Part Four: Less than 2 more weeks until we leave our
homestay for Dar es Saalam, Swear-In Ceremony
27 November 2012
I knew that after we returned from our site visit, the
remaining 4 weeks of training would fly fast. True dat! 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.
What I will miss most is someone cooking for me. Instant gratification of satiation from hunger
without having to work for it makes life easy, let’s face it. 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 only 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 jiko, 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 ugali and beans..then,
I’ll crack out my jiko. 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. 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.
On a sentimental note, I will miss the watoto 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’ve
become the Pied Piper. 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 suck and I feel somewhat guilty
that I still don’t have all the kid’s name remembered. 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 watoto
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 one
kid on this earth, then I feel I have succeeded as a human being.
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. What
I don’t know won’t hurt me.
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.
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.
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. No
exaggeration. 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. You really can’t do
that though in this country.
28 November 2012
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.
After dinner, I took my evening bucket bath. I almost puked
as I smelled the stank in the 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.
Dear Peace Corps,
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.
Best wish,
Wendy S. Liu
29 November 2012
This morning, I saw my sister in slight tears with a young
man and my mama in front of them. 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’m trying to figure out this
scenario. My mama tells me that this young man is her first son. Huh? 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???
30 November 2012
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 hospitali. 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 choo 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?
I can smell the leftover stench from the choo. Tonight’s bucket bath was icky as
always. After dinner before I bathe, someone uses the choo 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 think this animal is possessed by Satan. 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. Not to mention
smell everything too….
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.
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.
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. WTF…I want my money back?
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.
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.
2 December 2012
Last night was traumatic. As I entered the choo to take my evening bucket bath,
what do I see crawling on the dirty, cobwebbed covered cement walls? A
tarantula. I don’t know which was
more irritating…seeing a freakin’ tarantula in a dark choo 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 choo 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 choo?
I was totally calm the entire time; I
never shrieked or got agitated. I was very matter-of-fact like. 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…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 would
get my mama and make her extinguish these creatures for me. Other volunteers
have already encountered a mambo snake and bats. F***ing aye, hope I’m not next!
I finally got the low down on the two mysteries my inquiring
mind needed to know.
That God-awful noise in the middle of the night was cries
from 2 puppies being born. Jesus, someone
remind me not to be a dog breeder! 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. Now, I can sleep in peace...unless
I encounter another mini monster crawling around.
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 should have just asked Alima at the beginning.
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. One’s gotta do what one’s
gotta do for survival…
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.
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.
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.
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 duka 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. Jiko, 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. Thank God, I brought all my hiking pants and shirts cause I’ll
primarily be living in those…
4 December 2012
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!
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.
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.
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 jiko, is next to the choo,
which is in front of my room.
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.
Tonight’s adventure in the choo went like this:
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 wonder to myself, wtf? I hope
it’s not what I think it is. F*** it is! 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. F***,
that does it! I called out, “mama, mdudu!” She and my 10 years old brother
appeared. I think he may be chuckling. I
wanted to bop his head. 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 choo, she
killed it and then took a broom to sweep it off and now it’s outside the choo. 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. Jesus!
I like to dedicate this space to my mother dearest back home
in U.S. of A:
Mother Dearest,
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!
I reluctantly did it and many times it was only just so that
you’d shut your trap.
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.
Oh mother dearest, how I long to hear you nag about the importance of
hand washing.
How I miss turning the faucet to hot and putting my grimy paws under
the running water.
What a joy to pump anti-bacterial soap and bubble up.
Luxury is the act of moving my soapy hands together to create white
foam.
Ode to the mini rainfall of water to wash the germs away…goodbye dirt!
Ah…wiping dry the hands on an absorbent towel made for this purpose in
life.
I hold up my hands to my nose to sniff the freshness.
Savor it is the virtue of clean hands.
Oh mother dearest, how I long to hear you nag about the importance of
hand washing.
(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!)
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. Nobody likes me, probably. 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 The Little Prince 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. Mein liebling, danke dir! Wenn kommst du nach Tanzania?
5 December 2012
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 jiko 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.
