A village with no prior malaria education

I'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.

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.
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.

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.

Several notable details and its compelling ramifications:

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

A Life of Waiting

Aside from the usual life activities one performs such as sleeping, eating, eliminating, talking, walking and brushing your teeth…you get the picture…in Tanzania, another activity that ranks high along with breathing would be waiting.

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.

What am I waiting for? No, I’m not waiting for Jesus’ appearance, enlightment, a job promotion or death. Well, the latter will come inevitably soon enough… In Tanzania, it’s notorious that everything and everyone is late. If you’re of German descent and brought up with the creed of “what have I contributed today?” I would think living in Tanzania would make sie Deutchen sehr loco in the cabeza! 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 punctuality 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?

Today I was telling a teacher and my most trusted friend that a certain XYZ is late and that he’s always late. 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 mzungu ”. (mzungu 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…”And that’s why for 51 years in your country there’s always been Peace Corps presence! READ: you need our assistance…time is money, my friend” If I wanted to delve deeper because I found myself somewhat miffed, I would continue, “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!”

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.” To continue the saccharine overdose…”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 opted for neither and mustered a smile on my face pretending how silly of me that I would hope people arrive on time. What a dumb idea.

Here are situations where I feel like I’m waiting a lifetime and it is super duper frustrating:

1.     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 wonder how long it would it take to rob a bank?

2.     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.

3.     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.

4.     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.

5.     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.

6.     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 trying to keep awake.

7.     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,  “Yeah, baby, electriciTAAAAY….uhhh huuuuh…partaaay time in the crib….(snap, snap) who’s your mama??!!!!!! (pelvic thrust, pelvic thrust)”

8.     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. 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….

9.     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, “sorry sucker, your buddy’s phone is turned off”. I’ve yet encountered a voice mail recording with, “ 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…….One needs to continue to keep calling until the party turns on his mobile and actually picks up the phone.

10.  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…sob, sob. I gave my house girl what remaining seeds I have and I’ll have to wait again for another jungle to appear.

Random rants:

1.     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. Pretty please? It’s not that she was super busy, it’s because it was just sitting on her shelf collecting dust and spider webs.

2.     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!

3.     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.

4.     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.

5.     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.

 This is the culture and when in Rome, do as the Romans. When in Tanzania, do as the Tanzanians... just wait.

A Bug’s Life

A Bug’s Life

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 Hitler with a reputation of being the bug exterminator. 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 “cured”. I no longer shriek and the real test is I no longer bother to even be their Grim Reaper. Not really. 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.

Geckos are the worst for me, but I think again…whatever. 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.

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’m just not a sci-fi kind of chick, so sorry.

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 “oh crap, whatever…not the end of the world.” 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 oohs and aahs.

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. 

My First Birthday in Tanzania: The Bash That was Almost a Bust

May 6, 2013 

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, freedom is all what I want. 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 “why doesn’t he call me?” 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.

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. No offense, Chico fans. 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, 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!

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.

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. “Look, I’m not angry. I’m inviting you to my birthday gig, so I can’t be angry, right?”

*Characters in a future blog currently in production. And what a story it is! Stayed tuned, folks.

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 partaaay. 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.

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 have no clue who lives where and needed a guide. 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. 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. 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.

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! Holy crap, who’s going to cook?! 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. Plus, this is Tanzania where everything and everybody is LATE!

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.

It’s 2 PM and food is not ready. Thank Mungu, (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.

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:

*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 rebel. 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 “Holy Batman, are you serious? He’s 85 years old and he can’t come on his own?” 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.

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.

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. Damn, that’s loyalty, reliability and dependability…you’re hired!

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 blew my wad feeding a village…I’m happy to do this.

I spent a lot of money on food, drinks and whatever incidentals to make it happen

(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. Birthdays are no big deal as everyone has it, but it was a space and time when I was truly happy. 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.

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.

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. Honestly, I was very surprised to see this. Where did you get this? This looks American or western. It’s too fancy for Africa!

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.

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.

My little friend died

21 April 2013

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.

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, “Christa?!!?!?” My friend didn’t know the child’s name but I gave every description about Christa hoping my friend would adamantly respond “NO”. After confirming my answers, my heart sunk when I learned it was indeed she. Here is the story of how I met Christa.

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 has money 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 “why yes, my Swahili sucks ….and who are you?

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, Wendy. 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. Christa revealed that she did see me at her father’s funeral. That is when I found out that her grandfather is Pesa Mbili.

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.

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 …but whatever, welcome to my house everyone. When in Tanzania…karibu! 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.

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. “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 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! 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.

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. 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 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.

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.

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.

The good die young.

Oh, you may be wondering what Christa died from. She suffered tuberculosis. Yes, it is amazing that we are in the 21^st 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.

22 April 2013

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 “alikufa!” (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.

Rest in Peace, little angel…you are now with your beloved father.