my party because in life, I
believe one should stand for what is fair and right. Good will always prevail
and you will gain the respect of those who truly gets the drift. For those who
are unable to see the light, help them understand. If that’s not possible, let
it be.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Today is my actual birthday and I came into town to run
errands on a gloomy Monday: bank, post office, buy phone vouchers, print photos
for friends, buy food, send documents to Peace Corps, communicate with my
family via Skype, and treating myself to a toilet, electricity, hot shower, and
hopefully some stable internet so I may enjoy doing what I love most…reading
friend and family’s birthday wishes via e-mail and Facebook and spending time
by myself writing down my thoughts and ramblings.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Wendy S. Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3646219605603092371.post-2197661023588751782013-05-02T02:48:00.001-07:002013-05-02T02:48:25.516-07:00My little friend died
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21 April 2013</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Today I was asking a friend about a certain gentleman whose lorry I will be riding to a nearby village to speak to the head master about
teaching health topics to his secondary students. I wanted to know how he was doing being that
his son passed away 2 months ago from a sudden illness whose funeral I
attended. It was a big event as the father and son were well respected as they
have contributed much to their respective communities. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My friend told me that recently there was another funeral…another
member of this gentleman’s family had passed away. Sad to learn that not only
did he buried his son not long ago, but whom else did he have to bury again? I
was told it was his granddaughter. My eyes widened and I gasped in disbelief, “<i>Christa?!!?!?”</i> My friend didn’t know the
child’s name but I gave every description about Christa hoping my friend would adamantly
respond <i>“NO”.</i> After confirming my
answers, my heart sunk when I learned it was indeed she. Here is the story of how
I met Christa.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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One late afternoon after finished teaching, I was walking on
the end of my street to go hunt for food as a friend told me that cabbages could
be found in that direction in a shack store. If I don’t find food, then I
really had not much to eat for dinner so I was on a mission not to starve that
evening. As I am walking, I see no cabbages or really anything for sale at
shack stores except tomatoes and onions. I continued walking and at the same
time, I wanted to find and visit Pesa Mbili’s store. He is a “well known” old
man who has a lorry where people pay him to take them into town to buy bulk sodas,
dried goods and whatever mumbo jumbo they can sell back at our village. He has
a timber production and a shack store selling petrol in addition so I’d venture
to say he probably <i>has money</i>
according to the villagers’ standard. I entered his store, not knowing it was
the store I wanted to visit, and discovered there was nothing special but a lot
of kangas for sale. I asked him, at the time not knowing he is Pesa Mbili,
where I can buy cabbages as I was told there was some for sale in his area. He
directed me to the house in front of his store. I thanked him but doubtful,
because I saw nothing. I entered a house and a young man tells me there is no
cabbage for sale. Frustrated and confused, I returned to the old man and asked
again where these cabbages are. He took me to the same young man and we were
told again that he had none to sell. This old man, feeling sorry for me and
knowing that the white person has no farm to live off of, has a heart and asked
his wife to go fetch me some pumpkin leaves. I was grateful for his kindness
and I followed his wife and a young girl tagged along. As we walked together to
their field, I am making chitchat. The young girl confidently said to me, “ If
you want, you can speak English”. Surprised, I turned around to look down at
the child. My thought was <i>“why</i> <i>yes, my Swahili sucks ….and who are you?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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It was right there and then I first took noticed of this young
girl as I was speaking to her grandmother and hadn’t paid attention to her
following us. So we began to talk and shortly I discovered it was her father
who had died. With empathy, I told her my father passed away too when I was 12
years old just like her. Instantly, I saw her eyes light up and with delight,
as there was comfort in her dark eyes suggesting that she is not alone. Certainly,
it made her feel good to know a complete stranger, maybe a foreigner, could
relate to her. We immediately bonded once we shared this common tragedy. We
exchanged names and I will always remember her telling me that she liked my
name, <i>Wendy</i>. What was remarkable
about Christa was her maturity and strength. She was in my village to attend her
father’s funeral, she was resilient and in a million years, one would never
have guessed that this child just buried a parent. She spoke in a very
matter-of-fact fashion and was wise beyond her 12 years of life. She spoke
highly of her father and given that this kid had a very good command of the
English language, her father did a wonderful job raising her, as he was the one
who taught her English. The father had a good profession and understood the
importance of education and speaking English well. I told Christa that her
father must have been a good man and father.<i>
</i>Christa revealed that she did see me at her father’s funeral. That is when
I found out that her grandfather is Pesa Mbili. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was impressed with this young girl’s confidence and knew
she would go far in life if she chose to. I invited her to my home. Moreover, I
think she needed a friend in this time of mourning. The next morning, 3
visitors woke me up from my sleep: Pesa Mbili, his grandson, and granddaughter,
Christa. They briefly stopped inside my house to inform me that Christa will
visit me alone in the afternoon after grandpa takes his grandkids to the next
village to eat meat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mid afternoon, Christa came and coincidently another friend arrived
at the same time for a visit. I was hoping to be alone with Christa because my
friend does not speak English and for her to sit in our conversation may be
boring …<i>but whatever, welcome to my house
everyone. When in Tanzania…karibu! </i>As I am conversing with Christa, I
discovered how ambitious she was. I dare say it’s not everyday in Tanzania I
will meet a 12 years old girl who thinks of becoming a lawyer of international
law. Her English was better than the teachers in my two primary schools or the
secondary schools I’ve visited. I can totally imagine that her father must have
been extremely proud of his daughter for she was a smart cookie who was
articulate and precocious. I offered her every snack food that existed in my
home ie little bags of popcorn and cookies and gave her whatever I could scrounge…box
of new crayons and pens as souvenirs of our acquaintance. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We met again the next day because I rode in her
grandfather’s lorry to go into town. I sat next to Christa in front of the
lorry and as we stopped at the next village, I see a teenage girl who came
unexpectedly to my home the week before. I called the girl over who was
standing on the street. <i>“Christa, ask
this girl who she is and why she came to my house. I didn’t understand what she
was saying to me when she came over.”</i> I was not happy that this teenager
who now sees me pretended not to know me. Christa translated my question and
this teenager’s answers were totally illogical. I think she’s a mental case: a
hungry 14 years old that knows a foreigner lives in the house and just wanted
to check her out, the house out, and especially the kitchen out! <i>Karibu, I guess…I did offer her popcorn as
the beans I was cooking was not ready. She must have wanted food as she kept
inquiring the whereabouts of my kitchen and asked couple times to see it and
wanted to know what I was cooking.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was the last I saw of Christa…arriving into town. I had
even thought of inviting her to join me in my running of errands. I needed to
go to bank, post office, and buy food…these chores are easier done alone and
wouldn’t be terribly exciting for a kid so I never bothered asking. <i>Although, why did she come into town? She
knew I was going to ride the lorry and maybe this was her way to indirectly
hang with me again? She would have to also run errands with the driver and my
errands are more interesting than his…surely. At least she could practice
speaking English with a foreigner, which may be somewhat fun for her.</i> I went my way and thought we would ride
together again on our way back to my village. I knew she would be returning to
her town in northern Tanzania in couple days. She missed a week of school to
come to my village to bury her father who didn’t live in my village either. His
body was transported from his town. When my plan changed that I didn’t take the
lorry back into town, I missed the opportunity to see Christa again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is sad that Christa is no longer around…for I believe her
family, friends, community and perhaps even Tanzania have lost a potentially shining
star. I’m confident she would have been a successful person where she would be
an inspiration to young women in Tanzania as gender equality is still not up to
par.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tomorrow I may or may not see Pesa Mbili. I truly don’t
know what to say to this man. He has lost his son and granddaughter in a span
of only 2 months. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The good die young.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, you may be wondering what Christa died from. She
suffered tuberculosis. Yes, it is amazing that we are in the 21<sup>st</sup>
century and people can still die from this disease. Well, I am a Peace Corps Health
Extension Worker stationed in Africa to teach health and prevention. I will
dedicate my teaching of health topics to Christa…Rest in peace, little angel. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
22 April 2013<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This morning I boarded the lorry and soon shortly, Christa’s
grandfather sat next to me. He was holding a little girl, his other
granddaughter, I am assuming. I asked
him how he was and how was Christa…hoping he would either lie to me or tell me
someone else died. His reply to me while giving me a big wide smile was “<i>alikufa!”</i> (She died) I looked into his
eyes for a while to see if there was real happiness behind that wide grin or him
pretending not to be sad just to appease me since he knew I was fond of his
granddaughter. I saw peaceful acceptance. I asked him how. He spoke and what I
took away from his explanation was that she missed her father too much. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rest in Peace, little angel…you are now with your beloved
father. <o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Wendy S. Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3646219605603092371.post-65462026200495239512013-04-19T08:43:00.000-07:002013-04-19T08:43:12.892-07:00Malaria World Day is April 25
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As a Peace Corps Health Extension Worker in Tanzania, to
educate on the topic of Malaria is of utmost importance given that it is
endemic in this country and to some extent, the continent of Africa, namely Sub-Sahara.
Malaria is curable if treated promptly; but mostly, it is preventable…and this
is where we come in to educate the host national communities the gravity of the
consequence if precautions are not properly exercised. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In 2008, there were 247 million cases of malaria and nearly
one million deaths – mostly among children living in Africa. In Africa a child
dies every 45 seconds of Malaria, the disease accounts for 20% of all childhood
death.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Malaria statistics in Tanzania:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">•<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]-->Malaria
kills <b>750,000</b> people annually. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">•<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--> 90% of those deaths are in <b>Africa</b>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">•<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--> Most of those are <b>children</b>. (80% under
the age of 5)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">•<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><b>1
in 12 children </b>die before their 5<sup>th</sup> birthday<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">•<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><b>14
to 18 million cases of malaria </b>are reported each year <o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;">•<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]-->This
accounts for over <b>40% of all outpatient cases </b><o:p></o:p></div>
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First and foremost, what is malaria? For those living in
countries with temperate climates where this problem is less prevalent or virtually
a non-issue, malaria like other tropical diseases: leprosy, cholera, scabies, Dengue
and other hard to pronounce names ending with either –asis or -osis may be
completely unfamiliar and a total mystery to many. To some, the word malaria may
conjure exotic images of daring adventurers on expeditions wearing khaki
colored safari clothes glistening in sweat on the verge of death in a tent staked
out next to a river by a jungle in a tropical locale. There may be a romantic
notion only because you’ve probably seen the leading man or woman in an epic
movie heroically dying of malaria. In truth, there is nothing sexy about
malaria because it can kill and mostly it happens in Sub-Sahara Africa. Let’s
get the boring dry stuff out of the way. Malaria is a tropical disease where
the infected female pregnant Anopheles mosquito injects its saliva containing
the parasite, Plasmodium Falciparum. Five
species of <i>Plasmodium</i> can infect and be transmitted by humans. The vast
majority of deaths are caused by P. falciparum and P. vivax, while P. ovale and P. malariae cause a generally milder form of malaria that is rarely fatal. The zoonotic species P. knowlesi, prevalent in Southeast Asia, causes malaria in Macque monkeys but can
also cause severe infections in humans. The deadliest is the Falciparum
and this strain is of concern in Tanzania. This infected pregnant female
Anopheles mosquito bites a human and feed off its blood. Malaria has a complex life
cycle. Infected female mosquitoes inject malaria sporozoites when they bite,
and the sporozoites are carried quickly through the bloodstream to the liver
where they rapidly infect liver cells. Without causing symptoms, these
sporozoites undergo a radical change and multiply furiously for the next 4-5
days. Tens of thousands of asexual stage merozoites are released from each
infected liver cell, each of which rapidly target and invade a red blood cell.
Every few days, the merozoites multiply ten-fold and burst out to infect other
red blood cells. This cyclic and massive increase in parasite burden gives rise
to the clinical disease we recognize as malaria. Because of their large
numbers, these parasites can cause particular damage to the nervous system,
liver, and kidney. Death may result if not treated. In the absence of immunity
or drug treatment, death can occur within hours of noticeable symptoms. If
death does not occur and infection continues, some of the parasites further
differentiate into a form that is infectious for mosquitoes, thus permitting
the life cycle to continue. Inside the mosquito, the parasite matures until it
reaches the sexual stage where it can again infect a human host when the
mosquito takes her next blood meal, 10 to 14 or more days later.</div>
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At the village
level, the scientific process of transmission is not so much discussed as its
biology is complicated and moreover, awareness and education is primarily
focused on prevention, testing and treatment. Stomping Out Malaria in Africa is a Peace Corps initiative
that uses strategic partnerships, targeted training Volunteers and intelligent
use of information technology to support the local malaria prevention efforts
of over 3,000 Volunteers in sub-Saharan Africa. As Health Extension Volunteers,
we have a responsibility to get the information to the community not because
the locals are ignorant of malaria, but we are to remind them of all the
necessary ways of prevention, the importance of proper testing at a medical
facility and not self diagnosis which results in self treatment which is
dangerous and irresponsible, inform pregnant mothers the need to be on malaria
prevention drugs, and equally important is dispelling myths and misconception
of how malaria is contracted. In a culture that is heavily ingrained in beliefs,
it can be challenging to suddenly inform people that sleeping under a mosquito
net does not cause impotence, skin infection or slow death and consumption of
green mangoes, the change of environment, sun, sorcerers, and dirty water does
not cause malaria. <o:p></o:p></div>
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People tend to be attached to their beliefs and behavioral
change can be difficult. One simple and effective way of malaria prevention is
to sleep under a treated mosquito net since the infected mosquito feeds from
evening until dusk. The change of attitude to take action may take a while, but
at least they are informed, aware, and educated. The rest is the motivation
that they have witnessed loved ones die from this disease that can be prevented
with honest effort. Malaria also has dire economical consequences as students
are absent from school, employees missing work, and productivity and production
in jobs are down hence finances suffer greatly. Malaria can decrease gross domestic product by as much as
1.3% in countries with high disease rates. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In my village
located in the cool Southern Highlands where malaria cases are low, it is not
to be discounted that malaria education is not necessary or there is no urgency
to educate. Contrary, education should be immediate as they may be less aware
than those living in areas where malaria is prevalent. Additionally, they may be less immune which is
another danger. If a villager starts to display symptoms of malaria, but due to
the lack of malaria knowledge, he may not know he has contracted malaria and
will bypass testing and will self treat with inappropriate drugs. I teach school students, pregnant mothers at the village health dispensary
and train teachers and other community members about malaria awareness so they
will continue to spread the gospel of effective prevention and testing of
malaria. April 25 is World Malaria Day and I will be concentrating my efforts
on malaria education for the entire month with a weekly plan of different
activities using interactive games for participation, sharing a children’s educational
radio program with characters telling stores about malaria, and hands on
activities. Getting kids to understand malaria and creating excitement about
what they have learn can impact not only themselves but their families and
peers as hopefully the students will proudly share what they have learned with
others. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For
more information go to: stompoutmalaria.org<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvLG3pMMLDCPUb4Ku-FGdojMtKMG68D_PLw8ikrENxT04w_ftHqNIG8Ma801JGxD2p24hVor7PJwcPaJ7AioIxx7leJxZnWMLySyQTAVatcRj-9SeWMxLPmZFJViBV-2RX1C4IIjywSxM/s1600/P1090350.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvLG3pMMLDCPUb4Ku-FGdojMtKMG68D_PLw8ikrENxT04w_ftHqNIG8Ma801JGxD2p24hVor7PJwcPaJ7AioIxx7leJxZnWMLySyQTAVatcRj-9SeWMxLPmZFJViBV-2RX1C4IIjywSxM/s640/P1090350.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Students have a base knowledge on malaria; nevertheless, further education is needed to dispel myths, explain transmission process, remind them the importance of various prevention methods and the need to test if one suspects having contracted malaria<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD7nBUEqFQ7Oe0RaaKovoLqrOjQ8jEahF9aG-X-dZuqpzoECeS6dq4kix8B59ivNTzP6PonJSXTV5KDcH00rU-8-sTCkQgnu_hAQIoxaTuIu9Tgf4QxBduyCuKkTdevMONSml6lc7au_M/s1600/P1090351.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD7nBUEqFQ7Oe0RaaKovoLqrOjQ8jEahF9aG-X-dZuqpzoECeS6dq4kix8B59ivNTzP6PonJSXTV5KDcH00rU-8-sTCkQgnu_hAQIoxaTuIu9Tgf4QxBduyCuKkTdevMONSml6lc7au_M/s640/P1090351.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<o:p> Teaching secondary school students about malaria transmission, prevention, testing and treatment</o:p></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Wendy S. Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3646219605603092371.post-77272731564712637792013-04-18T01:22:00.001-07:002013-04-18T01:22:19.266-07:00The 6 Months Mark
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April 3, 2013<o:p></o:p></div>
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Time passes like sand through fingers and
an obvious milestone has been remarked. Already, half a year has passed since I
left my family, my home, and the comfort of easy living. I have no problem
temporarily forgoing all the easily accessible amenities to live in a
developing country where poverty abounds and more intensified in rural villages. The
following are 13 things that continue to still either fascinate or challenge
me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->My first notable positive experience is the
honesty of the Tanzanians. Although they are economically challenged; from my
experience, they are trustworthy people. Relationship between people is an
important aspect of Tanzanian life and culture; therefore, they strive for
smooth relationship dynamic. Unlike the developed world, individuality and ego
are not concepts one aspires or is even in the radar of their conscious
awareness. Needless to say, crime and bad-intentioned people exist in every
corner of the globe and some Peace Corps Volunteers may disagree given the fact
in the past month, there have been numerous accounts of thievery and robbing. These
acts of crime have been boldly committed in broad daylight, among a big group
of people and even in hotel rooms. Even being in the presence of a crowd, being
out in the daytime and locking your hotel room is still not bullet proof
guarantee that you are safe from crime of opportunities. I am almost always
alone, I travel alone, I like being alone, I want to be alone and I need to be
alone. I would be the perfect target given I am a single woman…
alone. I’ve positioned myself in situations where “technically” one would
consider it a bad idea; but my unfailing intuition has thus far served me well
as my encounters with strangers in said questionable scenarios have only been
godsends to me. I am in daily gratitude for my safety and well-being. Time and
time again, regardless of which continent I am in, human beings are inherently
good. People for the most part do what is right and kindness usually prevails. What
I find noteworthy is that they are in no great hurry to be paid for their
services or goods. It is always they who remind me of my due change and even
money has been returned or questioned when I have either overpaid or have
already paid. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->I hesitate to shake people’s hands as they are
usually always moist and it feels somewhat greasy and sweaty. I will assume the
perpetual griminess of the right hand because they eat with their hands instead
of utensils and hand washing with soap is not readily practiced. There is no
hot running water in villages because there is no plumbing and sometimes no
electricity. Before eating, a jug of water is slowly poured over the hands. In
truth, this is just wetting the hands. Soap is not common to use when washing
hands. I recall back during Peace Corps Pre-Service Training, our first
hands-on practice was teaching primary school students the importance of hand
washing with soap. I understand why. A common practice we take for granted in
developing nations is something here in Africa that still needs to be taught
and reminded. In Tanzania, many health problems amongst children and adults are
all related to the lack of proper personal hygiene practice causing diarrhea,
parasitic worm, skin and eye infection, and respiratory tract infection.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->I find it extremely heartwarming that a stranger
will always welcome you to their home with the greeting of “<i>karibu</i>” which means <i>welcome</i>. There is no sense of needing privacy or is making
appointments necessary prior to a guest’s arrival. Their hospitality is truly
genuine. If you happen to visit during meal times, food will be offered. The
hospitality of the Tanzanians is admirable. I am always touched when I hear <i>karibu </i>from Tanzanians. This is their
welcoming you to their country, region, village, home, shop, restaurant, and
etc.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->4.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->An unsavory sight is watching men and women pick
their noses. A finger is shoved in the nostril and the digging commences. This
act should be reserved in private and not performed in public; however, the locals
have no qualms picking their noses in front of people, as this is culturally
acceptable and commonly seen.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->5.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->The villagers appear content and satisfy with
their life and hard work. I have yet to hear complaint, woes, sob stories, and emotional
guilt trips to the perceived <i>rich white
person </i>for solicitation of sympathy and monetary aid. I would even say they
might seem more at peace than their white counterpart in that they seem to be
completely accepting of their situation. When there is no attachment or
expectation to anything, usually one does not suffer.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->6.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->I am fascinated by the harmonious evenness of
their skin color. Unlike their pale counterparts with facial discoloring of
redness, brown/age spots, dark bags, and other skin issues…the African skin
looks like a canvas of perfectly coated paint of dark chocolate or black
coffee. At night or in photographs, their darkness recedes and only the white
of their eyes and teeth glimmer. <o:p></o:p></div>
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</span><!--[endif]-->I am even more fascinated with their hair
capillary. The African hair is a “S” type of hair. If you take a strand of
their hair and put it under a microscope, the shape of the capillary is a “S”
shape. This is type #4: kinky hair. The African population who has not been
intermixed with other races all has the same hair texture. There is no variety
like Caucasian hair where colors and textures come in an assortment. If you let
the natural African hair grow out, it becomes an Afro. This Afro can become big
like a helmet because of the tight curls, as there is no weight so there is no
length to be weighed down. The hairstyles that one can create from this hair
texture are amazing. The braiding and the patterns created are visually
interesting. Sometimes, hair extensions are added for thickness and length. I
have also seen pieces of sisal in different shapes, colors and patterns being
sewed into the hair for further ornamentation. The creativity of the hair
plaiting is fun to look at.<o:p></o:p></div>
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</span><!--[endif]-->The body odor of people, regardless of race and
culture, is something I struggle to overcome. Like the hassle of hand washing,
it’s an assessment of the living condition of an undeveloped area where hygiene
and sanitation is still in the dark ages. If I were to analyze why unpleasant
body odor is prevalent, here would be my take. Africa is hot and the majority
of people are laborers and farmers, which means physical activity to the max
under the harsh sun. Sweat translates to eventual bacteria growth, which
produces stench as an assault to the nose. There is no plumbing in villages and
water need to be obtained from wells, stream, river or if the village is
fortunate enough to have a tap water system where you can collect water from a
running spigot. Regardless of the water source, you need to fetch the water in
a bucket and carry it back home. It’s labor intensive. In “colder areas”,
bathing is not that appealing given the perceived unnecessary need to bathe
daily. To buy soap costs money and if you bathe everyday, the soap runs out
quickly. Shampoo is not readily available for purchase. If you find it in a big
town, it’s expensive. Tanzanians wash their hair with bar soap, the same soap
they use to wash the body. I’ve asked a teacher in my village approximately on
average, how often do people bathe. He answered not everyday. He said once a
week or when you know you’ll be meeting someone important the next day. Given
that almost every single person farms in my village, I’m baffled with the idea
of the once a week bathing routine. When I enter a church, a classroom, a
public transportation or even an individual coming to my home... I am greeted
with obnoxious body odor that makes me want to start a mass distribution of
soap as a community service even if it’s self serving…namely to spare my own nose.
In the seldom occasion I smell perfume or cologne on someone, I become indebted
and want to thank them for making me smell something pretty and feel that there
is hope. I suppose if I carry Tiger Balm everywhere I go, I could somehow
manage this problem by swiping a glop under my nose whenever I’m attacked by
foul body odor. I write a lot about body odor because I fortunately or
unfortunately, have a keen sense of smell where the living and working
condition of the population exacerbates this “problem”. <i>My problem.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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</span><!--[endif]-->I am visually disturbed when I see tons of flies
swarming around food market, food stalls, and street eateries. Even in my own
house, I don’t understand why but I have tons of fruit flies in my kitchen. I
struggle to find a safe good place to store my food, as I have no refrigerator. I am fastidious with cleanliness, yet these
sons of the bitches won’t go away.<o:p></o:p></div>
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body is constantly in a perpetual state of itchiness. I scratch daily and have
scabs and red bumps from insect bites and God knows what else is eating me
alive. I’ve yet been “itch free” since I have been in country. This unrelenting
bodily itch problem is enough at times to make me want to leave the damn
country and return to my sterile home in America. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->11.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span><!--[endif]-->I
am most fascinated by the booty of the African women. Their fanny is famous and
for good reason. When I was living in Paris, France, I designed and made a
wedding gown for a client. This bride-to-be was of African ethnicity. I will
never forget figuring out how to cut and sew the dress so that it would fit her
very high and protruded posterior. Fortunately, I was successful but I recall
the fear of the dress not properly fitted being the style was very form
fitting. The African booty is magnificent. It rivals Mt. Kilimanjaro in its
grandiosity. For men who like big butts…<i>karibu</i>
<i>Tanzania!</i> For those with a penchant
for daintier bottoms, I would suggest Southeast Asia where women are like lotus
flowers…petite and delicate as are their butts.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->12.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span><!--[endif]-->If
I can learn to shake my booty like a Tanzanian woman, I feel that my 27 months
of Peace Corps service would have been completely worthwhile and mission successfully
accomplished. Being of Asian descent with a voluptuously challenged butt, I
don’t know if I will ever shake my flat fanny like the Tanzanians. I’ve yet to
inquire and research if it’s actually a technique of dancing and specific
movements or their muscle power enabling them to perform such a feat. Or both.
Their Gluteus Maximus are designed to shake, rattle and roll. I am convinced it
is in their genes. I have witnessed very small girls dance where their little
child butts are merely a miniature version of an adult woman. I was blown away
and nothing will persuade me to believe that they do not have the “DNA Dance”
gene in their booty.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->13.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span><!--[endif]-->Lastly,
although I am living without conveniences…(okay, I have a hotplate I cook on if
I have electricity and sketchy internet), living condition is unattractive, simple
tasks and chores can be arduous, unpleasant sensation of constant physical
discomfort from the environment, traveling from point A to point B is
unquestionably tiresome, and the pressure to successfully teach and train
people and complete community development projects can feel heavy…but despite all
obstacles, I feel very much as peace. I take each day one day at a time. Each
morning upon waking, I start to give all my energy and dedication to what I am
doing. When you live alone and in isolation, experiences feel more intense,
thus one is more present and aware of him/herself. I relish my solitude, which
enables me to concentrate on work. To be useful in life and have the privilege
to work is a gift bestowed on us.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Wendy S. Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3646219605603092371.post-88979430278201341192013-03-04T09:03:00.001-08:002013-03-05T05:49:47.604-08:00Blah, blah, blah before Peace Corps In-Service TrainingSince arriving at site and prior to departing for Peace Corps' 2 weeks In-Service Training in several days, I have diligently worked on this 50 pages long report and I've also made a Power Point presentation, my first attempt ever. Power Point is great fun. When you live in a rural village with nothing else going on, Power Point is the equivalent to computer games. What a blast!<br />
<br />
I'm still teaching English to students at Makula and French to students at Image. To my delight, the Tanzanian students have an impressively good French accent. It is a language that most mouths bastardize. It ain't easy sounding elegant and romantic which is the essence and core being of this Romance language. I'm glad and somewhat surprised that my after school French class is a hit and students from standards 1 thru 7 truly enjoy my teaching. Before I started, I had wonder if it would be a dud and an implausible idea thinking they are barely functional in English...and now I'm going to introduce a new foreign language their country don't even speak? Well, I'm somewhat stunned, it's extremely well received; the kids fancy it. I'm pleased. There are many days when I'm truly exhausted from teaching my morning classes, continued research, writing and editing, food coma from gummy-gooey over-priced crap spaghettini and just plain old aging and on top of that...the sloppy, muddy mess outside from the heavy rain because we are in the rainy season....that the last thing I want is to get up from my slanted couch and walk to the next school and work again. Teaching English to 3 classes in the morning can deplete me, because I have Special Ed students. They are taxing to teach, to say the least. When I began, I noticed how the students were unresponsive and appeared to be incapable of learning. It seemed deeper than just plain shyness and fear of a foreigner. To relieve me of my ignorance, some students would inform me who is illiterate, so I would appreciate why they would sit comatose and stare blankly into twilight zone without answering my simple question, even in Swahili. The head teacher and teachers from both schools and villagers have all apprised me that students at this school are residents from this one particular street or sub village, where the population are mostly inbred, which justifies why the students are obtuse. The teachers and I share the difference in the educational system between Tanzania and America. In USA, Special Ed children would belong in one class where a specially trained educator would teach these students with special needs. In Tanzania, there is a shortage of teachers; consequently, normal and problem students intermix. My standard 5 class is nearly half Special Ed. This class is intensely energy sapping as I try to engage them but sometimes to no avail. Working with these children is an exercise for me in practicing patience, compassion and mostly...sensitivity. Aside from their learning disability, I am also dealing with extreme shyness, discomfort with a new teacher, namely a foreigner, and sadly their innate shame and embarrassment. Countless times as I wait for what seems like an eternity to their answer of a simple "how old are you?", I remind myself to imagine their pain and confusion. They are good-natured kids; but unfortunately, being raised in a poor farming village does not make for bright students as they lack basic fundamental educational material and a conducive environment for learning. When there are scarcely books in school to read and study, how can you produce motivated and smart kids? We are in desperate need of books. It's pathetic. There are only 4 textbooks for a class of 25-32 kids to share. At the beginning of teaching; I would ask them to read from their thin English books, but soon realized it was in vain. A group of kids, all huddled together in a circle like football players strategizing the next move, there is no way the students can see and properly read. I told them, forget it..dump the books...just listen to me and copy what I'm writing on the board. Pay total attention to what I'm teaching. Today, I was reviewing English from the manual of Ministry of Education that looks like testing material for standard 7 students passing for entrance to secondary school. Even the manual has errors in it. I've caught 3 mistakes and I'm not even finished with the first page. Although it's easy just to bypass the problem kids; I don't ignore them. (No doubt, my life would be gazillion times more laid-back if I did...and less incoming gray hair) I unfailingly treat them as the others, because I believe no student should be left behind. The truly Special Ed kids, according to the head teacher, receive an additional class to "get them to speed". Often, I find myself yawning and trying to stay awake. I need toothpicks to keep my eyelids open. In a classroom environment where students don't respond, it's like watching paint dry. It's that stimulating. Watching paint dry may be even more interesting as you can see the color turn from darker to lighter. The students are breathing statues. If I want them to be animated, fun loving and talkative, responsive and "alive"....there is one trick. It's call "IPHONE". They go bananas when I whip my phone out as they love their photos or video taken. I am still trying to find the balance of teaching essential subjects, choose an approach for students coming from a different culture and educational background, and be realistic in their learning ability. Probably, what's most crucial is preserving my sanity. It is easy to go mad and batty. I dread the day I'll be pulling my hair out screaming, "I quit!" while stomping off and leaving a trail of chalkboard dust behind me. <br />
If I don't teach them, I can luxuriously sleep in every morning; albeit, the commotion from 414 students from another school in front of my house. I'm genuinely keen on the students though, as they are respectful, docile and sweet little people. Today, I did kick a boy out. Distract, laugh, and don't pay attention in my class will get your sorry ass thrown out from my class. I've been told I can whoop them no more than 6 whacks in a row. Of course, I will never lay my hands on them. Corporal punishment occurs in Tanzania. I don't approve of this and I cry inside when I witness it, which Thank God is seldom where I teach. They are well-behaved students and I'm a steadfast teacher. If I'm dogged in my teaching style; it is only because I want them to learn. Is it a crime to care too much? I try to mix boring grammar with something lighthearted like singing, games and what they enjoy is watching me draw on the board in vocabulary lessons. All the students' appearance are similar. If it isn't for the skirt or shorts; sometimes, I can't tell the gender of the child. The hairstyles are identical; it's either shaved or extremely kept short. Even the names betray their gender. I've seen the most interesting and beautiful names here. Exotic. Many times, I'd call a particular student only to say his or her name out loud. My heart sinks when I see their scalps with infection and body parts dirty with mud from farm work at the school, school sweater uniform so torn that some are literally only wearing loose yarn which amazingly can still be worn and held together as a single unit and the boys' and girls' shorts' and skirts' zippers all broken where I see skin through their crotch opening or side seam from the skirt. Wednesdays are "hygiene day", when students leave school early at 2 PM to wash their uniforms. I suspect not all families will wash the students' clothes. Most likely, they only have one set of school uniform and the clothes may not dry on time for the next morning. When I see the students on Thursdays; frankly, their clothing don't look any cleaner than the day before. <br />
<br />
I've hired a house girl to clean my house everyday. Her duty is simple: Wipe down the ceiling, walls and floors from dust, debris, spider webs, and assorted living and dead bugs and insects. To rid them completely is impossible. After she leaves, I still see a honker beetle or spider on the walls or floor. These creatures are attracted to light; the con, if I happen to have electricity. <br />
Esthetically, there is no difference in the house. It's only for sanitation that I have her do this repetitive chore. Before my young lady arrived to work for me, I was sweeping almost daily. The mini hill of the pile of dust, debris, and tiny corpse were abundant. Outside my house, I am surrounded by farm field and currently a water project is in the work where men dig ditches. Being in the rainy season, debris and dust flies everywhere. Her gig is easy compare to other households who hire a house girl where families have 5,6,7,8 and even 10 children not counting the many chickens. I'm only one person and she does not live with me so her time at my house is short and sweet. I pay her the same wage as if she was a live-in doing everything. I rather give this young, single, 26 years old mother the work. Support the locals and give myself a break, I say! The time I'm not cleaning, I'm resting as I find myself sleepy and fatigued almost daily. I wonder if it is the lack of vital nutrients, complete boredom of this village, the weather which changes quickly and dramatically like Madonna's hairstyle or I'm getting old. Or all of the above. <br />
Her cooking, occasionally I'd ask her to make something, needs to be tempered as she overdoses the dish with oil and salt. Since her presence in my house, my oil and salt supply have quickly diminished in quantity. Tanzanians over cook their veggies. In the USA, we espouse undercooking, if not... eat raw veggies to preserve its nutrient and vitamin. Here, vibrant green color veggies can turn a khaki green and a mushy slop. <br />
<br />
I've completed installing wire screens on my windows to keep critters from futilely coming in. This was the Village Chairman's responsibility before I'm to arrive and live in the village, but asking for something in a village takes forever, so better I handle it myself. Thanks to buddy Glenn, he helped me with this task. He and I on a ladder while one person holds the screen and the other hammers away. I didn't buy enough screens, so I bought more and this time, my Eddie Murphy look-alike friend installed it all by himself. He's 26 years old and a soccer star, so I'll let this young athlete take care of it. I'm pooped. Besides, I'm giving him the leftover remnant of the screens so he can make sieves out of them which is a great idea for recycling. <br />
<br />
The recent, if not major and exciting news in my village, is my gift of 16 balls and a volleyball net to Image Village. The total cost is my 2 months' living allowance. This was money drawn from my American bank account last year to survive on since my Tanzanian bank account got ripped off by no-good scum-of-the-earth hoodlums. This is a lot of money for Tanzanians and also for a Peace Corps Volunteer who is on a budget, living the local standard. The money I spent on the balls would have been a sweet vacation for me. Unquestionably, to give something well loved to a village is more important than me taking a trip. I can always take a trip but Image may never at once receive 12 soccer balls, 2 net balls, 1 volley ball and a net. This idea came about when after speaking with many people, the only thing villagers can partake and watch as a recreation is soccer. I live in a village where there is pretty much nothing going on except 2 primary schools, a dispensary, 6 churches, some hang out to drink locally made alcohol from corn or bamboo, some shack stores and several soccer fields. Crop encompasses everything. I live in an agricultural community midst maize, bean, coffee and tea crop. Everybody is a farmer; even teachers and village leaders are farmers. Unless you farm and are big on worshipping in churches on Sundays...without exaggeration, there is NOTHING going on or to do in Image Village. A soccer match is a "happening day". To my amazement at the "nothingness", villagers confirmed this to me. The gist in Swahili from them was "yep, there is nothing here." Back at my home stay village, at least villagers were out and socialize. My village, you see people mostly walking to and from farm. Sunday is church time. Youths have not much a future since the education system is dysfunctional. This year, tons of kids failed their exam to enter secondary school. The head teacher tells me 65% of the students scored nothing...like, how do you score nothing? I was too busy and intently listening to him explain the weak system that I didn't ask for clarification. There exists no skill training in my village, and many do not pass the exam to continue to secondary school which is equivalent to high school. The people are peasants and they do not encourage children education since they are uneducated themselves. They may wish that their children remain at home and work on the family farm. There is no environment for learning or obtaining inspiration. Unless they advance further to university and find a job to work to make a living, frankly, their future is somewhat bleak. They will live back at home and help with the family farm in which the crop they harvest will feed them. Maize is corn which in turn will be ground into flour which to make their beloved ugali. They eat this 2 to 3 times daily. Rice is expensive so it's usually reserved for special occasions and meat even more costly. Meat is only available if a butcher comes into our village to sell. I have since at site, seen pig and a cow meat for sale twice in the nearly 3 months I've taken residence here. My only protein intake is beans and the desperate splurge of canned fish from back home. I've yet to buy eggs, also expensive. Young girls will get pregnant and or marry early. They may have many children if they abide by the church, who claims birth control is evil. Being uneducated peasants doesn't help either in their unawareness of family planning. Tradition and culture says that many children is a sign of wealth. I don't see how wealthy they are if the brood are wearing threads on their shoulders without shoes and living on ugali and beans. I am taller than most Tanzanian men, never mind the women. This may be a nutrition issue?<br />
So I've rambled and digressed, as I talk about food ad infinitum. Back to the balls: The soccer balls are something that youths can enjoy and to stave from inebriating, drug consumption, and practicing unprotected sex. Engaging in sport is a positive. Soccer is loved world wide, so even a rural village in Africa yearns for professional associations, new gear and competitions. The sport balls give the community inspiration and recreation. Men, women, and children all benefitted...should have picked a lil' ball for the dogs too. Next time, I'm broke now. <br />
Needless to say, the villagers are pleased and grateful for the generosity. Schools and soccer teams have made a production of receiving these gifts as I've been given several 15 minutes of fame. I'm happy to offer a commodity that is loved by all...let's call it a day. <br />
<br />
I've finally purchased a bike. This transport will take me to work in the morning. It's a leftover used bike most likely from mainland China as certainly, there are billions of Chinese bicycles waiting to be recycled. Again, dump what you don't want to Africa. They'll take it; I'll buy it. Riding this two-wheeler makes my ass sore. I live in a hilly terrain with unpaved streets. I am on my bike wobbling and shaking. I think this is what riding a bike feels like during an earthquake. My entire body and ass vibrate vigorously from the bumpy road. At times, I think to myself as I descend the bike to push it uphill..."I'm too old for this gig; where is my convertible Beamer?" Before purchasing the bike, I have agreed to allow the chairman of a group of people living with HIV to borrow my bike, so that he can visit the sick. Couple people told me that he had claimed I was going to buy HIM a bike. Make a long story short, like a country song's title "That ain't so", he was delusional; or as those who are protective have told me that this unfortunately, is the culture here. People will take advantage from a white person, a "mzungu"...because we are all "rich". There has been some occasion when I'm buying my emergency food of fried bread/donut that nearby villagers would ask me to buy one for him or her. A worker digging an irrigation ditch said he was thirsty and solicited a soda from me. I have also traveled into town with a friend and how did it happen that I ended up paying for his bus fares or other small things? My house girl asked if I could give her 600 TZs to buy phone vouchers. Without hesitation, I gave her 2,000 TZs as that's all I had and it will be an advance payment from her monthly salary. Her face sunk. Later, I explained to someone the scene and asked if she was expecting a 600 TZs as a gift. I was told that Tanzanians don't like to receive their partial salary in advance and yes, she was hoping I'd give her the money as a gift. There may be a tendency or expectation that the rich white person will pay. I'll happily oblige these small things, but I have no qualms confronting larger issues. I'm the maitress of confrontation. When I told the HIV chairman that tear and wear on the bike will be inevitable since the terrain is rugged and lumpy, bicycle parts only available in Njombe town, the 3 dinky gears will be over worked and thrashed since the bike will be going down and up hill, and what a hassle to maintain an old Chinese bike...that he helps in the contribution of maintenance since he tells me he has "many people to visit" and needs it often. Ironically, he quickly and disagreeably walked away from my house after I told him this as I sensed immediately his "need" to borrow the bike ain't all for work but for play and convenience. Several trustworthy friends, including his partner co-chairman have advised against letting people borrow my bike, because they will return it broken and say they can't pay for repair. Obviously, it's unthinkable for me to make a peasant pay for my bike's broken parts, although it's only fair they fix what they break. Naturally, the villagers will never feel sorry for the "white person" from America, land of milk and honey. Emotionally, I'm conflicted. I feel petty yet righteous. I want to help and be fair but don't want to be taken advantage and be the white village sucker stuck with the burden. Sometimes, it's not the money spent, but the total and complete pain in the arse hassle to remedy things. Even trying to find food is exasperating, because I don't have a farm where I live off it. My garden in my backyard is a disgrace. I've planted many things, but have gotten lazy to care for it. <br />
<br />
Life is laborious here. I wonder about the local habit. Being the totally thick-skinned person I am, which people either admire/respect or are intimidated/annoyed, I've asked personal questions relating to the personal habits of the Tanzanians. I've asked the following politely but with determination that I want a clear answer. <br />
<br />
1.How do you clean yourself when you do "number two"; do you even wipe?<br />
2. Where do people go for privacy to have sex since there are 20 million people living in the house?<br />
3.Tell me about the women's hair. It's extension, isn't it?<br />
4. How often do people take a bath? Obviously, not everyday right?<br />
5. You guys are okay with eating ugali 2 to 3 times a day for your entire lives? Ain't it kinda boring?<br />
6. So people don't use shampoo, but soap to wash their hair? It's drying, you know?<br />
7. What do women use when they menstruate? And how and where do they ditch that bloody mess?<br />
<br />
I asked several men and women these questions to get a consensus as I like accuracy. The Tanzanians did not throw a plate of hardened leftover ugali and beans at my face screaming, "Get out of our country, you uncouth white person!" At the end of the day, we all gotta do what we gotta do... to Americans, my questionings may be judged as culturally insensitive or politically incorrect. (I think Americans are an over sensitive bunch) On the contrary, they chuckled as they objectively answered me. No big deal. I consider this a "cultural educational exchange". I pressed for more details and they gladly obliged without holding back. They had no problem answering and felt totally natural. This is exactly how I like to talk to people: with honesty. It is what it is. Let's be real and stop pretending that your shit don't stink. <br />
<br />
I have a very young friend who comes to visit me from a neighboring village. I suppose it was "love at first sight" for him to see a white person. Although I am not Caucasian, in Africa, anyone not black is considered "white", like India and probably other countries. He asked for my contact upon laying his eyes on me and had made many attempts to meet. We finally connected and being the fabulous and proper guest he is, this aspiring university bound 21 years old student always come bearing gifts of pineapple and avocados from his family's tree and land. Bring me food and an open door will always await you! He even took a photo of me to show his parents as they are thrilled that their son knows my acquaintance. He would ask friends to bring him to me on their motorbike. I would invite them to stay for lunch. When I know my young friend is coming, I ask my house girl to go hunt for food and prepare lunch. (I think my house girl digs it when I have young male visitors. I've seen some googly eyes and giggles going on) He wants to be exposed to the outside world, be advised and consulted, practice English, ask questions and "learn" from the "white person". I told him I'd happily tell him what he wants and needs to know. This is reverse "Seven Years in Tibet". I am Hans, the Austrian Olympic mountain climber turned Dalai Lama's tutor. He is basically my daughter's age. I'll be his mama...as long as he continues to bring me goodies! There's no free lunch in life, so the saying goes. <br />
<br />
Speaking about lunch, let me elaborate what "hunt for food" looks like for me. Imagine I live in a big, big village filled with farm land. None of it belongs to me. My garden looks like a junk yard, but I do have pigweed growing wildly so I can always eat that, but do you want to eat spinach everyday if there is only one way to eat it? Thank you! Exactly! The shack stores are closed 80% of the time because people, guess where? ....are farming on their land. Their land is their livelihood. They feed off it and sell the surplus. If a shack store is open, tomatoes and onions are the staple. As long as I have a staple of those crappy spaghettini, I can survive on scheisse pasta with tomatoes and onions. On a miraculous day, one may find cabbage, potatoes, some greens and eggs. But again, more often than not, stores are closed and food for sale scarce. Now that I have my house girl, she goes to hunt for me and I give her money. She has to know who is willing to sell what they have or go ask neighbors and villagers for some greens from their garden. The variety is always the same rotated. Hunting means either asking from people, walk the village in hopes that a store is open with veggies for sale or when no one is looking, scrump an avocado from a tree. I've done that once. I swear, I only took one!<br />
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I've received thus far, 3 care packages from friends. Needless to say, what little things will make a poor Peace Corps Volunteer happy is priceless. We're probably thrilled even to receive those difficult to open tiny fast food condiment packages, airline salt and pepper packs, individually wrapped Saltine or oyster crackers that comes free with soup ordered in a restaurant, dehydrated camping food, expired hardened dried food that you wouldn't give your pet and junk we'd normally wouldn't touch or sniff back home are now a total welcomed treat. Standards go down real fast. Taste and nutrition, I've become blind. Aside from the content, for me it's to be thought of and the effort spent to put a smile on my face. Thank you, kind friends. I have to pay heavy duty on packages I pick up. The price I pay for duty is more than I dare say, the worth of the content. It's a fraction of our monthly living allowance or my house girl's 2 months salary. Freaking rip off duty...pisses me off!!! I'm very happy to receive a package; albeit, being poorer. The cost of receiving whatever you don't want from your kitchen pantry's spring cleaning is worth it. Many times when I look at the edible goodies, part of me says, "the kids would love the candies and snacks.. give them some" and then another part would say, "you're the one desperate for food and your generous friends sent it to you...so enjoy it!" Then the voice of reason would explain: "Dude, you have a little amount. How are you going to fairly give? Don't start trouble." Of course, reason wins but I actually feel guilty enjoying my snacks and candies when I know a poor African kid would be in hog heaven receiving goodies from white man's country and getting a taste of it. I will never forget my Tanzanian mama and brother sharing and relishing a Snicker bar I gave them. They ate that bar like it was precious dark gold with peanuts like yellow sapphire nuggets. Mama said it would be delicious with coffee. They took a bite with joy and folded the candy bar to save for another time of bliss. My heart was crying inside as I almost wanted to call my family in USA and ask them to run out to Costco to send me Snicker bars by the case. I later discovered one can buy this in country but way expensive. <br />
I struggle a lot emotionally in wanting to give but for fear of now being the Godfather, where now people will wait in line and tell me their sob stories while I recline in my chair smoking a cigar with my already low and deep dude-like voice saying, "..and what will you do for me? How 'bout some beans and avocados?" I wish I had Oprah and Gates' dough combined. That's a lot of food and schooling for a continent. Me giving or paying something will not solve the big picture of whatever they're suffering from. I've resolve to be here to educate and train. Education is priceless. Before I leave the country, I will give everything away except my Apple products and Kindle. The only souvenir I'll take home is the heartfelt kindness from the Tanzanians. I'll always remember that and be grateful. <br />
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If there is anything keeping me here, it's mostly the children, les enfants, watoto. As I teach, I compartmentalize category of faces. There are ones who I smell intense fear and unease. Another group has blank faces and can't take their eyes off me and at times I wonder what they are thinking...are they even thinking? Can't tell...and another group has an expression of amusement and admiration. Their faces say, "Who is this white person speaking shitty Swahili teaching us English? She's funny, she moves funny and makes funny sound effect. We enjoy watching her. She works hard teaching us".<br />
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One Peace Corps Volunteer in my region Early Terminated and returned home to USA. We are now 38 instead of the original 41. She stated safety and security issues were decisive factors to terminate Peace Corps. How I envy she'll have hot running water, perpetual electricity, and reliable Internet. And I mustn't forget the food, different food. Oh food, glorious food!...And no more bugs! For those contemplating serving Peace Corps, it's 27 months of living...well, per the agency's website, it states plainly that one should prepare to live under hardship. What does that mean? Needless to say, the safety and security are built-in inherent risks. If more people have thought out more in depth and did more research about truly what Peace Corps "looks like", there may be less returning home...family emergency and medical issues non withstanding. Peace Corps serves third world undeveloped sites. What do you expect? Club Med? Peace Corps' slogan: "The hardest job you'll ever love!" Yes, I believe this is so. I'm very tired everyday and I haven't even started what I'm stationed here to do. It most certainly is rewarding and Peace Corps is an admirable agency. I've been told by fellow PCV that we are really spies, unbeknownst to us. I really can not verify. If I share the happenings of my village to the US government, but at the same time educating and assisting in development to the locals, then there is value to being an "espionage", I suppose...I don't know...really. I'm too preoccupied hunting for food.<br />
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Wendy S. Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3646219605603092371.post-51688961336965010822013-03-02T07:06:00.001-08:002013-03-02T07:11:08.497-08:00Sex in the VillageMucho ninos inundate the village; it goes without saying, there's a lot of whoopie going on. As long as you can still breathe, have a functioning genital, and the desire to either reproduce or get it on for fun...every living species "do it"...especially, the male homo sapien variety. So, no big rip. <br />
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Usually, the poorer rural uneducated population birth more children than their more affluent urban educated counterpart. I find this interesting and completely illogical; although, understandably, more humans mean more man power, along with other traditional and cultural believes and practices. <br />
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The million dollar question for me is where do you nooky when a household has many family members living in it? These houses are very small; the walls don't meet the ceiling, and aside from sleeping rooms, there is only one main room in the house which serves as the family/living/dining/office/recreation/the all purpose room. <br />
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I've asked 4 different people this and here's the lowdown:<br />
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****<br />
Fornication in the farm<br />
Copulation on the crop<br />
Sex under the sun<br />
Ravishing in the rain<br />
Fondling through the forest<br />
Bonking amongst the beans<br />
Making love on the maize<br />
Titillating between the trees <br />
...and my favorite<br />
Coitus next to the corn<br />
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Yep, Jack and Jill do it outside in the great outdoors. Total privacy. I've been told that if I go to the farm fields, I'd see bunch of used condoms laying on the dirt. <br />
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Two thoughts simultaneously entered my now troubled mind: <br />
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First: eeewww! Romeo should properly dispose of his love glove; since, children may pick it up and blow into it like a balloon. Kids don't have toys to play with.<br />
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Second: Good job, Romeo...for practicing safe sex. <br />
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I continued to ask my poor friends who have to endure my insistent questioning, "Villagers don't bathe everyday or don't wipe their butts after poo poo...how unsexy is it when they're doing the deed?" Answer: "They can't smell each other's stink." My rebuttal: "Okay, thanks." My troubled mind is now at a complete blank. <br />
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When parents go to the farm to work, the youths may claim this and that as to stay home. Like anywhere in the world, when ma and pop are gone out of the house...it's Sexy Time!<br />
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So in the farm field and in the forest is where Little Red Riding Hood and the big bad wolf play. <br />
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Notice: I have copyrighted the ***names for future porn titles. Wendy S. Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3646219605603092371.post-16714531821905370672013-02-02T15:31:00.001-08:002013-02-02T15:31:57.976-08:00A missed calling?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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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Wendy S. Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3646219605603092371.post-17970088390447741772013-02-02T12:43:00.001-08:002013-02-02T12:45:47.932-08:00Rants...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. <br />
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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!<br />
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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!<br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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". <br />
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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.<br />
Here, villagers live in squalor. If my mother dearest see my living condition and lifestyle, she will not be able to sleep...<br />
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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. Wendy S. Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3646219605603092371.post-78281166063295135462013-01-13T14:33:00.001-08:002013-01-13T15:13:41.730-08:00The 31 Days MilestoneIt has been exactly a month since I have arrived in Image Village as a new member of this sprawling farming community. I have now settled into my abode where I will make my life for nearly 2 years. I'm not quite sure how long it feels; I feel it has been longer than 31 days...maybe 62 days. <br />
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The weather is mild and ultra comfortable. It's basically Southern California weather: t-shirt in the daytime and if you're so inclined, another layer over it in the evening, but not truly necessary, although villagers here dress like it's fall. I suppose for Africa, mid to high 70's is cold. All I can say is that a sweaty, grimey, and sticky feeling is a thing of the past. Bugs will always be a constant no-win battle, though. It has been raining in the mornings, afternoons, evenings and even middle of the night. The rain doesn't last especially long and I welcome it wholeheartedly only because it means I will have an abundance of water as it is truly...scientifically and spiritually... the source of life. In reality, I'm managing all my domestic needs, ie. dish washing, bathing, clothes washing, cooking and just water in general to clean and rinse things. I feel very lucky to have many containers of 2 huge metal milk cans, 3 buckets, and I purchased 2 basins making a total of 3 now and additionally there is a good size plastic container bin and out of greed, I use other big pots and containers to store water. I've become the water hoarder. At night before I retire, I set out the day's collection of dirty dishes, pots, cutting board, colander and cutlery outside for the rain water to give it a first "pre wash" before I use detergent and properly clean it the next morning. No point wasting all that rain water goodness. If there is a heavy rain in the late afternoon and I've been filthy from the day's house work, gardening and cooking and no longer plan to do any more dirty work, I strip naked and "shower" under the heavy rain and take advantage of washing my hair as there is an exact spot under the roof where the rain water pours down with speed and pressure worthy of an acceptable shower head. Rain water is fabulous for the skin. I think it's a wonderful beauty treatment and spiritually therapeutic. My skin feels fantabulous! I've become accustomed to bathing with cold water nightly. It's refreshing and the duration brief. I'm also going to claim that a daily cold bath may strengthen one's body, the immune. Electricity is twice weekly, maybe 3 times; therefore, I light 2 to 3 candles in the kitchen so I have a bit of light when I am outside in my backyard that is completely pitch black when I'm bathing at night. At times, it is disturbing when it is dark as hell and the 8 raised garden beds outside resemble exactly like a grave site but with missing marker or tombstone. I try not to imagine that I have a dead family buried in my backyard because the length and width of the raised soil could easily contain a corpse underneath. When it is night, dark, cold and I'm naked...I try not to look at my garden beds. Instead, I hastily wash and quickly rinse and get the hell out of my backyard as soon as possible. I don't want a zombie rising from the dead from its grave and eating me alive. Especially naked, too. If that's not bad enough, when I need to go to the toilet at night, I go outside to my backyard with my hand crank light. The white light shining on my pitch black backyard cemetery feels as if I'm in "The Blair Witch Project". Living in the dark is scary. I do not have movies, music or any form of entertainment with me. It is by design that I did not bring any except for a kindle to read. I live in solitude and the lack of sound amplifies the aloneness. Living alone in the dark with no sound except for bug noises is all I hear...or the staccato of the rain pounding on my tin corrugated roof. Occasionally, I will hear unfamiliar rustling of something outside the house. I try not to be spooked, but I have my weapons if I need to defend myself. I have no qualm needing to kill a human life in the name of self defense. Since I have no "neighbors" so to speak next to my house, that is why I'm always vigilant if I hear something. <br />
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Presently, there is a water project under construction where workers are digging ditches to run a pipe line or whatever for an eventual tap water system. There will be Domestic Points (a tap water with a spigot) that I can fetch water just conveniently right outside my house. This is fantastic but I will continue to be a rain water hoarder because it is too hard to break old habits and more importantly, nothing beats Mother Nature's gift. Although I love rain for its water that I use daily, the downside is that the village becomes one big muddy slushy slime ville. <br />
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Despite its good size, Image Village is very underdeveloped. The ground that we walk on is completely of red clay and dirt. There is no paved road with cement, concrete or tar. When it rains, a 2 inch layer thick of mud will stick beneath your shoes. Your feet will feel suddenly heavy and soon you understand why. You now have 2 pounds of mud you're lugging around. Your house floor will track dirt and mud. You better have a good memory too with a lightening speed reaction as you'll want to sprint back home to remove clothes hanging from the clothesline or your solar charger or anything else sitting outside under the sun to dry. <br />
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A daily nuisance and moreover a disturbance, is that I've become a Hitler. I massacre massive amounts of bugs on the floor, walls, ceiling and those airborne. As a Buddhist, thou shall not kill. Well, how do I justify this? I think it's obvious. I'll take my chance and see karmically where I'll end up in my next incarnation. My weapons are 2 brooms, cans of bug spray and the most lethal one being my right foot with a heart of rage and fury. If I was wearing green tights, I'd look like I'm imitating Lord of what's-his-face?! Something Flately? Michael? The dude doing the Irish Celtic jig. When there is electricity, needless to say, my life is easier but then the world of insects are attracted to light like the lost souls attracted to that cute blonde kid in the movie, Poltergeist. ( Who died in real life, by the way) Remember that high pitched voice psychic midget granny who instructed to the kid's mother who was going to the other dimension to save her daughter, "Go to the light...!"<br />
Yeah well...I sure didn't instruct or invite the tons of moth and other insects to my lightbulbs and walls and freaking everywhere including them buzzing in my ear and face. Life sucks when you're swarmed by bugs and its times like this for a brief second I say to myself..."f*** this, I'm out of here!"<br />
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Another challenge is food. I live for food. I love food. I may love it more than my own mother who spewed me from her loin, my only daughter whom I spewed from my own loin, my good looking pets whom their mothers spewed from their little animal loins and my foreign language collection of my favorite book "The Little Prince" all together. In a populous village where I live, there's no open market, not even a weekly one. I find myself like a broken record asking the villagers, "mnaenda kununua vyakula wapi? Translation: Where the f*** do you buy grub? Here's the deal: I live in a nation where people live on one food item and it begins with a capital "U". It may be "u"topia for them, but ain't me. Tanzanians' national treasure is ugali. The white play dough that you roll in your right hand into a ball and then stuff it in your face. Yums...the southern Maasai eat ugali and milk. Mmmm...can you say "the white combo"? Ugali is the main staple and for companionship so the ugali doesn't feel so lonely, we'll add some beans and some greens. These side dishes are truly minimal in quantity. Meat is expensive so it's not an everyday affair. It is consumed during special occasions and holidays and it is still not a whopping portion. No big, fat, slab O' meat fest like in U.S.of A. If you raise hen, you can easily eat eggs. Depending on the season, the fruit trees will bear avocados, bananas, breadfruit, passion fruit, pears and plums. Other fruits may be available in my town coming from other region hence the higher price. <br />
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80% of villagers in Image are farmers in that they have a piece of land growing crops. Yes, corn for ugali. Surprise, surprise ! They grow corn, beans, and some greens. The majority of my villagers' crop are for personal use. They live off their land. They take the corn kernel from their corn and grind it into fine flour. The entire population lives on this nutritiously deficient ugali. It's just corn flour, some salt and water. Stir these 3 ingredients until thick and dense and voila...white play dough...Bon appetit! This is filling which is why they love it. Cassava root flour ugali is less filling so they prefer the corn. So, with the people living mostly off their land, they have food to eat, albeit the same things: ugali, beans and greens. There still is a food security problem in my village. A quarter of people don't have enough food to eat. They don't have money to buy fertilizer for their crop to properly grow; hence, their land is not yielding enough food for the size of family they must feed. Another reason is that their farm land is small and a good portion has trees on it where it's not space to cultivate. <br />
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The villagers still need to travel into town to supplement food and other life's necessities. Personally, I don't enjoy going into town. Njombe town is a dump, it's unattractive and depressing. That's basically every town and city in the country, lets be honest. The small public bus leaves my village daily at 6AM in front of my house to journey the 60 kilometer ride into town. A total of 120 kilometers round trip. The ride sucks! It's the human sardine can on wheels. My last trip, I had ass, hips, and assorted body parts shoved in my face. In Tanzania, public transportation falls under the principle of stuffing and cramming as many human bodies physically possible...along with their belongings. I can handle the physical discomfort but for those dedicated reader of my past postings, you know well what kills me. Thats right: THE STENCH of BODY ODOR! I'll take ass in my face any day than sit with someone who hasn't bathe after a good ol' sweaty work out on the farm. (These expressions regarding body odor is not directly intended to claim that the host nationals smell bad naturally as it is genetically something they were predisposed. It's a commentary describing the living condition of a population that struggles with hard manual labor (farm work, cooking with firewood, household chores, etc.) non existence of bathing facilities (running water, let alone hot, bathroom appliances, fixtures and plumbing) and the common knowledge of basic hygiene and proper sanitation. )We arrive in town pass 8AM and I rush to shop or do what I need to do in town as the only one bus returning to Image Village is at 12PM. But this is a lie. Consistently, the bus doesn't leave until 1:30 or 2 PM. Once we depart, we then stop at another village sitting like nimrods for an hour waiting for more bodies to pile in. My ass doesn't get back home after nearly 6PM. All this torture just to buy some repetitive food. I ain't doing no public transport anymore. I have connections now. I'm going into town with a private truck. No more torture ride. <br />
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This is a typical day:<br />
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I wake between 6 to 7 AM. This is not counting once or twice middle of the night toilet run outside my make-believe cemetery. <br />
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I make my bed ensuring the mosquito net is securely tucked in. I clean and sweep the floors, ceiling and walls of dirt, cobweb, and dead insects. Many broken insect wings abound. <br />
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I eat breakfast. Fruits or and last nights pot of whatever. <br />
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Continue house keeping: wash dishes, wash underwear, organize house. I'm very clean and organized so I spend time making my house as sanitary as possible for the well being of my health and visual comfort. <br />
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Depending on my mood, lately I have begun to go to school to sit in the classes ranging from grade 1 to 7. I sit in and try to pick up Swahili. A teacher would invite me for tea time break at his home. I drink over sweetened tea and eat fried bread or potatoes. We return to class and I sit in another two classes until lunch break. Students return home for lunch as well with all the teachers. I go back home and cook lunch. Afterwards, heavy coma hits me and I find myself sleepy as hell. I rest trying to sleep but I always get interrupted by knocks on the door. I think to myself, what now? It's children. I'm now annoyed. Scenario one: I look at them asking in Swahili "yeah?" They give me empty shy looks and silence. I ask again, "what do you want?" Again, they look away sheepishly without a word. My reaction: "you don't talk, I'm outta here." I close my door and return back to my couch to catch some zzzzz. Scenario two: "Hi friends! What are you doing? I'll give you crayons and paper but you have to promise me to return the crayons so when you come back next time, I'll have crayons to give you." The children light up like the Rockefeller Xmas tree and are shoving each other to get my goodies of pencil, crayons and coloring book. I've also been interrupted by adults. As a good hostess, albeit a sleepy and groggy one, I welcome them into my home and start making coffee. I'm truly tired and don't want to play Ms. Social Suzy but I must, so I suck it up big times. <br />
By the time they leave, I'm exhausted and no longer wish to sit in classroom where my ass hurt from the hard wood bench with no back support. <br />
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It's dinner time for me so I prepare the same food. Cook it and eat it. <br />
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I take my cold bath in the dark. Get the hell quickly out of my backyard. Technically, I have a room to bathe in. This room is outside in the backyard. There is even a light. Well, this is what happens. If there is electricity, when I turn the light on, tons of moth surround the lightbulb. No way Jose am I bathing in there. End of the story. <br />
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I locks all doors and get inside my mosquito net and get comfy and read from my Kindle. Good night all!<br />
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On Sundays, I go to the church because it's a place where I can see many humans at once. I integrate, I donate, I pretend I am kneeling on the hard plank of wood in front of me, and I listen to the songs sung by the church choir. If there is a soccer match, I attend it only because I've been either invited or informed. But moreover, it's because again, I can see mankind. <br />
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I live in a big village where it's a bit ghost town-ish. Everyone is at their farm working. My village is quiet, inactive and not a lot of people are out and about because almost the entire village is not in...they are working on their farm which is far from their home. <br />
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I have been asked spontaneously to introduce myself unprepared by religious leaders at churches and the school. Eventually, I will properly and formally introduce myself to the villagers at the village meeting. I have a speech to give in Swahili. I will inform them what my gig is all about. I have already started the report/ research requested by Peace Corps. This Village Situation Assessment report will be given to my region's government office, my village office and to Peace Corps Tanzania in Dar Es Saalam. This compilation of various methodologies of acquiring information supposedly allows us to assess the needs of the community.<br />
This is my current work for the next 2 months. I have already begun gathering information and started the draft. <br />
<br />
Although it is against the advise and protocol of Peace Corps, I have chosen to begin work now and not after the completion of the VSA and further Peace Corps' In Service Training. I can not sit in the house killing bugs everyday in this ghost town. If I had to chose a place on the globe to chill in the crib and do nothing like a permanent vacation...a poor rural village in Africa ain't my top 3 choice. I need to keep myself active. Villagers are out in their farm from Monday to Saturday, so how can I integrate with them? Go with them to help pull out weeds? I suppose that's an idea! No, no, I will begin teaching at the schools and working at the dispensary as I see this will be good use of my time and presence. I am the third generation of Peace Corps Volunteer in this village in which I am the last they will have. I feel that the village should utilize me as much as they can. Why waste time? I am gladly offering to start now then later. <br />
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I have been invited to eat meals at people's home, attended soccer games, received people at my home where we drink coffee and chat, attended a funeral, received gifts of food as people are hospitable and generous, walking some streets and learning about this and that through people I have met and of course, befriending children. <br />
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I will begin tomorrow, the 31 st day after my arrival, working in the dispensary. The vaccinations have finally arrived; therefore, tomorrow, Monday being the busiest day, I will go in at 8 AM sharp and start. It is also baby weighing day. In addition, most patients with ailments come to the medical officer on Mondays for treatments. <br />
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The Head Teacher at Image Primary School is also ready for me to teach. I will start an after school club of Art and French and an English class. I justify teaching these, as one may feel this is unsustainable, in that I believe the children should remain active and engaged after school regardless of the subject. It is my time and effort I am contributing. This is my choice and what I can easily offer the village children, my students. The other option for them is to return home and play with mud or do housework...or come to my house. The students do not own school books or have homework. They own nothing, not even a single toy. They are lucky to have a pair of shoes. Their school uniforms are tattered, torn and perpetually dirty. Although Tanzania speaks Swahili, assorted tribal dialect, and English, her continent is also Francophone. Perhaps a student in the future may leave the country and find work in west Africa where French is spoken. To have exposure to something new is a worthwhile experience and always a positive. I hope my students will enjoy their time in my class. <br />
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While I teach these classes, I will continue creating the report of the needs for the community before engaging in bigger projects and assignments. I pretty much know what I will be doing for the next 2 years: Lots of education to adults and children, assisting and building facilities, and encouraging people to find their voice and take action to positively impact their lives and families. <br />
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<br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7STUTwcZHEld2a9lhlMS-apdlWcnpKY_oaW4Tn7-Et8jY3qhyk5kVPz3NecLC9Geyj0gNAEhkCRgqpe-Rmsweomr5ltwR8vU4RQvOPDsn1vCtZDQNKj8YC2aPqYyWmnsaizNowr7db7Q/s640/blogger-image-2124718685.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7STUTwcZHEld2a9lhlMS-apdlWcnpKY_oaW4Tn7-Et8jY3qhyk5kVPz3NecLC9Geyj0gNAEhkCRgqpe-Rmsweomr5ltwR8vU4RQvOPDsn1vCtZDQNKj8YC2aPqYyWmnsaizNowr7db7Q/s640/blogger-image-2124718685.jpg" /></a></div>Wendy S. Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3646219605603092371.post-71559410766219852292013-01-01T12:20:00.001-08:002013-01-06T09:56:41.651-08:00First Christmas in TanzaniaLast Christmas 2011 was pretty memorable only because it was the complete polar opposite of what Christmas isn't! One shouldn't be physically, emotionally, and mentally challenged in a life threatening way. I experienced freezing, starving, isolation, total discomfort and wished to any God that my frozen body wouldn't be found the next day. <br />
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I was stuck in the Nepalese Himalaya in high altitude as a friend and I "camped out" in the open freezing cold where no food, warmth or person were to be found. <br />
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It was in the late afternoon at 4:00 o'clock where we had to make an executive decision of either continuing on with our trek to the next village in hopes of finding lodging or discontinue and stay still for fear the sun would quickly set and we'd find ourselves dangerously trekking in the dark up high in the isolated Mount Everest in Nepal. <br />
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To back track backwards was senseless too as it would take a while to reach the last village and we'd be losing time. <br />
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We took a chance to play safe and mutually agreed to stay at the area right where we decided to finish for the day. <br />
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We found a spot unknown to us as its use or purpose but can only guess perhaps a small pen for a yak or a shepard? Very short walls made from a stack of stones created an enclosure of three walls. The wall was not solid as stones piled on top is only to create some barrier. On one side of the inside wall was a raised platform where my friend and I faced each other and slept on it. Needless to say, sleeping on freezing cold stone was not conducive to slumberland. We couldn't get comfortable as the length and width was too short and narrow...especially for 2 people. <br />
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We tried to make time pass fast and take our minds off our misery. All I have to say is that if you have to be stuck with someone in po dunk bum f*** Egypt, it better be with someone whom you enjoy conversations and can laugh about anything and most of all, censor nothing. <br />
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We talked about nothing and everything. We laughed at our stupid convo and the predicament we created; we're middle aged women but we're giggling and roaring like lame teens. For Christmas dinner, I gave her one bag of my beef jerkey while I ate the other flavor: turkey. <br />
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We tried to sleep but it was pathetic. We were pathetic. Freezing cold and stuck in the isolated Himalaya couple villages away from Everest Base Camp. I tossed and turned in my sleeping bag as my right and left hip bone ached from the hard cold stone. <br />
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The next morning at the crack of sun rise, we woke as we found ice frost on our sleeping bags. We barely slept, our fingers froze and we were having a painful time trying to dress, put away our sleeping bags and packed to continue on to the next village. I felt as if my fingers were breaking like frozen fish sticks. <br />
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It was definitely a most memorable Christmas. A world away from home in the freezing high altitude mountain in an isolated place on the globe. No food, no warmth, no family...at least my buddy and I will always share this true story. <br />
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That tale made for a good story so to beat that one would be pretty challenging. Challenges i like...so this year has it that I spent Christmas in Tanzania with the Southern Maasai in the Southern Highlands. <br />
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What I lacked last year, I made up for it this year with warmth, many people, and food. I'm still far away from my family but at least I'm not freezing or starving. <br />
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On Christmas Eve, I visited a Maasai village in the region of Iringa. I trekked 3 kilometers from another nearby village wading through two small body of water in the dark. Once I reached the destination, I found myself in the bushes with nothing and a hut house. The hut inside is dirt floor with nothing else. No furniture. A shelter only. The Southern Maasai men wore colors and patterns much different than their Northern counterparts. The women all wore identical colors: blue bottom and eggplant purple top with iconic Maasai beaded jewelry. What stood out was the gages in their ears. The earlobes have huge long holes where hang heavy long earrings with dangling chains. <br />
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That evening, children, men and women sang and danced in a circle. It was night time and basically unless there was a full moon to shine on us, you see nothing. I admire the communal living and socialization of one big community. <br />
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The following day, Christmas, I returned to them and I see the Maasai women gathered together sitting in front of a hut preparing food. Two women removed innards from a sheep. Some women cleaned rice and others picked out beans. <br />
While the women cooked, men rested. <br />
Christmas lunch consisted of pilau, white rice, several pieces of bite-size sheep meat and beans. Naturally, no celebratory meal is complete without a bottle of room temperature soda. <br />
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After lunch, it was time for a church service where preachers preached and a choir of children and women sang. The church seating was made up of random uneven planks of wood placed on the ground. You are only several inches off the ground. <br />
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After Christmas church service has ended, the Maasai men danced, or jump rather<br />
in their white uniform rubber sandals, spears and dress. Their "singing and dancing" was a sight to behold. Long and lean, they are human trampolines who can jump effortlessly high and verbally created unique gutteral sounds: a most unique visual and auditory sensation. <br />
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It was an interesting cultural experience to witness a tribe living without much material possession but completely rich in spirit and tradition. <br />
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Christmas is meant for people to share in their love, value, and good will. The Maasai tribe, like other Tanzanians, are people of hospitality. Wendy S. Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3646219605603092371.post-36122172084431177482012-12-22T03:24:00.001-08:002012-12-22T03:24:13.153-08:00First week at site22 December 2012<br />
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Today, Friday, marks exactly one week that I have arrived at my site in Image Village in the region of Njombe. <br />
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I spent the first 48 hours "cleaning", organizing, unpacking and arranging with what already existing items in the house along with my belongings in my suitcase, backpack, 2 refugee bags and a small duffel bag including a small amount of food items to last me until my next food shopping excursion. <br />
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Food has been, still is, and will always be a security and comfort item for me. For being in lack of food makes me insecure. I always need to have an emergency stash back up. I supplement my "pantry" daily with tomatoes, some onions, and twice leafy greens that I gave money to kids to fetch for me and yesterday I was given a plate of fresh garden picked beans from a lady who woke me up in the morning as her hospitable offering. I was grateful for her food as it means protein for my body and one less thing to buy where I can save money. <br />
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In this one week, I have been relaxing, reading, doing housework, preparing meals and briefly talking and spending time with my new villagers. I wake up already tired which makes me unhappy for I know the day will start out with low energy. It's possible that the gloomy mornings here are making me lethargic. <br />
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I've been housebound unless I walk to the tiny "store" to buy tomatoes. At least this gets me out of the house. <br />
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What amazes me is that a big village of 3,700 people feel like a ghost town. Where the hell is everyone? Except for some tiny stores in front of my house where opening and closing time are at the whim of the villagers, there are barely anybody walking on the main road which is in front of my house. I've been told that villagers go to their farms to work which is far from their home. <br />
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I have spoken this morning to the village chairman, a small group of farmers and teachers about a need in the village that I feel strong about. They like my thinking and think it's a good idea. We'll see if it pans out. An Idea is one thing but execution is another.... <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvyKXGZ3hDZQOyT6BvQuimXeJl88iO89jCucPq2r4l-8aXuPVqjcBaFaqvHriV69fNGsnu4pNmsxH7ohBxgZN3av1LGIL9ovCZTl7_bFDvJdCw1bOmRU1dl7_ZXKqAoRXXp27f7dCX2HI/s640/blogger-image-4188213.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvyKXGZ3hDZQOyT6BvQuimXeJl88iO89jCucPq2r4l-8aXuPVqjcBaFaqvHriV69fNGsnu4pNmsxH7ohBxgZN3av1LGIL9ovCZTl7_bFDvJdCw1bOmRU1dl7_ZXKqAoRXXp27f7dCX2HI/s640/blogger-image-4188213.jpg" /></a></div>Wendy S. Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3646219605603092371.post-31872279997288165242012-12-12T02:24:00.000-08:002012-12-12T10:30:44.870-08:00Part Five: My last full day with my host family in the village of
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<div class="MsoNormal">Part Five: My last full day with my host family in thevillage of Lusanga A or an Au Revoir party for “Mwaza”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">8 December 2012<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Ninaitwa MwazaTanzania, lakini jina langu ni Wendy Marekani</i>. I’m called Mwaza in Tanzaniabut my name is Wendy in America. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My family gave me a good-bye party on my last day in ourvillage. I woke up early today to pack, as the Peace Corps vehicle will becoming over to collect our baggage, as we 39 Peace Corps trainees will allleave our host families and head back to Dar es Saalam tomorrow for final trainingwrap up and Swearing-In preparation at now, the United States Embassy insteadof the residence. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">While my father sets up a stereo and two loudspeakers andconnected the system placed in front of our house with a very long electricalcord strung across a neighbor’s house with electricity, the children and I satunder a tree. As I see Alima’s smile, Nyuki and Ismali dancing together andother familiar faces playing with each other, I began to feel emotional andtears rolled down my eyes. <i>Oh Jesus, Iwill miss</i> <i>them very much!</i> <i>This was my home and my life</i>. I quicklyput on my sunglasses to cover my face but I knew that I couldn’t fool anyone. Itwas obvious. Kids are not dumb. That morning, my little brother Salimu held myhand as he took me around to neighbors’ houses for visits and chats. TheTanzanians are hospitable and are always welcoming. I was able to check outsome other Tanzanian village household and saw how they lived. Tough, verytough...to say the least. The majority of houses have dirt floors and cookinside the house with burning wood. It’s primitive and rustic. Living conditionand sanitation are nonexistent but the people continue to be happy and smileaway without any care in the world. <b>Thisis how people should live on a daily basis: happily with family and community.Their lacks in material items or long hard manual labor have no bearing ontheir emotional happiness.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We go visit this one house where lives little Usna whosename finally I am able to remember. She is one of my favorite little 5 yearsold girl, the one with pretty tattered dresses and funky hairstyle. She offersme a gift, a kitty. Wow…I never plan to have a pet in Tanzania as I no longerwant to be burden by an animal. I already will have a tough time cooking formyself let alone having to figure out sustenance for the baby animal. However,I wasn’t totally opposed to the idea as a cat will be able to chase and killrats which they will become useful and even ideal living in situation whereunwanted guests visit the house. I will think about it whether I will acceptthe kitty or not. Logistically, I would have to care for it for several days inDar es Saalam in which I would be able to find a veterinarian for vaccinationsbut the long trek from Dar to Njombe will be a long drag. Along with my alreadyheavy baggage, now I’ll have to carry a kitty cat. Don’t know if it’s a goodidea. If I was to advice someone, I would suggest not doing it. One can alwaysfind a kitty later in their village.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That day, I played with the two kitties, a baby chick and mysmall village friends. While baba sets up the music, we danced…the children andI. At around later afternoon, I finally took my first and possibly last bucket bathin the family’s house to dress for my party and later that evening, to attend abig hoopla of a wedding reception at our village. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am dressed in my brand new African outfit and ready for mybon voyage party. I see that Tanzanian teens have built a makeshift backgroundstaging area using heavy tree branches. My mama took the curtains in my room todrape the built stand which will serve as a back drop to the couch and coffeetable in which they have set outside under the big f<i>enesi</i> tree (jack fruit) where I sometimes sit with the children.Wow, I’m touched and impressed with the thought, idea, and execution of allthis just for little ol’ me. The villagers, children and I dance to Tanzanianmusic. There is a microphone in which I hear my baba, his friend, and my littlebrother making announcements. Later, two Peace Corps language culturalfacilitator, one of them is my teacher, comes walking down toward my house.Mama has invited them to my party. They and I sit on the living room set underthe tree while eating the lunch that mama has made for us: Chicken, rice,beans, and stewed bananas. After eating, my Swahili teacher gave a speech… blahblah blah, she is sharing with the villagers that I have often and alwaysexpressed to her my love and fondness for the village children. After theyleft, soon my CBT classmate, Jane, came with her sister to my party. Moreannouncements and speeches followed. Now it’s the gift giving time. I’m askedto go to the “stage” and I see some people lining up in front of me with goodsin their hands. Mama gives me her gifts of a straw mat and a straw fan. I am sohappy and we hugged. Bibi gives me two sets of tea cup sets, sister in lawgives me two glasses, and another relative gives me bowl and food cover made instraw and Alima came to give me another teacup set. After all the <i>asante sana,</i> thank you very much, andhugs, baba comes and makes his appearance. My father gave me a kanga set, whichI absolutely love since it is red and yellow with pineapple designs. I am trulytouched and impressed with the amount of gifts I have received not only from myfamily but a handful of individuals. I’m asked to go to the front of the housewhere the microphone is and I dance wearing my new kanga. I take the microphoneand thank everybody. I’m now compelled to talk. My throat began to feel tightand my eyes are watering as emotion filled me. I am standing in front of myhouse looking at my village and friends and family. I see my favorite childrenand how do I calmly and objectively voice and express in a foreign language mygratitude and love for these people whom I have connected and bonded for thepast two and a half months? They have warmly and lovingly welcomed me in theircommunity. To give myself credit, I have always integrated with them from dayone. I’m not one of those Americans who only hang out with other Americansspeaking English and ignore the host nationals. I started to speak and my voicewavered and eyes becoming moist. I tried to compose myself but I’m doing ashitty job. I hear my mama “helping me out” by explaining to all that I am sadand will miss everyone thus the reason why I’m crying. I continued speaking inSwahili and right in the middle, damn it…I started to spew some English which Iknew nobody will understand but I’m certain they must know the jist of what I’mtrying to convey. Universally, we all can relate to emotions and the newfoundconnection that people develop and foster with each other. Separation isemotional and I hope they can feel my heartfelt sincerity. After that littledramatic scene, I thank everyone again and with the kanga tightly wrappedaround my waist, I began to boogy to the Tanzanian music with the <i>watoto </i>to lighten up the ambience. Theparty lasted around till early evening until it was time to attend the bigwedding. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have been told that the villagers love me. They are happythat I have spent much time with their children, interacting with them, playingwith them, and eventually loving them. They call me <i>dada</i>, sister, although by age, I could totally be their grannygiven how villagers give birth by the time they reach puberty. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After the party, I chatted with Charles, a Tanzanian whospoke English. I thought I take advantage and inquire with him about Alima. Howmany siblings does Alima have exactly? It’s terribly difficult keeping track ofeveryone’s relationship in a village. To my surprise, this is what I found out:Alima has only one brother, Nyuki. The other children whom she lives with areher cousins and not her siblings as she is claiming. The story goes like this.Bibi, my paternal grandmother, has had 5 different relationships thus producing5 children to each of these 5 different men. She has three sons and twodaughters. Each of these children have children making them her grandchildrenin which some lives with her. Another twist was finding out that my sister,Mwatumu is not my baba’s real daughter. Between my mama and baba, they onlyhave two sons together, Idirissa and Salimu. They both had prior relationshipsbefore their marriage to each other. Baba’s two sons were with a women whom hehad a relationship and never was married to. When he married mama, Mwantumu wasalready a young child. Many people are not educated and start having sexualrelationships at an extremely young age and as a result, have children at anextremely young age as well. This is life and culture in a village.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Mama was exhausted from party preparation…cooking and morecooking. She asked Omari, her first eldest son, to go with me to the weddingreception. Past 8:00 o’clock, we walked to the venue. Whoaa….fancy! Consideringwe’re in a village, it was elaborate and quite the set up. Jane’s family wasinvited to the wedding too so she and I sat together. We both danced with thewomen who were dressed in their finest western eveningwear garb. The ladieseven had hair extension, which made them look like they came from America andnot Tanzania. This wedding was major as ladies got all decked out and jazzedup! As I was dancing, one woman sitting down got up and approached my way totell me that I danced well and to continue it. I had no idea what that was allabout…I’m guessing probably she was happy that a foreigner was into theirculture and event. <i>Funny, I thought…I’mthe only person wearing an African outfit, a foreigner at that!<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The wedding reception dragged on forever and I was pooped.If it wasn’t because I was hungry, I’d blow the popsicle stand long ago andreturn home. There was an MC conducting the reception. In Tanzania, bride issuppose to look sad and unhappy out of modesty. Looking at the bride and groomwith their respective best man and best woman, I would asked, who died? Theylooked absolutely somber, gloomy, unhappy, and out right depressed. What a goodjob they were doing at keeping themselves unemotional and modest. It lookedlike they were attending a funeral and not their own wedding. The bride lookedpregnant; she probably was. Finally after dinner was served and we all ate withour hands, I went back home with my mama who eventually decided to attend afterall.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That night, I couldn’t sleep because I was debating in mymind whether to take the kitty with me or not the next morning. I am the masterof the pro and con game. Everything pointed to con. I was so divided 50/50 onlybecause going to Dar es Saalam would allow me to get vet care andsentimentally, to own a kitty given by Usna. The kitty’s name is Amina but I would change it to Usna Alima, names ofmy favorite girls. Then I decided I don’t really their names and never approvedof human names for pets. I would name my kitty…what other than “<i>simba</i>”, which means lion in Swahili.Aside from mental anguish, I hear the kitty meowing out loud in the <i>jiko </i>which made sleeping even moredifficult. I figured I’d decide how I feel in the morning. At the day of theparty, I happily gave my hat, <i>mysignature item as everyone recognizes me with the hat</i>, to Alima and Iransacked my room to see what little gift I can offer Usna. I gave her my pinkcoin purse replicating the famous Balenciaga “Motorcycle” design. I wished Ihad brought more little gifts from USA to give to favorite friends.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Morning came and I saw the white kitty enter my room. Mamamust let him out. I asked where the orange striped kitty was. She was missing.She may have returned home so that is why her sister, <i>Bahati</i>, was meowing all night. I got dressed and go outside to findmy orange kitty, the one I would chose between the two. She was no where to befound. The village kids help me find her but nobody saw her. <i>Fate has already decided for me that Aminaand I are not to be karmically linked. I am not to be her new owner and shewill not be my pet. We weren’t meant to be together. </i>Decision made for me,I don’t need to make it. <i>Hamna shida</i>or as they say in Kenya, <i>hakuna matata</i>…noproblem!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was time for me to leave my family and my village ofLusanga A with whom and where I have happily and cozily stayed for nearly 3months. I was sad to say good-bye, but all good things must come to an end.Until then, I will try to return to them for a visit before I return home toAmerica in the next 2 years. Besides, Indirissa has been asking for my handheld crank light and radio, which I have promised to give to him before I leavehis country…as to the prior request of my sister who asked for my Iphone…<i>uh…I don’t think so, but hey</i>…how aboutmy skirt* instead? She gladly accepted. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">* <i>A handful of fellowfemale Peace Corps trainees have come up and complimented on this skirt. I wasthinking of giving it away eventually to someone…I guess Mwantumu has karmawith my skirt.</i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3646219605603092371.post-6653800173077351652012-12-10T02:13:00.000-08:002012-12-10T02:13:01.936-08:00Part Four: Less than 2 more weeks until we leave our homestay for Dar es Saalam, Swear-In Ceremony
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Part Four: Less than 2 more weeks until we leave our
homestay for Dar es Saalam, Swear-In Ceremony<o:p></o:p></div>
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27 November 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
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I knew that after we returned from our site visit, the
remaining 4 weeks of training would fly fast. <i>True dat! </i>I have mixed feelings about leaving the village and my
family whom I’ve lived with during my Pre Service Training, living on my own to
serve as a Peace Corps volunteer, and finally no longer a trainee under Peace
Corp’s control where like children, we are told what to do, when to do, and
where to do.<o:p></o:p></div>
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What I will miss most is someone cooking for me. <i>Instant gratification of satiation from hunger
without having to work for it makes life easy, let’s face it.</i> At home, my
breakfast and dinner are taken care of by my Tanzanian mama. In Swahili class,
someone cooks lunch and prepares chai. At MATI, a buffet awaits us. I don’t
have to lift one finger to prepare anything to eat. It is readily available and
like a child, I just wait and food will be given to me. I’ll cut to the chase,
I haven’t had to cook for a long time and the thought of cooking is a total
turn off <b>only</b> because of the lack of
infrastructure in cooking conveniences and appliances. Unless I splurge and blow
a huge wad of money on a huge propane gas tank with cooking burners, which is
effortless to use, then I have to basically resort to Tanzanian cooking style
on a <i>jiko</i>, a stove, which is a
portable little container where you burn coals as the heating source. Burning
coals for cooking is somewhat of a pain in the ass as it takes a while to get
the fire going and ready for cooking. The other option, which is quicker and
more expensive, is using kerosene stove. This method is quick but the drawback
is that I can taste kerosene in the cooked food and worst of all is the smell of
this lighting fluid. I fear kerosene and charcoal may have long-term negative
health side effect, ie. lung cancer and other respiratory infection. I am
thinking of buying a hot plate and cook on days I have electricity. On days
without electricity, I’ll eat foods that don’t need to be cooked ie. Peanut
butter and jelly sandwich, nuts, crappy cookies, fruits, and canned fish from
home. Unless I crave <i>ugali</i> and beans..then,
I’ll crack out my <i>jiko</i>. Another
common method of cooking in Tanzania is using firewood a la camping style.
Again, this is time consuming as wood need to be chopped, collected, and the
process of starting a mini bonfire for cooking is burdensome. Bonfire beach
party is very different from daily cooking on this little firewood set up with 3
big rocks with a pile of wood in the middle. <i>Think I’ll ask my fam to send me more beef jerky and canned tuna…and
how about throw in a giant bag of M&M’s and red vine licorice from Costco! I
should have packed more food items. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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On a sentimental note, I will miss the <i>watoto</i> in my village. I have become very fond of the children. I
have never really been a “kid person”, but I always have an entourage of
kiddies during this entire time. <i>I’ve
become the Pied Piper</i>. We are not particularly doing anything. We are
literally just hanging around each other either staring in space, talking, them
showing me something or me showing them something. My favorite kid is Alima, an
8 years old girl. I dig this kid’s easy personality as she is very pleasant, compassionate,
and clearly she understands my limited Swahili and is able to correct or “translate”
for me. Nobody speaks English. She is clever, as I’ve seen her make a crown or
hat from tree leaves, make broom using dried tree branch, and a slingshot from
carved tree branch wrapped with rubber from spare tires. She is obviously handy
and resourceful. She’d make a good reliable wife and definitely a trustworthy
friend. She is my constant companion and a source of comfort and security. If I
had to adopt an African child, so far Alima is on my list. There is another
girl with a crazy fun hairstyle, unlike her peers who basically have no hair or
have it shaved, who is sweet and always smiling. Her name escapes me, as I
basically can’t remember anybody’s name. They all know my name but
unfortunately, I can’t remember theirs because there is one of me and a lot of
them. <i>I suck and I feel somewhat guilty
that I still don’t have all the kid’s name remembered</i>. There are other boys
and girls whose faces have become familiar to me and have a warm place in my
heart. I’ve asked their names numerous times but unless it’s Jack and Jill,
Dick or Jane…damn, I can’t remember their names. At the end of the day, I feel
it’s not important if I remember their names or not. What is important is that
I spend as much time with them as possible. The thought never occurred to them
that I might have forgotten what they’re called. They are just happy to be in
my presence and they know as well that I am happy to be in their presence too. One
little boy I love to call because he has great big eyes and the cutest name.
Okay, I’ll admit, it’s a name I remember cause it’s too dang cute and again, because
I can remember it. It’s Nyuki, which rhymes with Yuki. When I see this little
boy of 2 years old...with joy, I always exclaim his name…”Nyuki! I think he digs
it because it makes him feel special that I am singling him out. I’m certain
I’ll make more friends with <i>watoto</i>
when I am in my village in Njombe but the ones in Lusanga A near my house will
always be special as they were my first bunch of friends. I will not forget
them. They have taught me how to love children and confirm that I know that I
can be loveable by children as in the past, I have had stranger children
affectionately approach me. I think human beings connect with whomever they
feel an affinity to regardless of age, creed, nationality or appearance.
Children are wholesome and honest and they gravitate to whomever they feel good
and safe. If I give off that vibe to just <b>one
kid</b> on this earth, then I feel I have succeeded as a human being. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Aside from village children whom I have tremendously enjoyed
and are clearly the highlight of my stay in Tanzania, thus far, I will also
miss this village’s bustling activity and commotion. I don’t mind the fact that
almost every evening, there is music blasted from the “bar” or from a wedding
celebration. I have attended a funeral, two weddings, a birthday and tomorrow I
will go to another funeral. Sadly, a 25 years old young man was involved in a
car accident; he was a famous rap star singer from our village who lived in Dar
es Saalam. Everyday at my village, there are 2 to 3 deaths. It really is no
surprise that the mortality rate is high. There is no sanitary living condition
or resources and infrastructure for medical care. I am impressed with my body’s
ability to not be sick living under my current living situation. To put it
mildly and gently: hardcore rough. To put it bluntly and honestly: hardcore
grody! I have not even experienced one diarrhea episode, which merits
acknowledgment and a Purple Heart medal. Many trainees have already experienced
the runs and other GI stomach issues numerous times where they had to be sent
to Dar es Saalam to be treated and tested along with other mysterious ailments.
Without a place to wash my hands and I eat with my hands, God knows what is
breeding in my stomach. Also, kids hold my hands all the time. Kid’s hands are
dirtier than a dog’s ass, if you ask my opinion. I may have a colony of
Tanzanian parasites unbeknownst to me. <i>What
I don’t know won’t hurt me</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I yearn to quickly finish training, take the tests, hurry up
and do Swear-In, and off I go to my village where I will finally settle into my
house and finally live alone with only me controlling what I do. My time is
mine and I answer to no one, at least for the first 3 months. The first 3
months is Village Situational Assessment where I will assess the needs and
wants of my village before I take on projects and begin to teach.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I will miss my family but I really enjoy and need the
sanctuary of my own space. I like living alone and I’m never lonely as I always
find something to occupy and keep myself interested and motivated. My mama is
whom I’ll miss the most in my family. I will think of my siblings too. When I
receive candies or goodies from our training, I purposely save them and give to
my sister and brothers. I personally don’t need the snickers, lollipops, or
other candies as I’m drinking daily sodas and eating too much carb as weight
gain. My siblings are stoked to get treats from me; I’m happy to see their
excitement and anticipation. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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My future village is spread out and very clean. My house is
next to the village office and a primary school is located in front of my house.
This is a very different set up than the village I am currently living in.
Lusanga A is very dense and compact, somewhat unkempt, many people living in
close proximity, and loud and boisterous activities abound. My new environment
will be quiet, pleasant, and clean, very clean. Although I enjoy the communal
camaraderie of Lusanga A, it is extremely fatiguing to have to turn your head
left and right and greet every single being in the village as this is life in
Tanzania. I great elders, peers, kids…it’s tiring having to talk and greet and
meet. I will relish when I am at my site and will greet less intensely. Due to
the set up of the village and where my house is located, I don’t foresee having
to schmooze every couple second. <i>No
exaggeration</i>. There are times when I feel antisocial, not feeling the mood
to be Chatty Kathy or Susie Welcome Wagon. At times I want to be invisible and
to be left alone. <i>You really can’t do
that though in this country. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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28 November 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
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After lunch today, I attended the funeral of the famous rap
star, Hussein Ramadhani. As I am walking in my neighboring village of Lusanga
C, it appeared more of an event than a funeral. The turn out was huge as
villagers always attend the funeral of a fellow villager. But this was no
ordinary funeral as he was a famous singer in which there was police presence
and a huge soda truck distributing drinks for the 4,000 to 5,000 attendees who
were dying of heat under the hot sun. A camera came to film for this evening’s
nightly news. I didn’t stay for the meal but there were huge pots of food being
made. I was literally dying of heat and sweat under my long dress with a kanga
tied to my hip and another covering my head. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After dinner, I took my evening bucket bath. I almost puked
as I smelled the stank in the <i>choo. Good
Lord, I’m suppose to bathe in here…cause I don’t know how long I can hold my
breath. Just less than 2 weeks and I’m out of here in this house. How can
people live like this? Bathe in a room where you defecate on the ground? I’ve
traveled in enough third world countries to know it can be done but damn…why is
my sense of smell so keen and sharp since I’ve been in Africa? I seem to be the
only one talking about body odor making me pass out and the other trainees just
give me blank looks. I’ve inquired with others and it seems it doesn’t bother
them to the extent it bothers me. Yesterday I even asked a young guy if he can
smell what I smelled. He answered no. Amazing! My dog nose makes up for my
deafness.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Dear Peace Corps,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Regrettably, I am
giving you my notice of early termination, as I am unable to cope with the body
odor and choo smell that is too intense for my sensibilities. It is prohibiting
me to breathe normally and I am afraid I will die as a result of suffocation due
to obnoxious assaults of the foulest kind.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Best wish, <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Wendy S. Liu</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
29 November 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
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This morning, I saw my sister in slight tears with a young
man and my mama in front of them. <i>Why is
Mwantumu looking sad with this dude touching her? Did she get pregnant by him?
Is she to wed him? Is he her boyfriend? </i>I’m trying to figure out this
scenario. My mama tells me that this young man is her first son. <i>Huh? </i>My mother had this son prior to her
marriage to her current husband, in which she is his second wife. To get the
story straight, I asked for confirmation so that between her and baba, they
have a total of 6 children: two sons from baba with his first wife, three
children from both of them together and now this man from whomever with mama.
Correct I am. I asked mama’s son his age and he replied to me in English, 24
years old. My mama had this kid when she was 8? Tonight, I wanted to confirm my
mama’s age. She answered 32 years old. Mama was pregnant with this kid when she
was 8 years old? She said she was still in school. Jesus Christ, is it possible
to give birth at a ridiculously young age, like 8? Did she even have pubic hair
at the age of 8, let alone menstruate? Something doesn’t add right. The man
looks 24 but my mom is only 32? Unless she is lying about her age, could she
really give birth at age 8???<o:p></o:p></div>
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30 November 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
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As I write this, it is nearly 1AM. I was sleeping and have
been awoken by sobbing and moaning sounds from my sister. I don’t know what my
parent’s are saying until at the end I hear my father say <i>hospitali.</i> I don’t know what is going on but I think she is sick
and in pain. Later, I hear her trying to puke then later someone is in the <i>choo </i>taking a bath. Simultaneously, a
sound I am unable to discern competes with my sister’s moaning. A cat, a
chicken, a bat…is it even an animal? For the past 30 minutes, a surreal sound
of screeching nonstop outside the house is taking place. Whatever this “animal”
is, it initially sounded like it came from inside the house and then later I
hear it outside. We have no animal in the house. Bibi has a cat but for the
life of me, I can’t be certain that it is a cat making this strange noise. It
doesn’t sound like a cat in heat, or is it? The sound is singular. To continue
the surrealism, there is music outside and I hear people. Then, rain that lasts
for 30 seconds then stop. There is that odd screeching noise again. What the
hell is going on this evening or morning? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can smell the leftover stench from the <i>choo</i>. Tonight’s bucket bath was icky as
always. After dinner before I bathe, someone uses the <i>choo </i>to take a dump. The smell lingers. What is that noise again
outside? My mama tells me during dinner last night that a child died today and
an old man died yesterday in the village. From the sound of my sister’s painful
moaning, I hope she is not next…nor the animal or whatever the hell is making
this God-awful noise!!! What the hell is it because for the life of me, I can
not make it out? A bird????????? Somebody needs to put this animal out of its
misery because the noise its making is nonstop. <i>I think this animal is possessed by Satan.</i> Oh wow…just heard someone
making nausea noise and now she’s spitting all over. I’m inside my mosquito net
covered bed typing away so I can’t see what is happening around me but I can
sure hear everything. <i>Not to mention
smell everything too….<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>There are times when
I’m sweaty and itchy like tonight when I think what luxury it is to be back
home in my beautiful palatial bathroom to relief my physical misery. My
bathroom inside my bedroom is a very enjoyable personal and fancy sanctuary.
Great care was taken to choose each design element during construction. The
visual of my bathroom comforts me as I tried to replicate the style and
ambience of a 5 star European hotel: The Ritz Hotel in Paris. I imagine I am in
my big steam room shower taking a nice tepid shower with extremely fragrant
shampoo and body gel to wash off the sweat, dirt and grime. The fully enclosed
shower room is now filled with a lovely floral and fruity scent. I am using
real shampoo to wash my hair. I step out of my shower onto a fresh microfiber
bath math and wear my white fluffy absorbent bathrobe. I wear my light night
dress and get into my clean bug free bed and enjoy the luxurious 600 thread
count bed sheet under my skin. My body is stress free and I am fully
comfortable and so relaxed ready for a dreamy slumber.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>My current reality is an
enclosed bathroom with cement walls covered with spider webs, patches of dirt,
and stains. I have murky water in an old bucket, which looks dirty, to rinse
myself. Since I have been in country, I use Dr. Bronner’s castile soap as my
all-purpose wash everything from underwear, face, body, and hair. Washing hair
with this gives a slick film and crunchy texture to the hair. For the past
nearly 2 months, I’ve lived with crunchy solid hair that feels terrible to the
touch. It easily traps the dust and when I brush my hair, which is something I
never do back home, my Mason Pearson boar bristle brush is covered with slick
hair in a filthy film of oil and tons of dust. After one brushing, the
hairbrush needs to be washed. I only brought one bottle of shampoo with me to
country and I left it in Dar es Saalam. Before I enter the choo, I brush my
teeth in my bedroom and lather my face with said soap without water. I try to
avoid spending much time in the choo if possible. Once I enter the choo, I
unwrap the kanga from my body and hang it on the door. Next, I stand in front
of the hole to piss while cranking my flashlight with 2 hands and a broken
travel toothbrush in my mouth hoping it doesn’t drop from my mouth into the choo
hole which I’d be screwed since I only have this one lousy toothbrush. This is
the time when I think I want to leave the country because it stinks like hell
where I am. I try to purposefully not inspect what is around me for I believe
ignorant is bliss. I am in the dark and I have encountered dead cockroaches on
the floor. Cockroaches don’t frighten me but geckos do and if I ever see one in
the choo while bathing, I may experience a mild nervous breakdown. Depending on
the amount of water given to me by my mama, I need to ration what I have with what
I need to do. Couple times, soapy underwear needs to wait until the morning
bath to get rinsed. Hair washing is extended in time until its unbearable or in
the rare occasion I get a full bucket of water is when I’ll wash my hair. When
I’m finished, I quickly exist the choo and back in my bedroom is when I dry
myself with a cheap made in Korea microfiber towel purchased on Ebay. I dry my
feet last and wear my Rainbow sandals, which are shoes I wear outside as well.
There is no way in the world I will go barefoot in the house like my family. I
wear rubber slippers in the choo when I bathe. I am never barefoot except when
sleeping. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The villagers don’t wear shoes in the village at times.
Walking barefoot on the unpaved, rocky and dirty terrain is their environment
in which they are used to and extremely adept. Because they have lived most of
their lives in their villages, even in the dark at night with no such thing as
street light, their walking is quick, confident, and they know exactly how to
walk and run with their terrain. It is amazing how their feet are not hurt by
the rocks, pebbles, unruly weed, trash, and whatever other debris are on the
ground. The soles of their feet must be like leather. What is most amazing are the
rickshaw pullers running on the hot streets in India barefoot without shoes. Once
out of compassion for my rickshaw guy in Kolkata, I bought him a pair of shoes.
He didn’t wear them and continued to transport me with his bare feet. <i>WTF…I want my money back? <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two days ago, I helped my mama carry buckets of water on my
head back home. We filled the buckets full to the rim and then a lid was
covered on top. With a kanga, I wrap it in a way to make padding for my head in
which the bucket will sit on top. Inevitably, water starts to spill out of the
bucket and now my body just got a shower, which is actually welcoming in the
hot afternoon. The hardest part was entering the door of the house. As I am
tall in addition with a bucket on my head, I needed to somehow manage to duck
and make way for clearance. Needless to say, there was spillage of water on the
floor. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At least for the past week or two, I am no longer eating
dinner on the floor. I am now eating dinner on our old coffee table because my
family recently had some furniture made. Men and women don’t eat together. We
eat separately, if we are even eating together at the same time: the men on one
side, the women on the other. This is Tanzanian culture. My mama and I eat
together and my siblings sometimes eat with us unless they have eaten prior to
me. If my baba and his friends are eating at our home, they do not eat on the
same table as mama and I. There is two separate eating/sitting area in the
house.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2 December 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last night was traumatic. As I entered the <i>choo </i>to take my evening bucket bath,
what do I see crawling on the dirty, cobwebbed covered cement walls? A
tarantula.<i> </i>I don’t know which was
more irritating…seeing a freakin’ tarantula in a dark <i>choo</i> where I’m half naked with toothbrush and toothpaste in my
mouth with a soapy face in which I have to, got to, and need to bathe which
means I can’t back out of the <i>choo </i>or
my sister cracking up because the idea was so funny to her that I saw a creepy
crawler on the wall as I entered the <i>choo</i>?
<i>I was totally calm the entire time; I
never shrieked or got agitated. I was very matter-of-fact like</i>. If that was
not bad enough, 2 mornings ago, I saw another disgusting never–seen-before
creature crawling on the cement floor in my room. This thing looked like a mini
walking fishbone. It was long and had tons of feet or whatever the hell they
were and was skinny and gross looking. A centipede perhaps? The millipedes here
resemble a baby snake as they are huge…they look like human intestines with
legs! The black jelly roll body is black and their legs are orange. Except for
cockroaches in which they don’t terribly bother me…<i>don’t get me wrong, I hate them but wouldn’t necessarily freak out
because growing up in Taiwan, they were a common nuisance in homes…</i>I would
get my mama and make her extinguish these creatures for me. Other volunteers
have already encountered a mambo snake and bats. <i> F***ing aye, hope I’m not next!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I finally got the low down on the two mysteries my inquiring
mind needed to know.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That God-awful noise in the middle of the night was cries
from 2 puppies being born. <i>Jesus, someone
remind me not to be a dog breeder! </i>First mystery solved. My Swahili teacher
“investigated” for me the age of my mama. The woman is 38 and not 32. This
makes more sense as she had her first kid at age 14 and not 8. Okay, second
mystery solved. <i>Now, I can sleep in peace...unless
I encounter another mini monster crawling around. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In some cultures, people do not know their exact age. I’m
giving my mama the benefit of the doubt. I don’t see why she would lie. I don’t
know exactly what level of education she has had. I dare say definitely not
college level. I’ll venture to guestimate that since she was prego at age
14…that probably ended her academic career right there on the spot. At the
beginning with the family, I would ask their ages. Unless I have pre
Alzheimer’s, I seem to recall my brothers’ age changes, which is why I can
never remember straight. I think my mama is not entirely certain with one’s
age. I got fed up trying to figure things out. <i>I should have just asked Alima at the beginning. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Recently, in order to supplement water to wash my hair, I am
now using bottle water that I have refilled from a water cooler at MATI. This
water is my drinking water and out of desperation, now I am using it as
emergency stash for hair washing. It makes a difference to have more water to
clean oneself. <i>One’s gotta do what one’s
gotta do for survival…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today is Sunday and in exactly one week’s time, I’m outta of
this house, village, and region for good. Pre Service Training is almost
finished. Swahili class is finished and this coming week is testing,
simulation, and wrap up. It will be a very stressful week as our final language
written test, oral test, technical exam, and simulation of various scenarios
conducted in Swahili and presentation of our village meetings in Swahili too.
I’m not looking forward to any of this stuff, as I’m certain nobody is either.
I’d dare say that everyone wants to get all this over with and quickly blow
this popsicle stand and off to their sites.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have one week to have some clothes made. I already had one
outfit made and I was pissed initially as it was not at all to my drawing
specification or was I consulted when there was not enough fabric to create my
design in which the seamstress said there was enough. After me getting on her
case with limited Swahili, finally she modified the outfit and it’s a better
improvement. This is the outfit I have intended to wear for my Swear-In
ceremony at the residence of the United States Embassy. The price was dirt
cheap for her labor. Tonight, I gave her more fabric to make more African
outfits. At 4,000 Tanzanian shillings to make a blouse and a skirt is only less
than $3 bucks. Yep, it’s a price for a pack of gum back in good ol’ Uncle Sam. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will need to wash one more load of laundry before I leave
for Dar es Saalam this Sunday. Like last time, I will pay my sister to do it. I
have washed a total of 3 laundry since I have been at homestay and it’s been
hard and unpleasant. My hands turn red and callous-like from wringing the
clothes to be hung and dried. I offered my sister to do my laundry for pay.
Needless to say, she was stoked and agreeable. I gave her 1,000 shillings which
is less than a buck. For a 12 years old girl, this is fantastic pocket money as
she already does a lot of chore for free being a female in a Tanzanian family. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my village in Njombe, I have already secured a lady who I
will pay for house cleaning and laundry for the next 2 years. I already gave
her half of her requested amount. When I arrive in my house, she understands
that the house will be totally cleaned from top to bottom and all leftover
beddings and whatever clothes and other washables exist must be washed. I
apologize to no one by not “roughing it, Peace Corps style”. At my age, I
deserve luxury and besides, I’m supporting the local economy. Some volunteers
may blow it on booze. For me, it will be domestic services. Donatila is a 42
years old widow who has 3 children to support. She is a seamstress and owns a <i>duka</i> in the village selling
miscellaneous mumbo jumbo. I have absolutely no problem and am more than happy
to subsidize her for the duration of my residency in her village by giving her
household jobs and clothes making gigs. I may pay her to do my garden too as
she has offered this to me as well. No point to further screwing up my hands in
gardening too with a course handle hoe. My backyard is currently in shamble and
a total disarray of a garden. I brought tons of seeds to plant so I can grow my
own food. If I feel like eating beans, coconut rice or other Tanzanian food,
I’ll have gentle and mild mannered Donatila cook for me too. In front of my
house, there is an outside kitchen, which I assume is the village office’s
kitchen. She can easily cook for me as I have seen her cook in this kitchen for
me when I visited my site and stayed in my house for 2 nights. My house has two
huge kitchens, one inside the house and the other one outside in my backyard.
This sounds fancy but in reality, it ain’t no western kitchen, although the
indoor kitchen has 2 big working space in which is unheard of in this country
and for that I’m totally blessed to have it. <i>Jiko</i>, or kitchen, in Tanzania is basically a room where you squat
and do everything on the ground. There is no table. Although we are all living
under Peace Corps’ monthly allowance in which we are expected to live like the
level of a local, I will have to dip into my own pocket in the event I run out
of my monthly budget. I don’t suspect this will be the case…unless I go crazy
and blow my cash on fabric and custom-made clothes. I plan to wear pants at my
site. I have already asked my village chairman and the head teacher if this was
all right with them and the villagers. Being that it’s a Christian village,
they were cool with this and said I could wear whatever I want. If I lived in a
Muslim community, this will not be the case and I must abide the custom by
always wearing a skirt and kanga wrapped around it. <i>Thank God, I brought all my hiking pants and shirts cause I’ll
primarily be living in those…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4 December 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Metaphorically, I felt like I finally gave birth to
triplets. A big burden is off my
shoulder as today I have finished my final written Swahili exam, oral Swahili
exam and tech exam. Instead of having the oral exam tomorrow, which is the
usual time, I decided to be one of the few who had it today so I can be done
and over with all testing! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yesterday, we had our simulation with three different groups
of Tanzanians for our oral practice in different scenarios. Real live officers
came to MATI to role-play with us. There were police, immigration and out of
school youth. When I was having my simulation with the immigration officers, in
the middle of role playing, they asked the language cultural facilitator who
was evaluating our language skill, if I was acting or what I’m claiming really
happened which is that all my things got stolen therefore I was unable to
produce my ID and resident permit. The LCT cracked up as my role playing was
too convincing that the immigration officers actually may have believed my
story. They talked amongst themselves saying it or I was really good. I would like
to think they were referring to my Swahili, but I think they meant my acting. I
don’t know really what they said for sure. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In four more days, we all leave for Dar es Saalam to
conclude our training and get sworn-in as Peace Corps volunteer. I will miss my
homestay family, the villagers, and Alima. I spoke about her during my oral
exam today. I expressed how she is my 8 years old friend and how we enjoyed
each other’s company. Today’s oral exam went well. I was able to talk pretty
“fluently” in what I wanted and needed to say. Granted, I have a limited
vocabulary but I am able to articulate what I need to express. Everyday is
progress.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today, my mother has been cooking using firewood for
breakfast up to dinner inside the house. My eyes are irritated from the smoke
and the smell is killing me. This is unbelievable, cooking camping style
indoor! I can see the smoke inside my room as the <i>jiko</i>, is next to the <i>choo</i>,
which is in front of my room. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A young man on a bike with his loudspeaker announced another
death. There are deaths everyday in this village. The average lifespan here is
52 years old. If I have to inhale firewood smoke indoors, I’d be dropping like a
fly too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tonight’s adventure in the <i>choo</i> went like this:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I walk in the dark choo with my hand crank light…the
usual…my kanga wrapped around my body, broken toothbrush in mouth, soapy face
and I’m holding things in my arm and hands. I see two brown things on the
ground. <i>I wonder to myself, wtf? I hope
it’s not what I think it is. F*** it is! </i>I remained calm and took a pail of
water and tried to drown the two cockroaches. Oddly enough, one disappeared to
God-knows-where and the other tried to save its life but again, I don’t know
where it disappeared. The adventure continues as I began to scan the dirty
walls and I see a silver colored scorpion. <i>F***,
that does it! </i>I called out, “mama, mdudu!” She and my 10 years old brother
appeared. I think he may be chuckling. <i>I
wanted to bop his head. </i>My mama takes her flashlight and I pointed where I
saw that mother f****er on the wall. With a plastic soap dish she picked up
from the ground of the <i>choo,</i> she
killed it and then took a broom to sweep it off and now it’s outside the <i>choo</i>. She tells me tomorrow that we will
spray the room with bug spray. Meanwhile, I see other cockroaches on the floor
outside my room and my brother squashes it with his barefoot. <i>Jesus!</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I like to dedicate this space to my mother dearest back home
in U.S. of A:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mother Dearest,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I lived with you back home, you were a freakin’ pain in
the ass with your Nazi-esque-control-freak-nature-micro-managing ways of
harassing me to wash my hands with soap before eating at home and restaurants
which at times made me wanted to run away from home for good and join the
circus!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I reluctantly did it and many times it was only just so that
you’d shut your trap. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, well, well…you may be happy to know that karma has it
that my evil thoughts and stubborn ways are now pay back time because I am now
living in a country where guess what, ma? I’ll be teaching primary school students
the importance and necessity of hand washing with soap and water! And in
Swahili too! But that’s not really my real punishment ma; you’d be extra
pleased to know that now I am dying to wash my hands at each waking moment. For
each rare opportunity that I can wash my hands with soap and water, I have
dedicated a blessing and prayer to mother dearest, yes, that’s you! My
smart-ass ways in the past have caught up to me and now I deserve to live in
poor rural Africa where hand washing with soap and water is not a common easy
occurrence, but a luxury that I took for granted back home with you. O please
forgive me, mother dearest for I have sinned. Repent is I.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Oh mother dearest, how I long to hear you nag about the importance of
hand washing.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>How I miss turning the faucet to hot and putting my grimy paws under
the running water.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>What a joy to pump anti-bacterial soap and bubble up.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Luxury is the act of moving my soapy hands together to create white
foam.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Ode to the mini rainfall of water to wash the germs away…goodbye dirt!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Ah…wiping dry the hands on an absorbent towel made for this purpose in
life.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>I hold up my hands to my nose to sniff the freshness.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Savor it is the virtue of clean hands.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Oh mother dearest, how I long to hear you nag about the importance of
hand washing.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Bro or Fendi, if you’re reading this, do me a fave and share
this with ma although I know I’ll regret it one day only because she’ll nag and
never let me forget that mother knows best!)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On a happier and lighter note, yesterday during chai at
MATI, surprise was I to receive mail. Many trainees receive letters and care
packages from home but I never receive anything<i>. Nobody likes me, probably</i>. Wow, someone sent me something? Who?
From Bangkok? I don’t know anyone there. I turn the package over hoping to find
out more info…and WOW, a complete delight to receive a gift from my Danish
buddy, Stig, who has been traveling for over a year. I opened the small package
and what I took out was a total unexpected little joy. This gentle Danish giant
(he’s big and bad-ass looking. Read: Russian terrorist, military commando, you
get the picure) sent me my favorite book in the world <i>The Little Prince</i> in the Thai language. His thoughtful gesture was
so sweet and appreciated. I was so very happy to receive not only the book but
to hear from him and to know he was thinking of me. <i>Mein liebling, danke dir! Wenn kommst du nach Tanzania? <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5 December 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know why all of the sudden, my mama is cooking with
firewood. Perhaps she has run out with charcoal and kerosene? The smoke from
the firewood indoor is making my eyes red and irritated. There is no open air to allow the smoke to
travel. The <i>jiko</i> is in front of my
room and the smoke travels into it, as the walls don’t meet the ceiling. If
this was back in USA, the smoke alarm inside the house would have gone off like
crazy and the fire department would be dispatched immediately…total health
hazard living under these conditions. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Wendy S. Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3646219605603092371.post-5291472602094135032012-12-10T02:11:00.001-08:002012-12-10T02:11:07.486-08:00Part Three: Site Visit in Njombe or Checked Out My Future Bachelorette Pad
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Part Three: Site Visit in Njombe or Checked Out My Future
Bachelorette Pad<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
18 November 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have returned from a week of shadowing a current Peace
Corps volunteer in her village and visiting my site at Image village in the
region of Njombe. From Iringa to Njombe, I experienced my first third world
country bus accident. Our bus clipped an oil rig tank coming from the opposite
side of the road thus our bus was forced off the road to the side where luckily
the unpaved messy dirt was able to prevent the bus from rolling and flipping
over. By the grace and mercy of Lord Buddha, we, the passengers, were not hurt
or injured. <i>Somewhat freaked, yes, you
bet!</i> God forbid that we flipped over because my face would be smashed
against the window as I was sitting on the side where the bus would hit the
ground first. <i>Not to mention the people
and their belongings on the other side of the bus crushing me to my demise…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am back in my mosquito net covered bed at homestay in
Lusanga A and have resorted back to my sticky perspiration complimented with
the usual miserable bodily itch that feels like welts when I touch them. Aside
from scratching my body with one hand, the other tries to quickly catch flying
bugs with the other. I will become sufficiently ambidextrous at the end of my 2
years of service. <i>Good thing I’m in the dark
with no electricity because what is on my body may be a frightening sight</i>. <i>There is definite value in living in the dark
with no electricity and not owning a mirror in the house when you know with a
high degree of certainty that your appearance would be better off
unacknowledged.</i> I have never liked cold weather and would prefer warm over
cold any day…but now I am changing my tune. <i>Or
body temperature preference, in this case.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b>David Lettermen’s<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b>Top 10 List of Wendy’s Jackpot in Peace Corps Housing and Site<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
10. <b>Higher altitude</b> in the mountainous and
hilly Njombe region has chillier climate which means lower risk of malaria and
other ailments induced by heat and humidity.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> Translation:</b> no more chronic sweaty, grimy
and itchy body from bugs and mosquitoes along with a lesser probability in
chance encounter with creepy crawlers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
9. <b>Cheese Country</b>
and food is cheaper.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> Translation:</b> the money I save from
produce, I can buy cheese…and lots of it!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
8. <b>A big brick house</b>
with finished wooden ceiling, different colored rooms and a fireplace to enjoy
a mini library of 40 popular and excellent books left by a former volunteer. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> Translation:</b> A cool crib to
chill in! <i>Thanks Peace Corps!</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7. <b>A perfect house</b>
for hosting holiday parties as there are a big indoor and outdoor kitchen and
many furniture including several huge tables (can you say ‘buffet’?) and 2
queen size beds<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph">
<b>Translation:</b>
I don’t have to spend money to buy furniture and worry about transporting it back
home strapped on the roof top of a dangerous bus speeding up the winding road.
More money to buy cheese! Read again translation #3.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6.<b> The house has
electricity</b> from hydropower; thus electricity is available everyday during
rainy season and some days of the week if no rain.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph">
<b>Translation:</b>
some electricity is still better than no electricity or read #3 again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5. <b>A water project</b>
is currently underway in which tap water with a faucet will be placed very near
my house.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph">
<b>Translation:</b>
I don’t have to pay someone to fetch water. Money saved will subsidize more
cheese purchases. Students will be fetching my water until the construction of
the tap water system is completed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4. <b>2 primary schools and
1 dispensary/clinic</b> with a village population of 3,700 with nearly 700
students.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph">
<b>Translation:</b>
Big student body and residents to work with to keep me continuously active so I
don’t become insane from living in a rural village with nothing to do.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3.<b>The <i>costa</i></b>, mini bus, stops in front of
my house to Njombe town.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph">
<b>Translation:</b>
Front door service means I can sleep in more to catch the morning bus to town
and walk less back to home with a backpack full of cheese, I mean food, from
town.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2.<b>Outdoor choo inside
my enclosed backyard.</b> My toilet is basically “doing it outdoors” but with a
semblance of 4 walls and a roof. Think of fancy camping.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst">
<b>Translation:</b>
no more stale stinky stench indoors.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b>Next to
my house is a <i>duka</i></b>, a tiny store,
selling black powder hair dye!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<b>Translation:</b>
At my whim or in an “emergency”, I can go from “old to gold”, anytime!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Extra Credit: the kind lady whom I’ve hired to clean my
house, tend the garden, and wash my clothes is a seamstress. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b> Translation:</b>
One stop service!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Part Two: The One Month Milestone<o:p></o:p></div>
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3 November 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
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Today marks the official one month anniversary of my Peace
Corps experience. I feel like I’ve been away from home longer; this one month
feels like six months. <i>Seriously.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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Here is a recap of my daily life in a Tanzania village of
Lusanga A<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 40.5pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->A)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->I wake up daily when it is still dark from the
following:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Mama working in the kitchen thus making a racket
of a noise. The<i> choo</i> (toilet) is
straight across from my room and the kitchen is next to it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l2 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->The chicken (hen) in our kitchen is crowing. If
not, it meant she had been slaughtered and was my last night’s dinner. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l2 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->The call to prayer, there is a Muslim mosque in
this village.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l2 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->4.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->An awful and dangerous smell of mama lighting
the stove with either charcoal or kerosene. I fear I will get cancer as I
inhale this seriously toxic fume daily. I am able to see the heavy smoke
traveling into my room since the walls in the house do not meet the ceiling.
There is a big gap. Again, the kitchen is across and near my room where I may
acquire the black lung disease.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->B)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Mama greeting and telling me that the bath water
is ready when she hears me already awake. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->C)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->I go to the <i>choo</i>
for my daily morning bucket bath. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->D)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->After dressing, I come out of my room and eat my
breakfast at the coffee table with tea or coffee. Food items are 2 to 4 of the
following and rotated:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->peeled boiled eggs <o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->omelet<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->chapati<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->4.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->sliced white bread with margarine or rolls<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->5.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><i>maandazi</i>
(triangle shaped sweet fried dough)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->6.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Fruit (papaya, banana, watermelon or the
occasional orange)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->7.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Cassava<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-list: l3 level1 lfo3; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->8.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Plantain<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 40.5pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->E)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Malaria prophylaxis if it’s a Wednesday <o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->F)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Couple times a week, Swahili language lesson at
my village where a 5 minute walk takes me to the classroom. Class begins at 8AM
where one teacher teaches one other classmate and I. (the two other have
returned home to USA) At 10:30AM it is chai. After our tea break of tea, coffee
and something to eat, we continue our lessons until lunch break at 12:30PM.
Lunch is usually coconut rice, <i>mchicha</i>,
(Tanzanian spinach), and a tiny portion of meat like beef or fish and fruit.
This is a typical lunch in which we have to pay 3,000 Tanzanian shilling which
is about USD$2 for a day. A woman cooks the food and brings everything to our
class in a bucket carried on her head. Most importantly, she also brings a
pitcher of hot water and a chunk of soap for our hand washing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 40.5pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->G)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->If it’s not language class, then we are at MATI
(Ministry of Agriculture Training Institute) in which we are picked up from our
villages by a Peace Corps vehicle to transport us for an all day training
session on various topics. On these days, I would bring my laptop to charge where
there is electricity in the offices and refill my water bottles. Chai and lunch
are provided on training days; therefore, I have no expenses on days we go to
MATI. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 40.5pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->H)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->By the time I return home from either Swahili or
MATI, it is already late afternoon around 5PM. Swahili class ends at 2 to 3 PM
but I dick around in the village talking to villagers or go to the nearest town
to get money from an ATM or use the really pathetic internet café with a
whopping 2 crappy and slow computers and don’t return home until it’s nearly
dark. I sit outside my house with my siblings and neighborhood kids start to
surround me. I hang with the village children to talk and play with them. They
go crazy when I whip out my Iphone to take photos of them and they go even
bonkers looking at their own pics as everyone is grabbing and fighting for it! <i>I need to somehow sterilize my Iphone</i>…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 40.5pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->I)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->When I am very pooped from an exploding mind of
having to think and speak in Swahili, I hide in the sanctuary of my mosquito
net covered bed to rest until I am called out to dinner. If I am sitting
outside the house for a long time, I am called to dinner and eat straight away.
We eat late around 8:30PM.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 40.5pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->J)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->I eat dinner with my mama on the floor.
Occasionally my one or two brothers will join us but I see there are already rice
or ugali and beans on their plates. My sister seldom eats with us. Most of the
time, I don’t even see her and baba never eats with us either. Dinner is the
following and rotated:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 58.5pt; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo4; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->1 or 2 starch: rice, ugali, potato, starchy
banana, chapati, or bread rolls (main staple of diet)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 58.5pt; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo4; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->1 veggie of either mchicha, okra or cabbage
(small portion). I basically hog the entire dish and I own it!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 58.5pt; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo4; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->1 protein of either beef, fish, eggs or beans
(portion of meat is 3-4 bite sized pieces and 1 bowl of beans)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 58.5pt; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo4; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->4.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->fruit of either papaya, banana, or watermelon.
Orange and jack fruit are seldom.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 58.5pt; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo4; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->5.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Tea<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 40.5pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->K)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->I bathe either before or after dinner. I’m
always disappointed when I am given a half bucket of water for my evening bath
which is usually the case. The night bath is the most important as one needs to
wash away the entire day’s filth, grime, cooties, dust, and sweat away.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 40.5pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->L)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->I enter my covered bed and either sketch, study
some Swahili or mostly, I am writing on the computer. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 40.5pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->M)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Every night since I have been in country, I fall
asleep easily. I attribute my fatigue from the stale, humid weather and mental
exhaustion of having to speak a newly acquired foreign language. There are
times when I am truly exhausted and unable to compose a simple sentence in
Swahili that I just want to spew English just because I can!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 40.5pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->N)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Sunday is my only day off which means I can
sleep in a little bit more. I think the chicken has the right idea too because
I don’t seem to notice it during the weekend. Sweeping and washing my bedroom
cement floor starts off this day to be followed by hand washing clothes. I
chill in the village crib with little kids and my siblings. I’m like the Romper
Room teacher with a constant entourage of small children ranging from 1 to 10
years old. Early evening is when mama, a brother and I go for an orange Fanta
soda drink with visits to families.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I applaud myself for not puking and getting the runs yet.
Many trainees unfortunately have suffered GI issues. Considering in my home
that there is no soap and easily available water to wash hands, so to speak,
and that mama peels my boiled eggs and fruit, I’ve been able to stomach
everything so far without problem.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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6 November 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Today is day 2 of our Mid Language Proficient Interview.
This morning I took my oral Swahili test to see where I am in progress. Our
conversations have been recorded on a tape recorder and the tester will
carefully review the recording to access our level. This will not be counted as
a grade. My interview lasted 23 minutes and usually they are from 7 to 30
minutes depending on the speaker and his/her proficiency of the language. Last
Friday was our written exam. Instead of “playing safe”, I wrote a lot, which
means I have more room for grammatical errors. I don’t care if I made many
mistakes, for me, it’s the opportunity to write and practice what I have
learned. I’ve never been a “play it safe kind of person”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Tomorrow will be exciting. Aside from discovering who
will be the next President of the United States, we 39 Peace Corps trainees
will find out where we will be living and working for the next 2 years of our
lives. <i>It’s Site Announcement Time,
Folks!</i> Placement is decided upon our strength and weaknesses, our resume,
aspiration statement, personal requests, medical needs and preferences.
Supposedly, Peace Corps do a great job in assigning sites to volunteers. It’s
half science and half art in that they are able to access who will be
successful doing what and where. I found out who has requested my site; an
older married couple who wants to be in a very cold part of Tanzania. I guess
I’ll see who gets this site, them or me. At the end of the day, I know nothing
of the geography of the country, nor the house, the assignment, or anything
else. What little I know sounds attractive to me: Southern Highlands, great
internet connection, electricity in the house, no water shortage, a furnished
house, and close to a clinic. This is a replacement site and not a new site.<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We are already in week 5, which means our Pre Service
Training is already half finished. One group will depart to their site for
visit and to shadow a current Peace Corps volunteer on Saturday and the other
group leaves on Sunday. These days, I dread riding in a public vehicle. Last
Saturday, 3 days ago, our group went to the beach town of Pangani for a much
needed break and some relaxation time. <i>Drunken
stupor and hook ups optional. </i>The 3 hours bus ride was a torture ride for
me. In front of me was a young local man (don’t know who he was or why he was
traveling with us) who was desperately in need of a bath with a scrubber, antibacterial
soap, bleach, lysol and scalding water for he had the worse stench humanly
possible. I tried to breathe through my mouth but I can still smell his intense
body odor. I positioned my head close to the window so the air will relieve me
of this nasal burden but to my horror, it only exacerbated the intense smell as
the wind was blowing his terrible aroma my way. The rain didn’t help. I closed
the window because I was starting to get soaked, ironically the stank was less.
That’s odd, his smell increased as the window was open but less as the window
was closed. His body odor must be so strong if the wind circulated his scent.
If the nasal assault wasn’t bad enough, during the middle of the ride, we were
driving on an unpaved road. Clearly, the bus has no shock absorbent so to
speak. I was in pure misery as the bus seat vibrated like an annoying massage
chair gone haywire. It wasn’t comforting or relaxing. It was irritating and as
my body fat circulated and jiggled; it made my entire body itch like hell. So I
am dealing with having to smell a stinky body odor to the nth degree and
dealing with my own itchy body. I tried to meditate and have an out of body
experience but that didn’t really work. It’s times like this that I think to
myself<i>… This is good enough reason to ET!
As a public service, there should be a law requiring to show proof of bathing
prior to boarding a public vehicle …maybe this will be my Peace Corps
project…How to Control Body Odor in a Public Vehicle to Mitigate Health Risk
and Trauma Prevention. I wonder if they’ll accept my grant so I can purchase a
boat load of deodorant in which it will be distributed to each passenger who
boards a public vehicle. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
7 November 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The day started great with the news of Barack Obama
winning the US Presidential election! <i>You
go Kenya…neighbor of Tanzania!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
But the real and true excitement for us today is to learn
of where we will actually serve in the Peace Corps. Site announcement was
originally scheduled after chai but since the top dog staff hasn’t yet arrived
from Dar es Saalam, the pending discovery would have to wait after lunch. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Peace Corps makes a production of the day when site is to
be announced. There is a bit of pomp and circumstance involved and we all
happily partook. African dancers and drummers performed for us and we can join
in on the dance if we like. I’m thinking this is a good way to calm our nerves
and mostly, to appease any disappointments assuming you had your heart set on a
specific area. Or it could simply just be wholesome entertainment and fun. For
future Peace Corps trainees, I won’t ruin the surprise of how site is announced
but I can say that I was completely not expecting the location of my site. When
I heard my name called out from a classmate, I was surprised and wondered if I
heard right because I was distracted with something and didn’t pay full
attention to what was going on. <b>Njombe!</b>
What happened to Mbeye or Iringa? Njombe is still in the southern highlands but
a different region. It’s the land of cheese!! Yes, I can eat cheese and a ton
of potatoes! And it’s cold! <i>Terve
Suomi…I’m back in Finland, again</i>. From the 1 photo of my future Peace Corps
house, it looks big. <i>Are those chimneys I
see on the roof? From afar, it looks like a French chateau. No joke! </i>I’m
told there is electricity in the house, which is hydro powered. I’ve yet to
find out if there is reliable internet connection in or around the house and at
site. Here is what I know: cold at nights since it’s hilly and mountainous,
food is cheaper since they grow food, land of cheese and potatoes, ability to
get veggies and some fruit…most importantly, people love it there. I will be
replacing a former Peace Corps volunteer and will work in a clinic/ dispensary
and a primary school. <i>That’s cool, I dig
watoto. </i>This Sunday, I will depart to the site to visit my home and to
shadow a current Peace Corps volunteer in the region. I am very ready to leave
my homestay and begin to live on my own. I’m truly tired of living with a
family. I yearn for privacy and not be on the current schedule of people
telling me what I have to do next. Eat now, go here, go there, eat again, etc. I’ll
miss someone cooking for me though….and the village of Lusanga A.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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11 November 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In three hours and 15 minutes, a Peace Corps vehicle will
pick me up from my home at 3:15AM to take me to the bus station where we will
all leave to our respective sites. This one week away from our homestay will be
shadowing a current Peace Corps volunteer from our region and then off to our
individual site where we will finally visit the house we will be living for the
next 2 years. This will be our highlight of the trip, to finally check out our
Peace Corps crib! I am excited and totally looking forward to seeing what kind
of ghetto house I’ll be living. From what a current volunteer told me via his
conversation with the last volunteer who lived in the house I’m to live in, I’m
told there is no or little internet. This was absolutely upsetting to me. Like
a broken record, I told Peace Corps numerous times that I need to have
reasonable accessibility to communication. This coming week I’ll get more
information and see if this will become a problem. The nearest banking town
from me is 60 kilometer, or a 2 hour bus ride to Njombe town. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I scored the highest at 98% from my class on the Mid
Language Written Exam. Swahili is an everyday task now where I have to think it
and speak it. No wonder I go to bed exhausted and sleep like a <i>mtoto. </i>(child)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
This afternoon, I went to my second wedding celebration.
It’s all about the dancing for me. What a sight to see women in their kanga
with an assortment of color and design. It amazes me how they can sway their
African fanny to the beat of the drums. There’s no ass like a black ass. It’s
some ass! It’s high and it can move! My dancing probably ain’t too shabs if I
always get money when I dance. I absolutely love the camaraderie and communal
festivity that is a village wedding. You don’t see the bride or groom. As a
matter of fact, the groom is never there nor is the bride. I think they only
come out at night and dance to the music blasted from a loud speaker. Wedding
food is a plate of beans and corn cooked in coconut. I witnessed something
interesting and wondered if this was standard traditional fare or something
different like a novelty. Three women came out wearing their bra and underwear
and started to dance provocatively with one of the women wearing a dildo with a
condom. The three simulated sex acts while we, the crowd gathered around to cheer
and laugh. From my observation being one month in Africa, the majority of women
here have saggy deflated breasts as they breastfeed their children at a
recommended age of up to two. They’ve sacrificed their esthetic for the health
of their children. I admire this, as it’s the only way to handle proper
nutrition. Speaking of children, you rarely see babies cry or are difficult.
Children in third world countries are extremely cooperative. I don’t think
brats really exist because parents don’t have the time of the day to deal with
their whims. Parents are busy fighting survival so kids gotta go with the flow
and take care of themselves for entertainment. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Peace Corps was an hour late picking me up. Had I known,
I could have slept an extra hour! It’s site visit time, folks! Stay tuned….<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Wendy S. Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3646219605603092371.post-35199924687176238222012-12-10T02:06:00.000-08:002012-12-10T02:06:05.163-08:00Part One: Living with a Tanzanian family for Community Based Training or The Real Training <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Part One: Living with a Tanzanian family for Community Based
Training or The Real Training<o:p></o:p></div>
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9 October 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
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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. <i>No electricity in this house.</i>
Meanwhile, I can feel flying critters landing on my skin; their bites will add
to my already collection of red bumps.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Three other trainees and I, making us a small group of 4, (we
are one of the two <i>wazee</i> 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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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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
“<i>shikamoo”</i> greeting from them. This
is the most respectful greeting people give to their elders. It means <i>I respect you, elder or literally it means I
touch your feet</i>. Needless to say, I was stoked upon hearing that venerable
word directed to me and I replied accordingly. <i>Yeah baby, it</i> <i>pays to be old.
Old is gold!</i> 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 <b>my</b> house. I have
been told that the family I would be staying with is new; they have never
hosted a Peace Corps volunteer<i>. This
should be interesting for them…and</i> <i>me
as well!</i> 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>I have arrived at my new home...and clearly
someone is extremely happy to see me. </i>I existed the van and immediately, my
new Tanzanian mama gave me a long and tight hug as big as the Kilimanjaro! <i>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 <b>that</b> happy to see me! </i>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. <i>My
mama must be a good housekeeper</i>. 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. <i>Nice job Peace
Corps… with the blue and violet floral print linen! </i>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 <i>bibi,</i> 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>I can see her going nuts in The Price is Right. </i>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. <i>More “shikamoo” to me and I’m digging it big times</i>. <i>Back at home,</i> <i>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 <b>starts
today</b>!</i> 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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mama called me for dinner. She gave me a kanga to wear. <i>Not sure what she is saying about this. Am I
to dress for dinner?</i> 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. <i>Namaste,</i> <i>I’m back in India, again! </i>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>I knew I heard a man’s voice in the kitchen
earlier. </i>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>I think Africans are like Asians;
God knows how old these people are? </i>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 <i>baba</i>
(father) but again, I understood nothing. Well, I guess there is a father in
this family after all. <i>I am happy for the
kids</i>. 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. <i>Kind of</i> <i>reminds me of the singer, Seal.</i> 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>I think some indulgence is nice; besides,
you really need to bathe big times living in Africa</i>. 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 <b>but</b>
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. <i>Good
job, Wendy.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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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. <i>It’s really
okay, I trust you guys, I don’t have to have my door locked 24/7.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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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. <i>No running water and no electricity make life burdensome</i>. 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. <i>You don’t want to put anything on the ground…I
should have brought a plastic container at</i> <i>the market at Dar es Saalam. I have to budget my money as I am now
living under Peace Corps’s stipend. </i>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>I suck! Not even a week and already I have</i>
<i>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. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>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?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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10 October 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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. <i>What a damn
nuisance</i>. 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>I don’t want to have to take antibiotics…but
I may have to.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the beginning of
class, day one of Community Based Training, one of my classmate announced she
has decided to ET, an acronym for <b><i>Early Terminate</i></b>. 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 <b>hard core conditions</b>. To
some, like my own mother, it would be horrific and she would be traumatized if
she sees how I am currently living<i>. For
mother dearest, this may be a near death experience. She is an indoor cat who
lives in luxury</i>. <i>No way Jose, could
she last for 5 minutes. </i>This morning for a brief moment, I think back to
what my mother dearest had said to me back home. “<i>Why don’t you just travel luxuriously instead of serving Peace Corps?”</i>
This trainee divulged some things why she could not continue and mentioned
there were other issues on a deeper level. <b>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… “<u>Peace
Corps style</u>”, my fellow trainee gave up and decided to return home to USA</b>.
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. <b><u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">It
is hard core in every sense, especially in Africa’s rural poverty. </span></u></b>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; <u>it’s merely
wetting my hands</u>. 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>I brought chopsticks</i>. 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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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>I
think there are bed bugs in my bed. Damn!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <i>She will ET on me upon
arrival</i>…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
12 October 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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 <i>scheisse</i> and I hope I don’t get any of
them. The swollen foot is enough.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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…v<i>ery McGyver-ish</i>. <i>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.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <i>Ignorant
is bliss when you live in poverty.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <i>It’s a good thing I don’t know what</i> <i>I</i> <i>look like now. I have to
eventually show my family the basic hygiene of using soap and water to wash
hands. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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 <b>wash my hair and body at the same time….<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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…<i>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</i>... 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? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
13 October 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This morning at the <i>choo,</i>
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>I guess I did wash
my body after</i> <i>all…it</i> <i>was too tempting</i>. 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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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 <i>kitenge </i>(a long
version of a kanga); courtesy of Peace Corps, her reaction rivaled receiving a Louis
Vuitton handbag as a present. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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>I touch your feet, sister. </i>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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have always wanted to live in a <i>real village</i> 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. <i>Here
in small African villages, neighbors look out for one another, interact with
each other and actually like each other</i>. 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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
14 October 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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 <b>and</b>
rinse. I have a bra, 1 towel, 2 pants, 2 t-shirts, a long sleeve shirt, a long
dress, and a kanga. <i>Am I to properly
clean these items and rinse them well with <b>only
one bucket of water</b>? </i>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. <i>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. </i>As I followed mama, my heart sunk and face grimaced, as I understood
what’s to happen. <i>Jesus, this is it…I’m
going to get a skin infection and allergies from dirty soapy water from my
clothes. </i>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: <i>“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!”</i>
Mama may have smelled fear in me for she reassured me that it’s very clean and
you can smell the soap. <i>No shit, Sherlock
mama…of course it smells of soap…cause the soap is still in the clothes!!! </i>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!<b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <i>Am I going to have
carbon monoxide poisoning or get the black lung disease from daily inhalation
of toxic fumes? </i>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…<i>for
that rustic rural feel</i>. 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!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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 <i>mchicha,</i> a hardy green vegetable similar
to collard green but more tender, Tanzania’s version of spinach. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
15 October 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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>I opted
for an adventure abroad. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
17 October 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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>. 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. </i>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>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.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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18 October 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This late afternoon as I returned home was one of those days
that I didn’t feel like talking or interacting with anyone. <i>Too pooped from last night’s heavy dancing</i>.
Sometimes you just need your own quiet space and not have to talk and schmooze.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <i>My second Peace Corps mishap</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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19 October 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Kids make good slaves.
The more the merrier</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <b>Yes,
I was able to wash my hair and body with only 1 bucket of water</b>. It was not
luxurious but it accomplished at least getting the superficial filth away. I’m
no longer skeptical but a pro. <i>Hell, if
you can properly wash hair, face and body with 1 bucket of water, you can do
anything in life.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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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. <i>My job is done</i> <i>as the terminator.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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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>I apologize to none since I’m not
obese which is my saving grace. </i>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>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. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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22 October 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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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. <i>Why
the hell are people in Muheza opening a restaurant when there is no food to
serve? </i>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. <i>Safe means not
getting major diarrhea. </i>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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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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. <b>The</b>
<b>works</b>: brush teeth, wash face, body,
hair and even underwear! <b>Oh yeah baby, I
did it; it was successful and I’m very proud of myself. </b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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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”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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 <i>watoto</i> 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>I’ll even pay for this out of my own pocket.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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24 October 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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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!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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! <b><i><u>I
CAN NOT disappoint Fendi</u></i></b><i>! <b>I promised my daughter that she could
always reach me</b></i><b>, <i>her mother who is oceans away in another far
away continent</i>. </b>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. <b><u>I believe in karma</u></b>; 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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
25 October 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Health Program Director tells me that a <i>mzee</i>, 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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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>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?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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…<i>not yet, at least.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
26 October 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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 <i>my way</i>. 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.<i> Screw</i>
<i>that deal!</i> 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. <i>You’ve been in the country for
less than a month, give yourself a break, dude! </i>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 <i>choo</i> while hand
washing my clothes in dirty water. Meanwhile, a gaggle of young girls, my
sister’s friend, stood at the doorway of the <i>choo</i> to watch me do my laundry<i>.
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>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>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! </i>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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
29 October 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <i>Do your parent know this?</i>
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<i>. 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.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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, <i>ninapenda sana
watoto, wao ni walimu wazuri! </i>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 <i>tano</i>”
which means give me <i>five</i>. I then
would say, <i>tano, kumi, ishirini</i> 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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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, <i>Karibu
Tanzania! <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
30 October 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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 <i>daladala</i>.
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 <b>Twister</b> 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”<i>. </i>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. <i>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!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>To the Liu Family,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>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.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>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.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Wendy S. Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3646219605603092371.post-38218786367862297462012-12-10T02:02:00.000-08:002012-12-11T14:36:54.415-08:00Choo 101 or Everything You Wanted to Know About the Choo but was Afraid
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<div class="MsoNormal">*Choo 101 or Everything You Wanted to Know About the Choobut was Afraid to Ask or Know<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Choo</i></b>- Swahili, ki-vi class noun, plural is Vyoo <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Pronunciation</b>:choo is pronounced like “cho”; it rhymes with “low”.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Definition</b>:toilet; in rural Africa it is normally a hole in the ground<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Choo used insentences</b><i>:<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Choo kiko wapi?</i>-Where is the toilet?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Ninaenda chooni</i>.-I’m going to the toilet.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Tutakuwa na vyooviwili</i>. -We will have two toilets.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Sipendi choo changu. – I don’t like my toilet.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Intro to choo</b>(notice the clever rhyme): a huge part of the globe uses a squat toilet instead of a sit down toilet. To sit or to squat, that is the question! It is believed that squatting over a toilet is more sanitary than sitting on a toilet when answering to nature’s call. The idea is that sitting on a public toilet is dirty; whereas if you squat, your body is touching nothing. There is some validity to this point of view. For those living in the developed west and has never traveled abroad to other countries, especially third world developing nations or once upon a time a developing nation, it would not be a bad idea to familiarize oneself with how the other majority of the world do their personal business in the 21<sup>st</sup> century.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Choo manual</b>:regardless of the types of choo, you face the door and squat where your feet are on either side of the choo. Make sure the door is locked so an unsuspecting person doesn’t walk into the choo witnessing you strain with fear in your face.Urinating on one’s foot or feet, if the stream of urine is out of control, is common practice. Strong knees and quad muscles will make this task easier to perform. While squatting, use skirt or shirt to cover nose and or mouth to avoid smelling and inhaling toilet stench if applicable. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Wiping agents</b>: Locals use their left hand. Foreigners use toilet paper. Stock up on toilet paper whenever possible and also, always carry some toilet paper with you, as many public choo do not have them. For emergency, gather big and soft pliable leaves before choo action. Any absorbent material will do. The thinking of those who use hand to rinse water to their privates is that we who uses toilet paper is disgusting in that we are smearing our feces to the body with toilet paper. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Flushing mechanism</b>:a bucket of water containing a small pail to flush water down your toilet paper and waste down the hole. Depending on the type of choo, flushing may not be necessary; therefore, there will be an absence of water. More developing nations will have plumbing and may have a flusher. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Types of choo :</b><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">1. <b>Porcelain pitlatrine</b> –a porcelain squat toilet on the ground. It is rectangular in shapewith a hole on one end where human wastes get dropped and on either side areridges where the feet step on. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Pro: it’s the Rolls Royce of choo as it costs money to buy and it looks civilized because it’s an actual toilet style in white porcelain.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Con: like a sit down toilet, you have to clean with toilet brush if there is staining. If there is no water available and your waste doesn’t automatically slip down the hole, you can see your own excrement sitting in the pit. <i>Not a pretty sight</i>.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">2. <b>Drop choo</b> – a man made hole in the ground measuring 20 feet deep down. A new hole at adifferent location is created every 15 years. Sometimes a cover is made to cover the hole. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Pro: one can also dispose of trash in the hole. No need to clean or flush with water as human waste gets dropped down deep in the ground.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Con: bats and other creatures may inhabit and breed inside the deep hole of this dark tunnel. <i>A very disturbing thought as you squat with your cooch hanging out hoping a bat doesn’t fly up and bite your ass. Scary.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal">3. <b>Outhouse. Let’s call it “my toilet”</b> – the infrastructure is a little house, which is raised from the ground, and there is a hole on the floor of the structure. You simply do your business and aim it in the hole.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Pro: no need to flush or clean because it’s a hole. No scary bat and spider residency because the distance from hole to the earth can be seen from the hole on the floor. It is shallow.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Con: you can see your own waste on the ground from the hole.<i>This can be remedied if you strategically drop your toilet paper to cover any visually upsetting view.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Location:<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Pit latrines are always in an enclosed room usually with a tiny useless window. This room can be either inside a house or outside the house as a separate compartment of the house. I don’t like this kind of toilet set up because usually they are inside the house, which smells horrendous because of the lack of air circulation. The latter location is preferable as you can open the door and allow entrance of air. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Drop choo are always outside the house and is enclosed. This set up is disturbing because of the unknown lurking in the mysterious black tunnel and also it has an awful smell as waste and other trash is buried down deep with no contact with air.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My toilet is the best because it’s totally outdoor taking care of nature’s call. There is no mental image of the boogey man’s hand reaching to grab me from the hole and no need to scrub a pit latrine. There is no issue with smelling a raunchy toilet because it is not enclosed in an interior room. The enclosure is made of 4 walls with a ceiling but it’s gaps and holes galore with ventilation for air circulation. It’s high-class camping style. <i>Me likey.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>The aftermath:<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A bucket of water is a hint signaling non-existence of plumbing, which further translates to no sink, or at least no running water.There may be a sink, which most likely will not function because the plumbing is inevitably always jacked. As evidenced by another bucket of water, this is the water to wash your hands. Soap is a luxury and consider yourself blessed if available for your use. If this is the case, wash your hands like no tomorrow until they’re raw and the skin is about to come off as this is an activity not to be taken for granted or lightly. If you used your left hand instead of toilet paper, you definitely want to vigorously wash your hands and don’t forget to dig inside your finger nails.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Since toilet paper is usually not provided, after handwashing, shake hands to dry or like me, use your skirt or pants as hand towel to pat dry. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Quickly undo the sliding lock with your wet hands and exhale deeply and try to find a clean space to inhale “new air”. Relax and mentally give yourself a pat on the back after a productive run to the choo. <b>The choo is no fun</b>. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Choo Debriefing<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Q: What happens to the excrement and other wastes that get dropped in the drop choo and outhouse?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: Human waste is biodegradable and organic. It will decompose and break down and blend into the earth. Pigs in India eat human fences as they hang out under the outhouses waiting for poo poo to be dropped down for their din din. <i>Bon Appetit! Bacon, ham and pork chop anyone?<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Q: Do you miss using a western style sit down toilet?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: No, one gets use to squatting. The risk of squatting is peeling on yourself and shoes. What is slimy is the perpetual muddy wetness around the choo as dirt from shoes and water from the bucket comingle thus abig dirty mess is created.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Q: What happens if you pee on your foot and shoes?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: Nothing. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Q: How can one avoid peeing on oneself?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: Learn to squat wider. Remember those aerobic classes targeting the quads and glutes? Finally, they are useful now.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Q: What happens if you forget to bring toilet paper?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: You have the following options of 1. Use hand 2. Drip dry or get ready for vigorous underwear washing session later 3. Think outside the box and use what material you might see in the choo, maybe the empty toiletpaper roll?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Q: What if you need to wash your hands and there is no separate water for hands, only the bucket of water for flushing the choo?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: Take a chance and use the water to wash your hands. Many may have done what you’re doing so you will contribute to the bucket of dirty hand water. Your hands were dirty anyway so you’re even steven.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Q: Is there a separate room to take a bath?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: Usually the choo is also the room where you take a bath.If there is a separate room aside from the choo, it is an empty room with a drain hole on the ground. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Q: How do you take a bath in the choo room?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: I’ve asked myself this for the past 10 weeks at twice aday.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Q: No, seriously, how do you take a bath in the choo room?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: Reread last answer. It is absolutely uncomfortable,disturbing, and disgusting to bathe in a room where it reeks of crap and having to stand naked exercising the power of denial that I didn’t see a big cockroach scampering about, bugs flying, or a gecko on the wall. It is the epitome of what sanitation is NOT. You don’t clean yourself in a place where a human does its dirtiest deed. Try doing this in the dark with no electricity except for a flashlight of some sort. I’ve also been asked to do my laundry in the choo. It can be physically, mentally, and emotionally upsetting. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Q: You didn’t answer my question. How do you take a bath in the choo?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: A bucket of water with a used old plastic container as a vehicle to scoop water onto the body. With one bucket of water, let your imagination run wild in what cleansing activities may be conducted. Ie.brushing teeth, washing underwear, washing hair and body, etc.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Q: Do you feel clean after the bath? Is it as good and effective as a regular shower?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: Are you crazy?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Q: Can you please answer my question?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: Living in a dusty, humid and hot place make the body a perfect conduit for dirt and grime trapping. A bucket bath superficially rinses away some visible layer of perspiration and dust. The water itself is not clean but at least it temporarily gives you relief from a sweaty body.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Q: Will you have to take a bath in your choo at your house in Njombe?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: No. I have what was once upon a time a bathroom with a sit down toilet and plumbing for a shower. Currently, it is depilated, nothing works and it is a scary looking room appropriate as a setting for the next Texas Chainsaw Massacre or other graphic horror movie needing an abandoned morgue scene. <i>Tanzania is in desperate need of good plumbers. Painters too.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Q: Where will you bathe?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: Luckily, I’ll be a cooler climate where bathing is not an immediate need. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Q: Does that mean you’re not going to bathe often?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: NO. I must have my daily baths even if it means standing outside my backyard with the potential of giving voyeurs something to be happy about. I may hide and bathe next to a big tree full of huge trumpet flowers. Problem is that tons of bees are near this tree. I may just have to bathe in that eerie mini slaughter room. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>*Experiences,comments, and opinions are strictly mine and others may have pleasant thoughts and delightful experiences with various vyoo in Tanzania. This and subsequent articles are in no way intended to insult or offend the people and culture of Tanzania or other developing nations. <b>Following articles will make many references to choo and body odor in public transportation</b>. If toilet talk and bodily odor offend one’s sensibilities, it is advisable to discontinue reading. For those who feel this is culturally insensitive…go take a hike!<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><!--EndFragment--><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7vpYtiKeJIyUsUWu_-3MD4_0RUOS2Futm-zLD1xC-rw_oGen-dUxZi_8sbhueYC0DZkgloufXihy_YWk8mYg1R-oAIzET3XFqoL9k3CJso3lnphTsvkwy9Jx_9N5biQAAjRs0WG7mM5U/s640/blogger-image-1581010420.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7vpYtiKeJIyUsUWu_-3MD4_0RUOS2Futm-zLD1xC-rw_oGen-dUxZi_8sbhueYC0DZkgloufXihy_YWk8mYg1R-oAIzET3XFqoL9k3CJso3lnphTsvkwy9Jx_9N5biQAAjRs0WG7mM5U/s640/blogger-image-1581010420.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieK4zoIfptbuaGsyVElFygFmAMVrLbI8ktMNMh_A5lEBUqXCK6bG3ZNhyphenhyphenh6ovz_0etq_BRzAU1qiLjB7EOChb8ri70r-L_e2rIBKOS8rbGQWpcSC28vP505oa-tF4I5HYYEj3Yz48sAss/s640/blogger-image--1563581600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieK4zoIfptbuaGsyVElFygFmAMVrLbI8ktMNMh_A5lEBUqXCK6bG3ZNhyphenhyphenh6ovz_0etq_BRzAU1qiLjB7EOChb8ri70r-L_e2rIBKOS8rbGQWpcSC28vP505oa-tF4I5HYYEj3Yz48sAss/s640/blogger-image--1563581600.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-dfCdk64jWF4/UMeq7M0fC2I/AAAAAAAAAN0/border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc3FxzsJ-evlvUKuW71mqVXrlyrFhCu0B_d1xsaVSfIxx7weIREQB3O90yvNDwyPOqdK0HqvSiEGMC9dACEt6ErAYDw0lZKRvE_TQAr8hbFjJ6YkvXvARaIu0xTjjdvWiqcsCiD-ATq58/s640/blogger-image-2023093001.jpg" div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE7Sz_OJPqc6wwAfTyCOI_PbsYpIaVS8bTG0evEs4KemnWr0T_1IpZMOI1JHGooMPw4D0AYd8f3r1vXCW4xQ5aNUHL1rcq-BRNQnqUWa18eFwQl3aYBLcfe0Mp9odudI2ewpXwX_wAXt0/s640/blogger-image-1339086026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE7Sz_OJPqc6wwAfTyCOI_PbsYpIaVS8bTG0evEs4KemnWr0T_1IpZMOI1JHGooMPw4D0AYd8f3r1vXCW4xQ5aNUHL1rcq-BRNQnqUWa18eFwQl3aYBLcfe0Mp9odudI2ewpXwX_wAXt0/s640/blogger-image-1339086026.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilc5j7IlE0wsQrYvD_LVuiT1UBA7rI9ELY_MlqwzvZ5oAHmbD50PMxMsgY4n2BpDbFWCEuetmHPfJYsAGj1fgeVIWowlYltg-mHsmkqfdEU3YrpZDJ6yq7AyL-zUBr6wsaB_wVGMrxwYg/s640/blogger-image-970821649.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilc5j7IlE0wsQrYvD_LVuiT1UBA7rI9ELY_MlqwzvZ5oAHmbD50PMxMsgY4n2BpDbFWCEuetmHPfJYsAGj1fgeVIWowlYltg-mHsmkqfdEU3YrpZDJ6yq7AyL-zUBr6wsaB_wVGMrxwYg/s640/blogger-image-970821649.jpg" /></a></div>Wendy S. Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3646219605603092371.post-31445220287966558592012-12-09T23:28:00.001-08:002012-12-09T23:28:18.995-08:00Pre-Service Training at Msimbazi Center or “Training for the Real Training”
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Pre-Service Training at Msimbazi Center or “Training for the
Real Training”<o:p></o:p></div>
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4 October 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
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We are staying at the Msimbazi Center in Dar es Saalam,
Tanzania’s largest city, before we are to depart for Muheza, a district in the
Tanga region for the Community Based Training where we will live in a village
with a Tanzanian host family and continue Peace Corps training in areas
necessary to work and live in the country safely and effectively. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Presently, Peace Corps trainees are like one big family in
that we live in the same place, eat all meals together, support one another,
and share a common goal that is to successfully serve the communities in
Tanzania. I’d say that our parents are the Peace Corps staff ranging from top
dog, the Peace Corps Country Director of Tanzania to the Peace Corps employed drivers. Credit is also due to the current volunteers
who have left their site to come and hold our hands and show us the way during
our Pre Service Training. Their excitement and eagerness to help is sweet and
for that I’m grateful. I’m sure they enjoy a break from their site and do
something a little different for a change. Probably speaking Swahili and living
with Africans day in and day out can become tiring; therefore, to meet and
greet a big group of people from their own country is refreshing and probably
helpful as they can return to their site with added freshness and a renewed
sense of purpose. I imagine that temporarily having meals cooked for them, enjoying
electricity, flushing toilets, shabby showers, and sketchy internet are highly
attractive for them too, assuming if they have none of that back at their sites.
I am very appreciative of their time and willingness to assist us. It’s also
fun to finally meet these people who I’ve friended on Facebook back in USA and
to finally see them for the first time in Tanzania.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Today is the first daytime in my new country. As we are
driving to the Peace Corps office in Tanzania, I looked out the window from our
mini bus and it pretty much resembles any third world developing country. Nothing
really stands out except that everyone has dark skin. <i>Yep, I am in Africa!</i> You have the standard off roads with dirt and
rocks, the landscaping a bit savage which adds to that tropical underdeveloped feel,
one must of course have the prerequisite plastic patio chair and table set in
local eateries, and what’s a third world country without vendors hawking their
ware on the street selling household goods and clothing and small shanty ma and
pop shops? I excitedly exclaimed to others when I saw my first Masaai Mara men
with their iconic red-checkered cloth swathing their bodies. I thought they
looked a bit out of place assuming they should belong in the vast and massive plain
with their spears <i>en masse</i> and not
strolling on the busy street in Tanzania’s largest city passing sellers pimping
porcelain dinnerware and beauty salons. It’s way too soon to judge anything. The
fact that the population is homogenous being Tanzanians and ladies wearing distinctive
bold African print dress with matching head wrap or head cover if they are
Muslims are enough to make me happy for this is truly a different culture. <b>Black Africa</b>. I have only been to Egypt
and Morocco, which is Arab in North Africa.
Now, I am in sub-Saharan Africa; this is the first for me and I’m clearly
in a different world. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m waiting patiently to get my first taste of Tanzanian
grub. Not that I’m excited to try <i>ugali,</i>
the white colored gruel consistency of play dough that is the national dish,
but eventually it’s going to have to happen. Like going to a doctor to get a
shot, I want to get it over with. <i>Bring
it on ugali… let’s see what you’re all about.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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In the next days, we will be receiving all the required
vaccinations, briefing session on administration, medical, safety and security,
food and water preparation along with the favorite topic of diarrhea,
introduction to Tanzanian culture, religions, mental health, development,
homestay and cross cultural… and of course Swahili lessons.<o:p></o:p></div>
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5 October 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
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More malaria prophylaxis, more vaccination shots, and more
of the same food items served at the center’s kitchen. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We were distributed a Peace Corps medical kit ranging from
ordinary items like condoms, ibruprophen, Peptol Bismol to the more serious stuff
like oral antibiotics, Coartem and a self-test malaria kit which we would have
to prick our finger for blood. It was a mighty comprehensive goody bag. If it
wasn’t for the Peace Corps Medical Kit label, one would think it was a tool kit
equipped with hammer, wrench, and assorted screwdrivers as it was heavy. I
received a <i>reject box</i> in that half of
the items were missing in my kit along with a broken tube of antibiotic cream
that spilled all over the case; therefore, making a greasy and gooey mess. I
remedied my kit to become complete by mixing and matching what I need from
another incomplete medical kit. <i>I snagged
an extra dental floss…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Another gift from Peace Corps is a heavy-duty mosquito net
that we must hang over our bed. Malaria can be fatal; therefore, every
precaution is necessary to prevent illness and death by this particular infected
pregnant female Anopheles mosquito with a potentially deadly parasite, the
Plasmodium Falciparum. We will all need to continue our malaria prophylaxis during
our 27 months of service; for if we discontinue, this can be cause for administration
separation from the Peace Corps. The Peace Corps doctor told me that the dosage
is too mild to have long-term side effect when I asked if it is dangerous to be
taking it for this amount of time<i>. I
don’t know if I’m convinced… </i><o:p></o:p></div>
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Another exciting highlight; however, this one is out of our own
pocket…<i>and a limited one at that</i>…is
the opportunity to purchase a mobile phone. I bought a cheap Samsung mobile
phone whose bell and whistle are a radio and torchlight. After owning an IPhone,
playing with this downgraded phone is like learning to drive a Kia after you’ve
owned a Ferrari. At the end of the day, a phone’s main purpose is to make phone
calls and if this $18.95 USD phone does the job, I sure ain’t complaining.
After I bought the most expensive sim card credit available, I returned to my
room to text Fendi my new Tanzanian mobile number. I took a while to compose a
simple text message and to successfully send. Surprised and delighted to
receive a reply! Strange, I thought. <i>How
come I didn’t hear the phone make a sound...do cheap phones not give you a
ringtone on incoming text message? I’m spoiled…</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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Tomorrow, we will finally begin some basic language class.
This morning as I left my room for breakfast, I greeted a Tanzanian man in
Swahili. He looked happily surprised and told me that my Swahili (at this
moment, it’s basically non existent) sounds better than the girls with whom he
just exchanged greetings. That was a compliment to me and I will take that as
motivation to wholeheartedly learn the language<i>.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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If there was a break during the day or after dinner, instead
of socializing with others, <i>I’m old and have
retired my party animal days</i>, I return to my room to rest. It’s like a glorified prison cell where I
imagine high profile convicts like Martha Stewart or Leona Hemsley would stay
during their incarceration. The doors are painted gray and the walls a pale
depressing execution room green. There is a fluorescent light on the ceiling, a
sink in the room, a generous sized table that I am grateful to have, and a
closet with a key that is completely blocked by a bed with a mosquito net.
Lastly, a fan affixed to the wall would satisfy my cooling needs. Although the
room’s absence of color and ambiance is gloomy, its spartan quality suffices in
that all my needs can be met within these 4 walls. I think I would be rather
content if I was to live in a house along the line of this room. Peace Corps
will make my standards go down…and down and down…<o:p></o:p></div>
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6 October 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
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I woke up this morning at 3:30AM as a result of going to bed
at 9PM the night before. Later, as I heard the daily call to prayer and rooster
crowing, I thought it would be dawn and was prepared to dress for breakfast;
but alas, it was only 5:00AM. <i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Breakfast is consistent. There are five main staples: 1) boiled
eggs 2) funky red sausage the color and visual texture of monkey’s ass 3) a
fried flat dough uncertain of what it wants to be when it grows up, a tortilla,
crepe or a chapati? 4) banana 5) sometimes a bakery item be it sliced white
bread or fried dough. We make our own chai with a teabag, hot water, hot milk, and
sugar. I skip it all entirely because it’s too much work so I just fill my mug
with a teabag and hot water and call it a day. I’ve had enough chai in Nepal
and India and without real chai spices, <i>this
ain’t chai, man</i>. It’s just English tea with milk and sugar. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Since I woke up early this morning, I read manuals given by
Peace Corps. There will be tests that we need to pass in order to become
volunteers. <i>If I don’t make it, that
means I suck big times and will be returning home with my head down and tail
between my legs…however, I will miss the breakfast sausage though. (kind of tasty,
but I would suggest to the manufacturer on toning down the hot pink food
coloring)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Today’s highlight was the following:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->1)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Our very first brief Swahili lesson on
greetings. We were given a clear plastic envelope containing 2 dictionaries, a
hardcover lined notebook, pencil and an eraser. <i>I feel like a school kid in 3<sup>rd</sup> grade</i>; I love it. I’ll
admit; I’m a nerd. <i>Big times. </i>You
knew it was not going to be a snoozer when the language facilitator asked us to
sing “Jambo Bwana”. I let it ripped and couldn’t care less if I sounded like a
dude…Hujambo<i>, hujambo bwana….habari gani,
nzuri sana…wagenzi mwakaribishwa Tanzania yetu, hakuna matata…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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</span><!--[endif]-->We found out which village and family with whom we’d
be living for the next 10 weeks during homestay for our Community Based Training.
My village is Lusanga A near a main road
so technically there is electricity available; however, it depends if the
family had money to install it<i>…guess I’ll
find out in several days if I’ll be using the Peace Corps issued rechargeable
solar light or not.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->3)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->We ladies, if money was given to the current
volunteers to purchase on our behalf, got to pick 2 kanga (African print cloth
used as skirt and other accessories) after a demonstration was shown on how to
wear the wrap. As Chelsea and Julie were putting out the kanga on the table in
front of us, 2 of each design, obviously we female trainees were eyeing them
like an African kid in Disneyland’s candy store deciding on which 2 to chose. <i>Hmmm…how are they going to fairly distribute
them to us as each person may have her favorites and may not get to pick their
choice if someone else takes it first?</i>
They announced that there was no fair way to give them out so we just
need to go for it. Like famished hyenas drooling over a cute fluffy rabbit, we
got up from our chairs and pounced at the table. I picked what I had previously
eyed. When Julie opened a deep red kanga with black decorative border and black
huge teapots as the main design, <i>BINGO…that
one will be mine even if it means mauling a fellow Peace Corps trainee! </i>Actually,
I was confident that I’d be able to choose it because I don’t think that color
and design is everyone’s “cup of tea”! <i>Oh
gosh, how funny am I? Get it? Teapot, cup of tea?</i> Red is my favorite color
and I love teapot design so I was officially happy.<i> </i>With my teapot design kanga in hand, I scanned the rest and
nothing appealed to me. Out of no choice, I casually grabbed a dark aubergine
colored one believing it may have grapes on it. Again, another favorite design.
Clearly, I like figurative motif instead of a decorative pattern. When I opened
my dark purple kanga, what I hoped to be clusters of grape design turned out to
be one big tree in the middle with a solid background. <i>Huh?... grapes don’t grow on trees…what the hell is this? </i>As I
looked at the table, there remained 2 lonely kanga and one design had clusters
of grape! <i>Sweet…oh wait, it’s a light
colored background…bad idea in dusty Africa, which is probably why it’s an
orphan</i>.<i> </i>Honestly, I am not
particularly keen on my second choice<i> </i>but
some classmates proposed to trade as they all loved it. At the end, I decided
to stick to what I originally chose. Gut instinct decision is usually right;
besides, nobody’s kanga design really turned me on. <o:p></o:p></div>
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7 October 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
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After this morning’s session on Homestay
Social Etiquette, we will be walking around in Dar es Saalam. We have been
instructed not to leave the premise since we arrived in the country. So far we
have only seen the airport, Peace Corps office, an ATM machine at a bank, and
our current prison compound in Tanzania. <o:p></o:p></div>
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After being sequestered for several days,
we took a small local bus to visit the post office, YMCA, and a supermarket to
purchase items needed for our homestay. In another word, everyone bought TOILET
PAPER! Enough said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The other option is your left hand. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The African women are a three-piece walking
work of art. A flamboyant colorful print is made into a mutton sleeve blouse,
trumpet skirt and matching head wrap as stylish as a dove. I am enamored with
cultures that have retained their traditional dress. To be a woman is a
privilege. We can dress up and according to our mood, wear colors and designs
that reflect our state of being. I find it extremely interesting how in third
world countries, women take more pride in their dress than the developed west.
In a capitalistic society, it’s about the designer tag, status, and making a “statement”.
The marketing ploy of the giant conglomerates has us believing that a designer
label will make us a more likeable and attractive person. We, in a
materialistic society, have been brainwashed in buying into status and a
pretentious world. In countries heavy on tradition and unity, it’s cultural
preservation and ethnic pride. It’s exciting to see women taking great care in
their appearance in a natural way. No artifice such as plastic surgery,
excessive cosmetic use, or any false attachments. Granted, they can’t afford
it, but it’s still not in the mentality because focus is not on youth or
extreme vanity. A woman is a natural Goddess. A dressed up African woman can be
a caricature of a wild silhouette. She is a queen in her kingdom. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Having seen Eddy Murphy’s movie, “Coming to
Africa” in the final wedding scene where all the ladies looked like African
Barbies with their fancy puffy doll-like dresses…never in my wildest dream would
I be living in Africa one day…and to potentially wear flagrant African dresses.<o:p></o:p></div>
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8 October 2012<o:p></o:p></div>
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Today was a continuation of briefing for
more medical and developmental topics. Tomorrow, we will be taking a 6 hours
bus ride to Muheza where we will be living with a host family to begin our
Community Based Training. The real training begins now. <i>Karibu Tanzania!</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Wendy S. Liuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14976597048025152942noreply@blogger.com0