Apple computers don't succumb to viruses- this includes malaria and Ebola.

It’s been four days since I’ve been near a functional computer, so I’ve got a lot of pent-up writing to do! Luckily, I’ve been using a journal each day so I don’t forget anything important, so here goes; hope y’all are in for the long haul J

(PS: For those of you wondering how you can see my pictures or leave comments on the blog- I’m working on it. I just got my computer back today so give me a day or so to catch up on all my internet-related tasks.)

Written January 28, 2011:

Last night I moved in with the Kawishes. I’m enjoying my room despite myself; I know I came here to live like the Africans do, but who would pass up a fancy personal bathroom and air conditioning? If nothing else, I will be spending my days in the definitely-African Mount Everest School, and my weekends with Pepy, where the living is delightfully simple and fulfilling.

I started my first day of class this morning. I was told that I should be up’n at ‘em by by 5am, and I assumed that that meant ready to go and at the bus stop. So, at 5am, there I stood under a tree in the dark outside the Kawishe house, waiting with my little handbag for a bus that didn’t come. I waited ten minutes, fifteen minutes, thirty minutes, and then at 5:30 Mr. Kawishe drove by on his way to work. He stopped and rolled down his window to look at me in a way that suggested I might have had an extra limb growing out of my forehead.

“What are you doing?”, he asked. I shuffled my feet embarrassedly and told him I thought I was supposed to be ready for the bus at 5. “The bus doesn’t come until 6:15. Breakfast is at 5:30, I just wanted to make sure you were up. The bus will come up to the gate for you.”

Feeling rather stupid, I walked back to the house in the dark and went inside, where a delicious breakfast of sweet bread, chai tea, and fresh mango waited for me on the kitchen table, prepared by Dada (she is the Kawishe’s housegirl, very sweet and a wonderful cook. She doesn’t speak a word of English, and so far none of my Swahili is any good for communicating with her. When I go to the kitchen to help her, I spend most of my time gesturing wildly and wringing my hands, trying to be helpful but probably being more annoying).

At 6:15, the bus pulled up to the gate and the driver honked the horn. The security guard pulled the gate open, revealing a dalla-dalla that was painted yellow and had the words “School Bus” written on it in large black letters. The back of the bus held a number of children, and in the front was the driver and what I assumed was another teacher. The passenger got out to let me slide into the middle seat, and we were off to pick up their next charges.

We seemed to drive for hours. I couldn’t help but think that the bus couldn’t possibly handle the hole-covered roads the driver steered us onto, but he maneuvered the bus in ways that Jeep drivers would envy, rocketing it over speed bumps and reminding me of the joyride scenes in Ferris Buellers Day Off. In no time, the bus was just as packed as a dalla-dalla, with both teachers and students; when I am a teacher I will be sure to quickly correct any student that complains about the bus rides to school, because this trip bordered on the thrill-ride-esque.

We finally arrived at (or skidded into) the schoolyard, where an assembly was already forming. A number of students, arranged on two sides of the flagpole in orderly fashion (tallest in back, shortest up front), stood facing the front, where Sister Rosie (Headmistress of the school and an especially kind-looking nun) stood addressing the students in a stern voice, impressing upon them the importance of following the dress code and rules of conduct. After a chorus of “Yes, Sister Rosie”s and “No, Sister Rosie”s, the students sang the Tanzanian national anthem. To anyone who has the means, I would certainly suggest searching the song on Youtube- bonus points if you can find it being sung by children. It is one of the most beautiful national anthems I have ever heard sung by anyone, and fortunately for me they sing it twice a week.

After the anthems and school prayers, it was almost 8:00am. There was a tree standing at the back of the assembly, from which hung an old metal car wheel. A rather short young girl approached it with a large stick, and stood on tiptoe to ring the wheel to signal the start of classes and the start of the day.

I hadn’t had a schedule made for me yet, so I went to the staffroom with the teacher I assume is responsible for creating the timetables. I was assigned English for three 6^th grade classes, Computer Sciences for six 5^th and 6^th grade classes, and PDS (Physical Education) for a class of 6^th graders (I wanted a chance to teach the children some excellent Presbyterian games). I was shown to each classroom and introduced to the teacher who had formerly taught the class; Mount Everest is a bit short staffed so they welcomed the opportunity to give the teachers more time to themselves during the day, to grade papers and formulate lesson plans.

As it was my first day and I hadn’t had the opportunity to write any lesson plans yet, I spent my first three classes getting to know the students and playing games with them. My last class of the day was English, and they were set to learn about adjectives.

I had the lunch hour to prepare a lesson. I walked into the class, and after writing a few boring sentences from the book on the board and discussing them with the students, I decided to take a new approach. I had each student name his or her favorite food, and recorded them on the board. I then told them that we were going to create a menu for a restaurant, and that each of the foods that they had named would be an item on the menu. Unfortunately, though, this was a very poor restaurant, and so the names of each dish had to be something disgusting and they would have to use adjectives to be sure the patrons knew the food was bad. They came up with some hilarious results: Spoiled Samosas, Rotten Coca-Cola, and Disgusting Nyama N’gombe (beef), to name a few.

After we finished the menu, they wanted to do more, so we created a soccer team where each of them was a player and had to pick what kind of player they would be. I immediately became “Clumsy Coach Emily”, due to their observations that I drop the chalk often and can’t seem to avoid bumping into a blackboard while wearing dark-colored clothing. They took on the names of “Smooth Lisa” and “Amazing Amud” and “Rude Roberta”, allowing me to teach them adjectives while also effectively learning their names (this is the class I will be spending the most time with, and they are as sweet as could be).

After school I boarded the bus again (there were so many students that both myself and the other front-seat passenger had to hold one of the nursery school students on each of our laps) and we set off again to compete with the rest of Dar Es Salaams rush hour traffic. It took an hour and a half to get the ten miles back to Kawe District, where I walked inside the house and promptly flopped onto my tiny twin-size bed Garfield-the-Cat-style.

It was a few moments before I realized I hadn’t checked my email since the night before, and when I went to do so I realized my computer hadn’t been charging. Thinking maybe I hadn’t plugged it in right (sometimes the charger is a bit temperamental) I tried again. And again. And again. After the first few seconds of denial, panic set in- my computer had gotten malaria. Or Ebola, I couldn’t rule anything out yet.

I immediately called my dad, my go-to guy for pretty much anything computer- or life-related. He went into tech-guy mode, asking a series of questions about the nature of the disease and my attempts to resuscitate my poor machine. Calling America via cellphone is very expensive, so I promised to try everything he suggested and call him back when I had more information. Unfortunately, my phone had sucked up the last of its minutes to call home, so I was left sitting amongst my stubbornly dysfunctional technology with no way to call my family or fix my dying computer.

Jackson was the first person I ran into upon leaving my room- I described to him the nature of my problem and later that night his dad came to talk to me. He too asked a series of questions (he laughed when I told him I had called my dad, noting that his daughters did the same thing and that it seems to be the father who is always called when there is a problem, the mother when something goes right) and then, just like that, he pulled out his phone and called a friend of his. After a few moments of hastily-spoken Swahili, he hung up and said that he had a friend who could take care of it for me. I handed Mr. Kawishe my computer (since this is Africa and I had already once witnessed how Africans deal with Macs, I was a little worried) and went to sit and write away my panic.

Written Jan. 29, 2010 (Saturday- no school)

Computer is still gone. It probably definitely has Ebola. I foolishly left all of my books at Pepy’s house, and so with no phone, no computer, and no one on the Kawishe property except the workers, I was left to write, draw, and explore. I spent most of my day by the half-filled pool writing letters (many of which I will probably never send) and jotting down ideas for stories or characters. Tanzania has been delightfully helpful in concocting very vivid dreams (maybe it’s the food) and so always wake up with my mind abuzz of new ideas.

I find myself still woefully homesick. With so much time to myself today I keep thinking back on things at home, more specifically my favorite way to spend lazy days like today. I remember a particular day where I drove on a whim through Leicester to Hot Springs and back past Suddy Hole, a beautiful sunny day where the sun shone through the leaves making the trees look like dark golden staffs with emerald ornaments. The wind coming through my window was more of a lukewarm breeze, and I could blast whatever music I liked at whatever volume I liked, as I watched the mountains fly by in the distance. I drove past fields with tall amber grasses, glinting in the sunlight, and sweeping lawns of a beautiful olive green that offset the color of the sky so perfectly. The feel of the mountains in the summertime is more valuable to me than almost anything, and it’s only when I’m continents away that I realize it’s not just the summertime that I miss.

I hope to have more to write about tomorrow.

Written Jan. 30^th:

Today I lived like what I think some princesses live like. Mama Kawishe took me out today to buy clothes for school. She came into my room last night to discuss African culture and the importance of looking “smart”, and upon looking at the wardrobe I had brought (I dressed for heat, not style) she deemed me in need of some more appropriate clothing. So, most of my day was spent wrestling with zippers and buttons in the changing rooms at consignment stores and trying on dozens of shoes. I would have been charged nearly $60 for the two dresses and two pairs of shoes I got, if it hadn’t been for Mama Kawishe’s fierce bargaining skills with the three men who worked the shops. When we left I told her I hoped to be able to bargain like that before I left Africa, and she laughed and said it would be her honor to teach me how to bargain like an African. I’ll see if I can apply those skills to the guys down at Best Buy when I get home…

On our way home from the stores, we were pulled over by a traffic policeman. Mama Kawishe immediately began to panic, because she had left her license at home and driving without a license carries a very expensive penalty. However, when the cop approached the door, he simply asked for her registration and then waved us on by, his eyes scarcely leaving me the whole time. As we pulled away, she let out a string of grateful exclamations, telling me that if I hadn’t been in the car with her she would have suffered a great penalty. I asked why, and she said simply “The policeman saw you, and often mzungus who ride in cars with Africans could be related to powerful people. If you had been the daughter of an ambassador or a banker, he could have suffered a penalty himself.”

After dinner, Mr. Kawishe got a call from John Mashaka, who just wanted to check in and make sure I was okay- Pepy hadn’t heard from me in a day or so. I assured him all was well and apologized for the lack of communication, explaining to him that my computer was lying in a computer hospital bed somewhere and was probably dying of Ebola (only I just told him my computer wasn’t working).

As I hung up the phone and turned to hand it to Mr. Kawishe, I looked at the door and saw some very smartly dressed people entering the house- three men and two women. I was told that two men were Mr. Kawishes brothers, and the third was Dr. Masike, the Chairman of the Board at the Mount Everest School and the Chancellor of the Arusha Technical College. Mr. Kawishe told me that this would be the man filling out my performance review at the end of my stay. Dr. Masike asked me how I was liking the school, and said that if I had any suggestions on how to better the school, I was to let him know. They were all very kind, and asked a lot of questions about life in America. I still don’t know how to describe feet of snow to an African who has never seen so much as a flake of it before.

I helped Mama Kawishe to serve juice and cognac to the guests, and the whole time tried to look considerably more distinguished than I felt, hiding my unpainted toenails and rubbing at the dust spots on my shirt when no one was looking. They talked for a short period of time, doing a few toasts and then leaving, Dr. Masike assuring me that we would be in touch.

At the end of the day, while I have a great respect for those who are able to look distinguished and fancy all the time, if I ever become rich I will be having deluxe Slip’N’Slide parties where everyone wears overalls or something similar, and my guests will eat Push Pops and they can have dirty feet if they want to.

Written Jan. 31^st:

I am weary of typing, and it’s getting late, but I have enough juice left in me (and my computer) to type one last short account of my day.

I woke up and had my first normal day at the school. I taught English (finishing up with adjectives), Computer Sciences (learning to address envelopes and use Western Union, both things I had to read about straight from the book since I have no idea how to do either in Tanzania), and PDS (Physical Education, where I taught 80 African kids to play Screaming Ninjas- compliments of 8 years of Presbyterian church camps- and Duck, Duck, Goose).

I was just as weary today arriving home as I was Friday, but just as I sat down to open my journal and write about it, Dada opened the door and handed me a small box- my new computer charger!!! I thanked her, ran over to my computer (I got it back last night, after being told they didn’t know what was wrong but we should start with a new charger) and plugged everything in. At first, nothing happened, and I panicked a little, because it would mean something was really, really wrong. But then I remembered that here you have to turn on the wall sockets like you’re turning on a light switch, and when I did so, the little green light turned on and I was once again a member of the Proud and Ecstatic Apple Computer Owners Club of Kawe. I have spent my time since writing this lengthy expansion of a few days’ notes; if this is what I have to write after four days, I sincerely hope that this is the last time I have to worry about Mac Ebola.

I will write again hopefully tomorrow, if the electricity gods allow, and if not, well, I’m sure most of you will still be reading this come Wednesday.

Mom and Dad and Eli- I miss you so much. I will call you on Skype as soon as I can, and can’t wait to hear your voices again. Love you lots!

Nana and Papaw- I promise to call you soon- sorry it’s been so long!! Love you and miss you!!

Homesick. But happy :)

I have now been here eleven days. I still love it, of course. I know that going home will be more of a culture shock than coming here has been. But, and I also knew this was coming, I have become incredibly homesick. I know it will pass once I have sunk deep into my routine working at the school, but right now it is very lonely sometimes. Pepy is always here to cheer me up, which is wonderful. I soak in all the emails and messages like a sponge, always happy to hear from someone at home no matter who they are. I thank everyone for writing me, and am so grateful to hear your words of encouragement and support.

On to the happy stuff! This has been a rather eventful week. I'll try to go chronologically, but if I skip around a lot, I’m sorry… That’s just how I think.

Sunday night I went to visit the Kawishe household for the first time. If I could describe their home using one word, it would be “Biltmore”. I knew coming to Tanzania that they were very well-to-do, but I was not prepared for a guardhouse, kidney-shaped pool, or cabana-style outdoor kitchen. There is a staircase leading to the top floors that looks as though it belongs in a courthouse, and the room I will be staying in while I am there is three times the size of mine at home in Asheville, complete with a bathroom in the same style (though twice the size) of the one in my hotel room in Qatar. It truly highlights the class differences in Tanzania, and I am in all honesty a little intimidated by the prospect of staying there during the week (this is where the school bus will be picking me up in the mornings at a cheery 6am).

The Kawishes are wonderful people. Pepy and I were picked up at Mboyoni (sp?) by Jacqueline (the daughter who is my age) and her twin brother, Jackson. When we arrived at a large blue gate surrounded by adobe fencing, Jackson honked the horn. The gate was pushed open by a security guard, and their house was revealed. I am not the best at describing home styles (country, Victorian, etc.) but it looks like the kind of home that Hugh Hefner would have on the beach (minus the tackiness and scantily clad women). Large square plots of grass rimmed in exotic (I suppose here they are native…) plants scatter the lawn, with flagstone sidewalks going in between them. There is a guardhouse the size of the house Pepy and I live in, a large round outdoor kitchen that looks like the kind rich people buy expensive drinks from at beach resorts, and in the backyard a pool.

Sitting in lounge chairs next to the pool were Mr. and Mrs. Kawishe. We shook hands, exchanged greetings (half and half in English and Swahili), and Mrs. Kawishe chatted with Jacqueline and Pepy and Jackson while I talked to Mr. Kawishe about his school and what I could expect while living at his home (I will still be going to Pepy’s on the weekends).

After a quick tour from Jacqueline, she and Pepy and I sat down in her living room (most definitely Biltmore-style) while chatting about a variety of things. We spoke about politics: a recent scandal involving a bigwig Tanzanian banker who “died” in America after leaving the country illegally (he was on trial, and no one really believes he died, since his funeral was not allowed to be publicized), and the recent elections which were most obviously rigged. We spoke about health in Africa: the threat of HIV/AIDS, the inadequacy of healthcare, and the very real threat of Ebola (something I was mildly interested in ever since my brother told me about the nonfiction book “The Hot Zone”).

We must have spoken for hours, and then Mrs. Kawishe came and ushered us all in for dinner (“Karibu, karibu!!”). The dinner was fish, greens, fresh sliced mango, and rice, and we were all full very quickly. Pepy shared some delightful stories about my mango-peeling inadequacies and my surprise at how skinny all the chickens are here, while I laughed sheepishly and tried to figure out a less messy way to eat my mangoes.

After eating, Mr. Kawishe and Jackson drove Pepy and I home, and Jackson promised to return the next morning and pick me up so I could visit the Mount Everest Pre/Primary school.

The next morning, Jackson arrived early as promised and we set off north towards Mount Everest (ha, ha). We seemed to drive for a very long time, venturing off Bagamoyo Road onto some roads that put our pasture at home to shame. We arrived around 9:30, and Jackson showed me where the headmistresses office was. After waiting for a few minutes, she ushered me in and welcomed me, and after giving me a short description of the school and its daily routines, she called in the senior teacher to give me a tour.

We first went upstairs (Jackson stayed with me throughout my visit, and I was grateful to have someone I could look to when I was unsure what to do next) to the staff room, where it was tea-time and everyone was enjoying Chai and bread. I was introduced, and met a few of the other teachers, who insisted that I be the new 5^th grade English teacher.

After finishing my chai and bread (I cannot figure out how Africans eat the bread without making a mess of crumbs like I do) I was shown up to one of the classrooms, where I was introduced to the students and addressed, for the very first time, as “Madame Emily”. It was a magical moment, my first time being addressed as a teacher. I relished in being able to ask the students a few questions, and was even treated to a song sung by two of the students. I applauded when they finished and was promptly requested to sing a song of my own. I don’t like singing in front of others- even the showerhead seems a little too public sometimes- and so I sang a hurried “Happy Birthday”, only to learn that they wanted a song that they hadn’t heard yet, and I promised to return with a new one soon (Hakuna Matata from the Lion King, most likely, at my mother’s helpful suggestion).

After a reluctant goodbye to the children, I was shown the dormitories (I didn’t have the heart to tell the sweet little nun that I didn’t need to see every single room) and the cafeteria, and then went back to the headmistress to discuss when I would start and how I would be picked up. They assured me I could start at my leisure, and I promised to let them know as soon as possible when I would return.

Jackson and I left around noon. While the drive there had been rather quiet, (I looking out the window in a state of frozen nervousness, he focusing on navigating the chaotic rush hour traffic of Bagamoyo Road) the drive back was chatty. He was astonished to know I hadn’t learned any Swahili swear words yet (“Usually when people learn a new language, they start with the swear words!”) and we discussed our favorite music. I was happy to hear we shared Jack Johnson and Lil Wayne, sad to hear that everyone in Africa prefers Tupac over Biggie, and I still regret that Kenny Chesney has somehow made his way all the way to Tanzania…

I was dropped off at Pepy’s house around noon, happy to have had a good experience at the school and just as elated to have found a new friend in Jackson. I quickly realized, though, that my wardrobe of clothes chosen with the heat in mind wasn’t going to cut it with the nuns at the school. Pepy took me out the next day to shop for clothes at the Kariakoo Markets.

Kariakoo, the same place with the giant indoor market, is like the worlds biggest thrift store. Somewhat like Goodwill, except I have never seen an employee at Goodwill so enthusiastically trying to sell you their stuff. One of the most corrupt things about Africa is that a lot of donations are never really “donations”. With clothing, for instance, most of your donations are sent to the stores there to be sold, not handed out generously to the raggedly dressed. Food donations often go the same way, and I would trust very few organizations to take donated money and use it in a way we would call trustworthy.

Anyways, at Kariakoo I had the most distressing Goodwill experience of my life. The clothes (I needed skirts, since I’m not allowed to wear pants as a teacher) were hung from hangers Monkeys-In-A-Barrel style, and pointing at one item means that the clerks will take the whole string down and try to sell it to you. The atmosphere reminded me of the scenes in the original Willy Wonka movie, where people were fighting over boxes of chocolate. I eventually settled on four presentable skirts, and prayed that later I wouldn’t need shirts too.

We went to Mwenge later on in the day to search for shoes. I needed the boring black kind that makes me feel like a Sunday school teacher from the 30s, but unfortunately (I’m sure my parents can imagine my forced expression of regret) my feet are far too big for the shoes sold on the street. I’ll have to make do with my Keens for now and hope to find some in a shopping center for mzungus soon.

Since then, Pepy and I have mostly piddled about the house, and today we went across town to get my internet modem and Africa-compatible cellphone (read: cellphones shipped here via time machine from the early 90s) at the Kawe district. I bought my modem from Zantel, and paid a glorious $100 to ensure that I could post on my blog and keep in touch with my friends and family for the next month. The clerk showed me how to plug in the modem and turn it on, but became puzzled when he started fiddling around with the software on my Mac. Now, most people who know me well understand that I have a pretty thorough knowledge of computers, at least in comparison to most girls my age. So it wouldn’t have been surprising to see me struggle to contain my frustration as I watched the clerk completely butcher the correct operating procedure of a Macbook (using one finger to type in all the letters and having to search for the second mouse button). My suggestions went unnoticed, and I eventually tugged it back towards me to save my poor computer from his vehement (and violent) keystrokes.

Buying the phone was much easier; I literally just picked out my preferred model (only mostly medieval- it has a flashlight!) and handed over 40,000 TSH (about $25 USD) and walked out of the store. We stopped at a voucher stand to buy minutes (here, you just buy these little scratch-off lottery ticket looking things and text in the number you find on the back, and your phone is automatically credited those minutes) and I settled into the passenger seat to work out the instructions, which were in Swahili.

Today was really hot, so we were driving with the windows open to save Pepy’s gas. I had my phone in one hand and the voucher and instructions in the other, trying to decipher the language, and then I was the victim of an attempted mugging quicker than my mind could register what happened.

This is what the situation looked like:

(Dramatic re-enactment)

We were stuck in slow traffic with the windows down, and this man just ran up to the car and dove in my window headfirst, fingernails scrabbling the back of my hands as I instinctively clutched my belongings and pulled away from the thief. Before the adrenaline had even begun to run through me, Pepy screamed, accelerated (in bumper-to-bumper traffic, this doesn’t mean much), and the thief, defeated, pulled out of the window and skulked away. It took about five seconds after that and then the adrenaline kicked in and my legs had that pins-and-needles feeling that comes after they’ve been asleep for a long time.

I know the thief ran off because he knew one attempt was enough to put me on the defensive, but I like to think that I'm what scared him off:

(Note the menacing stare and huge-muscle-emphasizing tan)

This is the end of my blog for today. I know it’s about three Harry Potter books long, and I’m sorry, but there really is just so much to write about here.

Things I have noticed recently:

-The neighbors are cooking something right now that smells remarkably like Honey Snaps, and if it were possible I’d think it’s making me crave junk food even more.

- Seeing a Subway restaurant when you’re homesick and there isn’t an American establishment in driving distance… Well, I never thought I’d be so happy to see a Subway.

- Correction to the last “Things I’ve Noticed”: People do say “Bless You”, but they say it very quietly and in Swahili (“Pole”)

- Texting is actually “SMSing”.

Nana and Papaw, I am doing wonderful and safe and I love you very much, and I miss you so much.

Mom and Dad and Eli, I miss you all more than I can say and love you so much!!

Kwa Heri!
Emily

First Week In Tanzania: Rating, Awesome.

I apologize that I haven't posted in awhile. The internet here is pretty expensive so I've been trying to wean myself off of it as much as possible and write offline before I post it online. Rest assured, when I get my own internet modem (I've been using Pepy's) I'll post quite a bit more often.

Yesterday I completed my first whole week in Africa. It feels like I've been here much longer, though. Being tossed from the short, frigid days of winter into the long, hot, beautiful and sunny days of the African summer is quite an overhaul on the mind and body. Nevertheless, it has been a welcome change and I think I'm adjusting as well as I could have hoped.

This past week has just been used as an opportunity for me to get used to my surroundings, see a little bit of the city (courtesy of Pepy, who has been a gloriously helpful and accomodating host), and prepare for my weeks of volunteer work that are upcoming. Tonight I am going to meet Mr. Kawishe, the principal of the Mount Everest School where I will be teaching, and his family. Starting soon I will be living with them during the week, while school is in session, and coming back to live with Pepy on the weekends, and help with the Mashaka Foundation. Once the volunteer house is finished I will be playing the role of volunteer recruiter and coordinator, which is extremely exciting. I have already spoken to one eager volunteer prospect, and can't wait to get this ball rolling as well.

As far as writing about my time here goes, I have been skimming over some very important aspects of the everyday life in my attempt to adequately explain the more extravagant differences between the African and American societies. The daily life here definitely makes me appreciate the luxuries I have at home.

Perpetua's house is very nice in comparison to most of the others here, which often have roofs made of tin and walls of clay. Here, we wake up in the morning and boil water on the stove outside to make tea (which is delicious) and usually have sweet bread to go with it. If there is electricity we use the blender to make fresh mango juice (also delicious), but the power is about 50/50 here. We fill water buckets every day to make sure we have enough to last for showers at night, because the water is turned off from 7pm to 6am.

Showering is quite the experience here. At night we use the cold water from the buckets (Pepy usually heats hers over the stove because she doesn't like the cold water, but I use it as it is because it's so hot outside). In the morning the shower tap is on so we can use the warm water from that.

I could make an entire post about the food here. For one, the experience of cooking is far more hands-on and involved than cooking at home. Perpetua doesn't have a refrigerator (at least, the one she does have doesn't work) so all of our food is fresh. We go to the vegetable stands or the bakery or the butchery to get our food just before cooking it, and the next day we do it all over again. Pepy laughs when I am working with food; she finds the way I peel mangoes especially hilarious.

My first experience with the butchery was a bit shocking. It's a small, one room building with an interior made of tile, with a tile partition between the front customer side and the back butcher side. The smell is absolutely revolting, to be completely honest; after leaving the shop I was happy to be able to breathe freely again. Meat hooks hang everywhere, and it's all I can do to suck in my stomach and keep my arms close to my sides so I don't bump into anything. We went yesterday to get cow heart and cow livers to cook for dinner, and we watched as the took the fresh heart and liver (all the cows are slaughtered early morning on the day they are sold, and they are also completely organic) and used a workbench powersaw to cut it into pieces. They scooped the pieces into a plastic baggie and handed them to Perpetua, who simply stuck it in her purse as though it were a bag of candy.

A few days ago, Perpetua sent me out to the bakery to get some bread. It was my first time venturing out on my own, away from Perpetua and the comfort of a translator and companion, and I was terrified. The bakery is probably less than half a mile away from our house, but still, visions of angry mobs of knife-weilding bakers, offended by my mixing up the words for "bread" and "butthead", flashed through my mind. I told Pepy that if I wasn't back within thirty minutes to please come looking for me. I arrived at the bakery, and asked for the bread ("Mambo, poa, naombe mkatie?") and left without incident, though I had an entire choreography of James Bond-esque defensive maneuvers and backflips planned in my head, just in case.

I have also been to a few of the cultural item markets. Imagine the store Ten Thousand Villages, but on crack. There are hundreds of tiny carved figurines and animal-skin drums, and more necklaces and earrings than I could count. I wondered if all my savings might be enough to simply buy out the shop, but I only bought a pair of metal swirly earrings and a long swath of beautiful blue hand-sewn fabric used as a wrap. If I am allowed to visit the shops too frequently I will soon need another suitcase to tote everything!

Yet the end of another blog post; I hope everyone at home is doing well. I have a plethora of photos of my family and friends stuck everywhere in my room, and I brought plenty of photos of the summertime mountains. I love it here but six months seems a long time to be reunited with the green of the Blue Ridge, when everything here is brown and dry until the rainy season, which is a long ways away.

Love you lots Mom, Dad and Eli.
Kwa heri!

My Body Says "Where the heck have you taken us?"

My body is starting to realize that we're not in Kansas anymore. Last night, I was nauseous, sick, and then just fine in a matter of about 5 minutes. Same with this morning; I looked up the symptoms and it is just a simple travelers sickness, common when you switch from one diet to another very rapidly, but all the same it is a little alarming when you start getting sick in a place as disease-ridden as Africa. (Mom and Dad, this means you shouldn't worry!).

Aside from the nausea, I have only noticed thus far a few tiny little bumps on my feet (John's cousins helped me count them in Swahili- "Moja, mbili, tatu, nna..."), which look more like fly or spider bites than mosquito bites, since when I get mosquito bites the bumps turn white and are very itchy, whereas these aren't itchy at all. Other than this I am quite comfortable here, and am even losing some weight and getting a very nice tan. For anyone wanting a great diet experience, I would suggest taking a trip to Africa, because the food is still wonderful and you just sweat off all the weight.

Perpetua's car is broken today, so we aren't going to go to the beach as planned. I'm going to take it easy anyways and try to drink a lot of Emergen-C, just to make sure I show this country's illnesses that they're bringing knives to a gunfight. I spoke to John last night and he said he has the same issues sometimes, and that I shouldn't worry unless it gets much worse. (Again, Mom and Dad, I'm fine). Godfrey is supposed to get here soon to work on the car, so maybe we can go to the beach tomorrow.

Peace out 'Murka, Love you Mom and Dad and Eli!

Four days in, and I could write a book.

Written Tuesday, 1/18/2011

I have been communicating mostly in smiles and broken Kiswahili, which is unfortunate because the people here are the kind I want to talk to the most. They are more generous than anyone I've ever met. Some of them have next to nothing, and yet I still find food and generosity being thrust at me from every direction.


Yesterday, John Mashaka's brother Godfrey came in the morning to visit Perpetua and I, before we all rode out to the site where John is building the volunteer quarters for any future volunteer involvement in his foundation. I was astonished that we could get there without the car flipping over, as some of the roads are so bad that even the guys back home that go 4wheeling would think twice before setting out on them. We passed a small village where the houses are made of balls of clay in a frame of sticks, with aluminum and palm roofs and bathrooms outside made of palm branches. One of the things I have noticed about Africa in general is that you see the women mostly working- carrying water, chopping food, tending fires, etc., while the men can almost always be found sitting under trees, gossiping and calling out "Mzungu!" when I pass by. These villages were no different.



At the build site, we met a man named Asubuhi ("Asubuhi" means "morning" in Kiswahili, and he was born in the morning so that's what his mother named him) who was working on the building. He showed us the deep septic wells he was digging, and the house, made of concrete bricks. He offered Perpetua and Godfrey some fresh mango (I couldn't take any because there was no way for me to wash it using clean water) and we sat in the shade for awhile, them talking and me listening for words I could understand, occasionally asking what a phrase meant.



I'm learning the language as quickly as I could have hoped, under the patient instruction of Perpetua and many others, and can form a few small sentences now: "Unasema Kiingereza?" (Do you speak English?), "Nasema Kiswahili kidogo," (I understand a little Kiswahili), "Ninapenda vyura," (I like frogs), and "Tafadhali nipatie maji na chakula yakunya?", (May I please have some water and food?"). Godfrey says that he believes I will be speaking quite fluently within the month if I continue improving. It's ambitious, but hopefully I won't disappoint him.



We sat in the shade for some time. Another thing I have noticed about African culture is that the people enjoy taking time to sit and talk to one another, something I enjoy because it forces me to try and understand what they are saying. I keep a little book with me so I can write words and phrases down, instead of annoying Perpetua with the constant question "What does this mean again?"

After leaving the site, we drove through the village again where I made my first Tanzanian purchase of a ginger soda. We next drove to John Mashaka's aunt's house, where I met his cousins and his niece, Florence, who was one of the most adorable and happy babies I have ever met (and I have met a lot of babies). Her mother, John's sister, watched us playing for awhile and said "You need a baby", to which I replied "I won't be having one for quite a few years, but I could borrow this one if you don't mind." She didn't say no, but I promised Mom and Dad I wouldn't come home with any children so I guess I should leave her with her mother.

At the Mashaka house, I ate fried fish for the first time. I'm talking a WHOLE fried fish, eyes and face and all. Fish are caught early in the morning, bought at the market by midday, and cooked by the afternoon. The fish was cooked with ugali (like very stiff grits) and chopped kale, and once I got over the fish staring at me as I ate it, it was wonderful. We stayed at the house awhile longer, where the other women and I sat outside and they had fun comparing arms and legs and eyes with the "mzungu", and trying to teach me how to count in Kiswahili.

As we left, John's aunt (Mama Mashaka) came up to greet me. I said "Shikamoo" (the greeting used to address someone older than you), and she grasped my hands in hers and said "Karibu" (welcome") over and over, one of the most genuine displays of hospitality I think I will ever encounter. This woman has next to nothing materially, yet she made sure I was welcome and well-fed in her home, and addressed me as an equal. I replied "Ahsante" (thank you) as much as I could, and we all shared a laugh as Perpetua tried to teach her how to say to me, "You are warmly welcome." It was comforting to know that someone as old and wise as Mama Mashaka had as much trouble trying to pronounce a new language as I do.

Today, Perpetua and I took the dalla-dalla to a building supply store to order materials for the volunteer house. I had never been on a dalla-dalla before, and nothing could have prepared me for it then. It was as though someone had taken a slightly larger version of my dad's Chevy Astro (which I affectionately call 'the creeper van') and crammed 30 people inside it and called it a bus. At each stop, just when I thought we couldn't possibly fit any more people inside the van, somehow we made 30 to 31, and 31 to 34. It's like an advanced game of Twister. There is a man that hangs off the side and jingles change in his hand to the people inside the bus, asking for payment (around 1,000TSH for every 5 or so miles; there isn't a sign that I can read yet.

Things I noticed today:

-When you sneeze, it isn't the custom to say "Bless you" (I was very surprised the first time I sneezed and no one said anything).
-Africans pick their noses in public and no one cares. I can't make this up.

Apologies for the long post, but it still isn't enough.

I woke up Saturday morning in my plush Qatar hotel room at 3:30am, to catch my shuttle at 4 and be back at the airport by 5. Still unable to figure out how to turn on the lights, I marveled at the city in the dark pre-dawn hours while brushing my teeth and getting ready to depart for Tanzania.

Back at the airport, I grabbed a breakfast smoothie ($7) and curled up in a corner to get some more sleep, before being interrupted by the French college kite surfing team and a large group of what looked like construction workers from Thailand. I abandoned hope for sleep and went to sit next to an African woman and her small baby girl, and we enjoyed a short conversation about her travels in a mixture of her English and my very poor Swahili.

We boarded a bus outside of the gate that took us to the tarmac. A little Indian girl came to sit next to me on the bus. Her name was Quincia, and she was absolutely adorable. We talked about her schooling (4th grade), her favorite subjects (math), what she was doing in Qatar (vacationing in Dubai, where her favorite activity was being at the beach), and her favorite music (Justin Beiber). I gave her some American candy and a postcard of the Blue Ridge Parkway, and she was surprised to learn that the leaves change colors in the fall ("Like a chameleon!" she said).

When we reached the plane on the tarmac and began to depart the bus, a middle-aged Arab man who worked for the airport stopped me from leaving the bus. I stayed, afraid there was something wrong with my ticket. When everyone else had left the bus, he turned to me and asked for my contact information. The best I could figure what he was saying was that he wanted to set me up with his son. I told him I was moving to Africa with my "husband" and I was not coming back and would have no way of contacting anyone ever. He looked disappointed but let me leave the plane after giving me his contact information, just in case.

On the plane, I had a whole row of seats to myself, and after watching some movie with Katherine Heigl and the really attractive military guy from Transformers, I fell asleep and woke up to see Zanzibar passing under the plane. After we landed, an Australian woman came up to me and asked if I'd ever been to Africa before. I said no, and she warned me that the heat was going to be surprising.

Accordingly, my first impression of Africa is that it's hot. I know, I probably could have stayed home and figured out that much, but it's true! As the hatch to the plane came down and the flight attendants ushered us outside, I was hit with a wall of heat and humidity that made Florida in summer feel light and comfortable and breezy (I am sitting in my room at Perpetua's house right now, and having just gotten out of the shower I immediately feel as though I need another).

I walked down the ramp and into the airport, to a line of tall wooden standing desks where we were to fill out our visa applications. I was soon joined by three Swedish guys about my age, who were visiting Tanzania on holiday. They told me they were about to move to California in June. I asked if they had ever been to North Carolina and they said no, but that they had heard of the Biltmore Estate. As it turns out, they've been to more states than I have, but they promised to make visiting North Carolina a priority on their next trip.

I got my visa, and my luggage, and walked outside to wait for Perpetua to pick me up. I was approached every couple of minutes by taxi drivers offering to drive me wherever I wanted (later I learned from Perpetua that they are honest enough, but since I am foreign they assume I have plenty of money and they charge extra because they know foreigners don't know better). I used one of the airport workers' phones to call Perpetua, and upon learning she was on her way and stuck in traffic, I hung up and thanked the man ("Ahsante!") and continued on to the money booth to exchange currency.

For the record, USA, your money is pretty darn ugly. You could at least put an eagle or a buffalo on the front, but instead you chose outdated artwork of some old men. Tanzanian currency is beautiful. The Tanzanian Shilling (in bills of 1,000, 5,000, and 10,000) has pictures of elephants and rhinos and giraffes on it, and are purple and orange and yellow. I almost don't want to spend them (and if the generosity of everyone here keeps up, I may not get to).

When Perpetua arrived and we were walking out of the airport, the man whose phone I had used approached her and demanded money, since I had used his minutes. She scoffed at him and kept walking, explaining to me that since I am a foreigner, people will assume I have lots of money and don't know what is going on.

Driving in Dar Es Salaam is a trip. There are only a few roads with pavement, the rest are dirt, and very few of the paved roads have markings or lines of any kind. It is essentially every man for him/herself, with no sort of discernable organization to the traffic patterns. It's a bit like driving in New York City except there are no signs or traffic signals or road markings, and every driver has advanced road rage.

I saw small vans packed with people, and buses with people crammed inside and hanging on the top and the sides. There are little motorcycles with drivers you can pay to take you places, called "Piki-Piki" because of the sound they make. When the traffic was slow and heavy, there were merchants walking between the cars selling nuts and assorted cheap electronics, who would tap on the windows and shake their products at you.

We saw one man who was walking on the ground between the cars with his hands and a short cane, as his legs were small and shriveled up under his body. Perpetua reached into her cupholder and brought out a half-dollar sized bronze coin and gave it to the man, explaining that she normally doesn't give change to beggars because they are usually on drugs, but this man looked sover in the face and she knew he would probably use the money for good rather than for drugs or alcohol.

As we continued on, I noticed a few Maasai on the sides of the road, herding along a number of cattle and goats. Boys on the sides of the road sold bottled water and fresh fish and meats, and it seemed there was a barber shop every other building. All of the buildings had sheets and blankets hanging up to protect from the dust, but I noticed very few of them had any insulation at all. This struck me as strange, I suppose because I'm used to buildings that must withstand very cold weather.

From everything that I had read, I had assumed that the poverty you see in commercials and books was more rural, and that you had to travel out of the main city to reach such areas. This isn't true at all. We passed crude building made of clay and aluminum, packed together with little room in between. Perpetua told me that sometimes four or five families live together in one of the small houses. There are piles of rubble and trash everywhere, and sometimes young boys go about collecting the plastic bottles from the floor to sell for a half a dollar per kilogram.

Today, Sunday, I woke up at 10am after 11 hours of sleep (Jetlag is extraordinarily taxing on the body). Perpetua had already been to the meat stand and gotten meatballs and simosas for breakfast, which were delicious. All the food here is so fresh. The meat is slaughtered early in the morning, and the vegetables picked within the last day or so. Today we went to a fruit and vegetable stand run by a Muslim woman and her family. She and Perpetua exchanged some words in Swahili, few of which I recognized except "Ahsante" (thank you) and "mzungu" (white person). Since I have been here I have only seen one other mzungu.

A few fun things I have noticed today:
-The Muslim call to prayer plays on loudspeakers 5 times a day. It is beautiful and eerie at the same time, a voice echoing out over the lazy hot day.
-Perpetua and I kept the radio on all day in her house. I heard Kelly Clarkson, Alien Ant Farm, Fountains of Wayne, and, most importantly, Rick Astley with "Never Gonna Give You Up".
-I saw real African futbol being played in big fields under boabab trees.
-I also saw women walking around with baskets on their heads, and they weren't using their hands. Must learn how to do this.


I know this doesn't show a lot of detail about Africa, but tomorrow I am going to the store to purchase an internet modem so I don't have to use Perpetua's internet anymore (Wi-Fi doesn't exist here).

Mom, Dad, and Eli (Nana and Papaw too!!!) I miss and love you all so much. Talk to you soon!!!

Kwa Heri!

In Qatar!

The first thing everyone should know about hotels in Qatar is that there are a lot of buttons and switches, and they are all in Arabic and I can't figure out what any of them do, but for sure none of them turn on the lights. I've been sitting here in the dark for twenty minutes Skypeing and Facebooking hurriedly, because my computer battery runs out soon and I can't figure out how to work the wall outlets either.

What a marvelous trip it's been so far. I have already met and exchanged contact information with several people. On the plane from Washington, DC to Doha, Qatar, I sat next to a lovely couple from Oman, who were returning home after seeing their son and daughter-in-law in DC. They had very few female relatives, and are looking forward to their first grandchildren, twin girls. The woman, Chalini, wore the most beautiful iridescent purple and red and gold sari. when it came time for the plane to land she requested that I sit near the window so I could see Qatar at night. Before we left the plane, she and her husband Mahadevan asked for the signed doodle of a swirly tree I had been working on throughout the flight with Sharpies and crayons.

After departing the plane, we walked onto the tarmac and boarded a bus that took us to the terminal. On the bus, I ran into a family that had been sitting nearby me on the plane. As it turned out, they were from Virginia (one of the sons had gone to JMU and I had the unexpected pleasure of being able to exchange some good-natured smack talk in defense of ASU) and were headed to Thailand for a vacation to visit another of their four boys. They helped me find the customs desk and we exchanged contact information, and the mother promised to call my house when she got the chance and assure my mom that I had gotten at least as far as Qatar in one piece.

I stood in line at customs for nearly an hour, and made another few friends including a woman from England, a girl my age from Sudan, a young man from India, and a young German boy. I offered my stash of American candy to the young boy and with his parents permission he excitedly chose a pack of Lifesavers gummies.

After getting my very first visa from Qatar, I was ushered into a very full, very large parking lot, where buses stood everywhere. I walked with the girl from Sudan and the boy from India, after we realized we were headed to the same complimentary hotel, to find our hotel bus. We drove past a couple of mosques (with some of the most beautiful architecture I've ever seen) and lots of building-sized ads in Arabic. The roads were crammed and full of honking, but we arrived quickly and safely to the Oryx Rotana Hotel, which is one of the nicest buildings i have ever been in. I can see much of the city out of my window, and will post pictures as soon as I can charge my laptop.

Tomorrow I get up at 5:30am to go back to the airport, where at 7:20am I will finally depart for Tanzania. If every day that goes by is as exhilarating as this one, I will soon run out of time to write about everything!

Goodnight Mom and Dad- I love you and miss you so much.

And I'm Off!

I am currently sitting in the Charlotte airport waiting for my flight to leave in about 30 minutes. In the past 24 hours I have finished packing my woefully overstuffed bags, said tearful goodbyes to my friends and family, and been full of general nostalgia.

I have spent my last weeks here in the country knowing that I am leaving but not quite feeling it. Now it seems the other way around; I can see the plane outside that I am about to board, and I can see and hold my tickets and I have of course been through the pat-down process at the security gates. But all of that seems irrelevant when I take note of the circus that has set up shop in my insides. I am excited, nervous, terrified, disbelieving, sad, proud, humbled, and so much more.

In the words of Ron Weasley, "One person can't feel all that at once, they'd explode."

The sun has set now, and I realize that the next time I see daylight I will be in Qatar. I won't see North Carolina, or my mountains, or family or pets or horses, or, Lord willing, snow, for another six months.

I'm boarding now; will post more in DC :)