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 5th 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:
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:
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
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