My First Tattoo :) .... was an April Fools Joke.

As it turns out, April Fools jokes don't lose potency over distance :)

^ Not my actual foot

Emily vs. Centipede

So I woke up around 5am today.

And saw this thing flailing around in my shower.

In case you're wondering, that is an African Black Centipede. They are deadly to children and the elderly, and also can cause anaphylactic shock in anyone allergic to bees. Other than that, they cause severe pain, swelling, fever, sweating, and weakness. And at 5am, I don't really feel like feeling any of those things.

Being the procrastinator that I am, I put a bucket on top of it and decided not to deal with it until I got home, hoping that it would die of starvation or drowning while I was gone. Unfortunately, when I got home, that was not the case. I very slowly and carefully removed the bucket to see it just sitting there chilling, as if to say "Hey! I'm going to avenge your murder attempt now!"

I quickly replaced the bucket, and went and got the longest thing I could think of, a coat hanger, to move it out of my shower and into the floor, where i put the bucket on top of it again and scooted it over close to the door.

I opened the door and yelled.

"JAAAAAACCCKKKKKSSSSOOOOOOOONNNNN...????"

....

"THERE'S A CENTIPEDE IN MY ROOOOMM I THINNNKK..."

....

"COME KILL IT PLEEEEASE?"

I know this is a bit off-color for me. I have been known to seek out snakes and bring them home to my poor mother, or other unsuspecting people who happen to be nearby. I didn't run when my brother and I uncovered a nest of baby black widows outside at the barn. I even worked as a snake handler in the reptile and insect room at the Nature Center when I was twelve. But this was an unwelcome surprise, and also I distinctly remember reading about centipedes in my "Most Venomous and Poisonous Animals" book that my parents gave me when I was seven (thanks Mom and Dad, although I'm sure you'd hoped I would never have to put that knowledge to use).

I went out in the hallway to see Jackson doing his homework at the table, headphones on. Deciding it was up to me, I went back into my room and picked up the coat hanger.

It was now or never. I removed the bucket.

I disposed of the body outside, as a warning to all other venomous creatures that might try to attack me at 5am. You've been warned.

Rainy season- maybe.

This week it rained.

As we rode in on the bus in the morning, the clouds ahead were just a little darker than usual. It was clear that they wouldn’t be able to save their rain to tease us for another day.

I had gotten the good seat on the bus and fell asleep quickly. I awoke just as we were pulling into the schoolyard, and I pulled my arm off the bus windowsill to find it soaked and chilly (something that I can promise you hasn’t happened here yet). I felt drops on my face too, and when I looked out the window it was pouring the sort of rain that promises to stay awhile. Even still- it felt like if I moved or breathed the wrong way, the rain would stop and we’d be doomed to another three weeks without rain.

With the rain comes cool weather. I know that I ranted for months before I left for Africa about how much I was excited to be in weather that didn’t involve mittens and two pairs of socks, but the arrival of even a few hours of cool weather was, in a word, awesome. I’m not ashamed to admit that I can handle the heat a lot less effectively than anyone else here. When the temperature here drops below 80 degrees, people don sweaters and jackets. And, for reasons that until recently were unfathomable to me, Africans drink hot tea three times a day.

The whole tea-drinking thing used to baffle me. I always end up sweating after drinking it- sweating like I’ve been presented with a Calculus exam on threat of losing a finger for every wrong answer. However, I was recently reading a book that my dear friend Richard sent me from home, called “House of Sand and Fog”, and one of the main characters, an Iranian ex-general, was speaking of the funny looks he got from fellow construction workers in California when he would drink hot tea from his Thermos. He wrote ‘…But they do not know what I do about the heat, that there must be a fire inside you to match the one around you.” It sort of made sense. The next day I decided not to take tea, and not only was I groggy with caffeine deficiency, I was soaking with sweat a few hours later.

African culture (or at least what I’ve witnessed so far in Dar Es Salaam) is full of little surprises like that. For instance, the time here is a little different; aside from the 7-hour time difference, I mean. The first time I asked “Saa ngapi?” (what time is it?) around lunchtime and got the answer “Saa nne” (eight-o-clock), I was thoroughly confused. The Swahili system of time begins at 7:00am, starting at 1:00, then 8am is considered 2:00, 9am is 3:00, and so on. While I probably won’t get used to it, it makes sense for a society that for the most part parallels with a day and night schedule.

Swahili greetings are different from American ones as well, language difference aside. I know that for most Americans, the only recognized Kiswahili word is “Jambo”, and maybe “asante” or “simba”. But “Jambo” isn’t at all a correct way to greet someone. African culture places a lot of importance on respect for your elders. There are three different ways to greet someone here: Hujambo, Mambo, or Skamoo.

The first one, “Hujambo” (Hoo-djyAHm-bo) is used to greet someone much younger than you. For example, I greet the kids at the school with “Hujambo!”, and their reply is “Sijambo!” (they’re usually giggling when they say it, because it’s hilarious to watch the mzungu try to speak Kiswahili).

To address someone close to your own age, you say “Mambo!”, to which they can reply a number of things- “Mzima”, “Poa”, “Safi”, “Shwari”, and sometimes “Fresh” (I always think of Will Smith in parachute pants when someone says this).

This is where it gets tricky. In America, if you insinuate someone is old, they get offended, even if you’ve just checked their I.D. because they’re using a check at the grocery store with the names “Florence” and “Opie” on it, and they’re buying prune juice and reminiscing about using stone and chisels back in “my day” when it was always snowing and everywhere you needed to go was inconveniently uphill. So when I first learned to say “Skamoo”, I used it sparingly, only saying it to the truly ancient. But after I got a few dirty looks from mothers after saying “Mambo”, I used it whenever I was in doubt that someone might be older than me. The correct reply is “Marahaba”, and they might greet you in return with “Hujambo”.

Food is another unavoidable minefield of opportunities to commit social faux-pas. If someone offers you food, it is considered highly impolite and disrespectful, and also selfish, to turn it down (the rationale, which is understandable, is that if you turn down food, you are also turning down the obligation of preparing food for them someday in return). However, there are a few precautions I took with eating before coming here that weren’t necessary. For instance, when I left, the belief was that in the society I was entering, doing anything with the left hand is dirty and inappropriate. This isn’t true.

Every household and restaurant I’ve eaten at has shared the experience of dining sans utensils. Even beans (maharage) and chopped spinach (mchicha). The food “ugali” is often used as a sort of edible replacement as a spoon, rolled in the palm and pressed in the middle with the thumb to make a bowl. I am always the only one at the table timidly pinching my food up to avoid getting my hands dirty; everyone else dives right in, emerging from dinner looking like potters at the wheel. I can’t say this is a bad idea; I love thinking that there are less dishes to do.

The traditional dress is my favorite part of African culture. There are kangas, kitenges, vitenges, and mashonos, and many more the words for which I haven’t learned yet. Kitenges are my favorite. I’m always in awe of how pretty they are- Mama Kawishe always looks very regal in hers, which are always colorful and elegant. Recently, she told me what my birthday present is- she is having two vitenges tailored for me, which I am very, very excited about. I went to the tailor on Saturday with Pepy to pick out the designs and material, and they should be ready by my birthday, at which point you can all expect a few pictures.

Anyway- signing out. I promise the delay in posting won’t be so long again, and I apologize for keeping my wonderful readers waiting. I want to shout out to a few people, once again:

My parents, who I am thankful don’t mind the outrageous international calling fees and whose calls and letters I am always happy to get.

My grandparents, for the loving emails that I adore and for being the best Nana and Papaw in the world.

ES, SW, KW, JH, DB, CD, DL, JP, and all my friends and mentors at home, for keeping me sane and not too lonely.

Richard, for being awesome and sending me all these excellent books!

And, although they won’t read this, my host family the Kawishes and Pepy, for keeping me happy, safe, and quite well-fed since I’ve been here.

Kwa Heri!

Emily

PS: Just a friendly notice- I would appreciate if the comments board was reserved for friendly messages and constructive criticism. If anyone has issue with what I write, please feel free to contact me privately. Thanks, and happy blogging!

Traffic

Today I would like to fill you all in about African traffic.

It is a necessity, obviously, that I be in traffic every now and then. But I can assure you that of all the dangers of Africa you may read about or hear about (snakes, insects, big mammals, guerillas, malaria, etc.), driving in Africa is by far the most lethal. The ticket books of the Woodfin Police would probably explode with excitement if they could see a Tanzanian intersection at rush hour.

Before we look at the finer aspects of navigating African traffic, let’s take a look at the handy diagrams I’ve made for you. This first one is showing the physical aspects and obstacles you may run into, without the added headache of dealing with other vehicles:

As you can see, it’s a little treacherous. Lets say you are driving to work in the morning. You leave your house at just the right time, you’ve got some Rick Astley or Celine Dion playing on the radio, and you’re looking forward to what promises to be a fulfilling day at the office/market/factory.

You get about as far as where a mailbox would be, if Africans had mailboxes, and all of a sudden your pleasant morning drive has morphed into Need 4 Speed: Most Wanted Offroad Edition, except everyone is in an advanced stage of drunkenness and are driving as though a rabid animal is attacking their face.

There are potholes the size of cows, actual cows, chickens, children, pedestrians, and the opposite of cow-sized potholes, whatever you’d like to call them (the word ‘bumps’ just sounds so tame…), and miscellaneous .

The potholes and bumps are the worst part. Since I ride the bus in the mornings with the students, we have to drive into some of the neighborhoods to pick up kids at their houses. The bus driver floors it over the bumps, making them the most obnoxious part of my day. Most of you know I am not a morning person, so I would like to take the opportunity of the 1 ½ hour bus ride to get some extra sleep, except it’s hard to sleep when you’re occasionally also airborne.

Now let’s take a look at navigating traffic on these roads.

The red box is my bus in the mornings. The dots are pedestrians.

When I first arrived home from the airport in Pepy’s car, I had to check the seat to make sure I hadn’t left fingernail marks. At first glance there is no discernible organization to the way people drive here. It’s literally the world’s biggest game of chicken- the train of thought for most drivers is, if there isn't a space big enough for your vehicle, force your way through until someone backs down. And amazingly, it usually works, or at least, I haven't witnessed an accident yet.

Because there aren’t any traffic police in Tanzania, you can pretty much get away with whatever you want on the road. There aren’t any lines on the roads, not that it matters, because the road is usually so covered in cars and people that the asphault/gravel could be painted pink with orange polka dots and no one would ever know.

However, the price of getting in an accident is very high. Although the police rarely catch people who cause accidents, the public usually take matters into their own hands. I’ve heard horror stories of drivers who cause terrifying fatal accidents fleeing the scene for fear of being beaten to death, or worse, drivers being killed by other drivers over fender benders. Just as a thief in the market will be beaten to death if caught, a careless driver will suffer the same fate.

There are very few traffic signs or signals in Africa. I’ve seen about three traffic lights, and people pay very little attention to them. The only effective means of controlling traffic that I’ve seen was a crossing guard. Mama Kawishe said that crossing guards make the most money of any kind of policeman in Dar Es Salaam, and I can see why; you wouldn’t catch me out there doing their job.

Mom, if you think my driving is bad, please don't come to Africa.

Next week: African socializing

Thanks to Allie Brosh and her blog Hyperbole and a Half for inspiring the drawings! And a shout out to Richard, my liberated friend from the produce department at Ingles, for being super thoughtful and sending me some much-needed reading material!!!

Another shout out to Aimee Buchanan for just being awesome and being my metaphorical Dumbledore. :)

Some more to some special teachers who need some recognition: Mrs. McGuire and Mrs. Szymanski, who have both been very big role models for me and wonderful supporters of my trip so far.

And of course, my loving family, Mom and Dad and Eli and Evie (all the Schenkels, really), Nana and Papaw, and Aunt Helen and Uncle Adam and Peyton and Patterson.

I love you all so much- promise to post again soon!!!

Kwa Heri,

Emily