Buckets

HOLY CRAP, BUCKETS ARE FANTASIC!  I never ever thought I would use a bucket for so many things before.  Let me list the ways I use them on an everyday basis:

• bucket baths
• 2 for my drinking water filter 
• storage for food (so critters and bugs don’t get in my food)
• for catching rain water off of my roof 
• carrying water
• a bucket full of water next to my squat toilet (so I can “flush” it)
• for cleaning (washing clothes, cleaning dishes, etc)
• store precious water
• trash
• a seat
• storing charcoal

Many people in Tanzania will carry everything for meals in buckets (dishes, containers with the food in it, tea), will take a bucket to market full of goods to sell, come back from market with their purchases…I can’t even count the ways that people here use buckets.  They’re incredibly useful and some other volunteers made the mistake of leaving some out over night.  They were gone the next morning.  Don’t worry, fancy $100 Chaco-brand shoes will still there, but the ~ $1.50 bucket will be gone.  Even when a bucket has kicked the bucket (pun most certainly intended), it will undoubtedly be turned into a toy in some way.

            So though I may look ridiculous returning from my banking town with a bucket almost every time I return to my village, I’m quite happy to have an arsenal of buckets, as their usefulness seems to be unparalleled here.

Definitions of Clean

Definitions of Clean

Since I arrived here, I’ve noticed that there are many different definitions of what “clean” is.  Some of it depends on your cultural background.  Some on what resources are available.  And of course, on how lazy a particular PCV may be on any given day…

So in Kiswahili, there are MANY verbs for cleaning:

-       safisha = cleaning, in terms of a house or tidying up

-       osha = cleaning dishes

-       fua = cleaning/washing your clothes (by hand, mind you!  If I ever complain about having to tosh my clothes in the washing machine in the future, feel free to kick me)

-       nawa mikono = to wash your hands (before and after a meal)

-       oga = to bathe, as in take a bath (wahoo for bucket baths!  Showers are a treat at this point, and if there’s hot water in that shower…well hot damn, it’s your lucky day)

Ok, so I guess that there are still a lot of different words in English for cleaning stuff, but my homestay family made sure that I knew the difference between all of these very early on.  Cleanliness is very important in Tanzanian culture.  It’s so important, that the slang has adopted the words for “clean.”  For example, in English we would say “cool” but in Kiswahili you’ll use words like “poa” and “safi,” both of which mean “clean.”

When I lived with my homestay family in Morogoro, I would have a bucket bath twice a day (even though I was bathing much more often than I did in the States, I’m still pretty sure that I used less water than I did with a shower every two days).  Before and after a meal, everyone would rinse his or her hands with water.  Shoes, clothes, hair are all checked that they look clean before you leave the house, even if they aren’t (I definitely have been a wee bit lax with how often I wash my hair here….people in my village especially admire my hair regardless of how greasy and nasty looking it is.  Worst case scenario I’ll just throw on a bandana or head band thing and my village thinks I’m trying to fit in by wearing something over my hair.  Cultural integration!).

Now, Tanzanians like to look clean—unfortunately that doesn’t apply to smell.  Granted, Americans are very obsessed with smells (just think about how much money we spend on deodorant, air fresheners, yummy smelling candles, scented shampoo and condition, perfume, body sprays, especially for all those middle school boys I student taught with), but regardless of how long it’s been since I’ve bathed, I still take solace in the fact that I still smell better than pretty much all the Tanzanians around me.  I consider myself lucky, however, since I live in a fairly cool area, where I don’t sweat much (that’s right, I’m in Africa and I’m not sweaty – I love my village!).

With that being said, “clean” is relative.  When there is very little water because we haven’t had rain in quite a while, I consider my water “clean” after running it through a little strainer (so no mosquitoes or grass is in it), and it’s super clean and good enough to drink after boiling for 5 minutes.  Sure, there may be a wee bit of a brownish tinge, but that’s the only water I have, and it’s sure as hell good enough to bathe with!  Granted, I use a water filter provided by Peace Corps for my drinking water, and that’s pretty incredibly clear, but it takes forever to get water out of it.  So I don’t filter stuff like bathing water or tea/coffee/oatmeal water since it won’t be ingested or is just going to be boiled.

Now, Tanzania is a country where you can’t drink the tap water, and knowledge of germs isn’t very well known.  Many people will rinse their hands with plain water before a meal, but after eating feel that their hands are dirty (well, they are, considering that many people eat with their hands), and will wash with soap AFTER the meal.  The lack of health education is pretty frustrating, so I need to figure out some good lesson plans to incorporate it into English class.  Since Tanzanians seem to have better immune systems than me, I almost always have some kind of hand sanitizer with me.  Now, I sat through my Wilderness First Responder courses and know that hand sanitizer isn’t the best thing since it gets rid of good germs as well as bad.  Considering that I’d rather steer clear of stomach/diarrhea problems as much as possible, and that the water can give you those unpleasant troubles, I’m going to use hand sanitizer and hope I get my good germs in other ways.

So sure, my water may be a bit brown, I probably smell by an American standard, and as long as the water is boiled long enough I’ll drink it.  But clean is relative, especially when you’re in the Peace Corps.  

Used Clothes Extravaganza

Ever wonder what happens to the clothes that don’t get sold at second hand shops in the U.S.?  Based on what I’ve seen people wear all around the country of Tanzania, I can only assume that all of them are sent over here.  Walking through the markets in bigger towns or cities, there are stalls upon stalls full of used clothes.  And it’s quite interesting the clothes that people in the U.S. have passed up on.

            Let’s look at the first category that my uncreative mind can think of: fancy name-brand clothes.  Now, one of my best friends back home was very into designer jeans and labels, and really expensive clothes.  He would have a hey day in the markets here.  Some PCVs found Diesel jeans for only 15000tsh (about $10), North Face jackets can be found for about 2000tsh (about $1.25), Express if fairly easy to find, and knock off Chanel is rampant.  Though it take some searching, you can find some pretty nice stuff.

            Then there are the used shirts and clothes that you can tell no one in the U.S. thrift shops wanted.  I bought a simple black t-shirt that still had the garage sale sticker on it left over from the U.S. (the guy was trying to tell me that it was authentic African material, while my friends and I pointed at the neon green sticker that you find so often at summer garage sales.  I managed to talk him down from 12000tsh and he finally gave me it for 5000tsh—some of the best bargaining I did when I was still learning how to even say numbers!).  I have seen multiple 5K t-shirts (my favorite being the old woman wearing a “Spay your pet” 5K from somewhere in Missouri, while shooing a dog from her house), family reunion shirts, bright pink youth leadership conference shirts worn by 25-year-old men, bright neon colors (which is frankly pretty awesome no matter what), phrases that the people wearing don’t understand (“world’s greatest dad”), middle school gym t-shirts, and overall some pretty funny shirts that I’m shocked people in the States would pass up on!  My favorite has been these knock off beanies that say “Gesus.”  Apparently someone didn’t realize that “Jesus” is spelled with a “j” but people don’t seem to care about authenticity/correctness with some of those things.  It’s still quite entertaining for us Americans.

            So the next time you donate a shirt or pair of pants that you’re not sure if anyone will buy in the U.S., fear not, for it will find it’s way over here and provide lots of entertainment for me and the other PCVs.

Wait….There’s a Mzungu at the Market?

Wait….There’s a Mzungu at the Market?

So Kilole, my village, is small, has no electricity or running water, and is about 2 ½ hours from my banking town of Lushoto.  The closest two villages are Kwekanga (where there is a market on Tuesdays) and Kweboma.  They’re also super tiny and don’t have amenities.  The past few weeks, I’ve gone to Kwekanga on market day in order to get food.  It’s about a 45 minute walk (if you’re walking Tanzanian speed) from Kilole and there are so many people who go there to sell the food they’ve cultivated during the last week.  Food prices are incredibly cheap in the villages, it’s a local-ivore dream come true (all the produce is grown and cultivated by the person you buy it from), all the money goes into the local economy (which is admittedly not strong whether the money stays there or not), and it’s a great place for me to establish some relationships in the community.  And allow me to state it again, it’s cheap!  I can get avocados for 150tsh (Tanzanian shillings), which is about 8 cents, a pile of 5 or 6 tomatoes for 200tsh (about 12 cents), and a kilogram of potatoes for around 500tsh (30 cents).  Considering that when I was in Morogoro (a fairly large town where I did my pre-service training) and tried to buy food in the market, people tried to sell an avocado to me for 1000tsh (about 60 cents).  Sure, that’s not too expensive, but in comparison with the 150tsh I pay, they’re definitely trying to screw me over just because I’m a foreigner in the big towns.  So uncooked food is inexpensive in the village and is pretty damn good.

            Every time I’ve gone to Kwekanga on market day, people talk.  Like excessively so.  After the first time I went, one of the teachers at my school (who lives in another village) commented the next day that he heard I’d gone to the market.  When I returned the next week, there were many people who live in Kwekanga who greeted me in the local language (Kisambaa) because they remembered that I could say a few words in it.  The next week I went, almost everyone greeted me only in Kisambaa.  They all giggle too when they hear me try to speak it because they think it’s really funny that the white girl is trying to formulate the incredibly difficult words that everyone in the area uses on a daily basis.

            I believe that I really am the only foreigner in my area (meaning outside of the larger towns).  There are no other Peace Corps volunteers on my side of Lushoto, and no other organizations that are permanent in any way out in my far-flung villages.  I know I’ve complained about being stared at and sticking out horribly, but when people hear that the Mzungu went to market, there’s only one option: it’s the Madam who teaches at Mariam Mshangama Secondary, because there is no other non-African in any of the surrounding villages.  In a few weeks, my Peace Corps boyfriend will come visit, and I’m sure having two white people in the same place will cause quite the frenzy and astonishment.

            So the past few times I’ve gone to the market, I’ve taken my super awesome fancy Tanzanian basket to carry food in.  Many locals have them too, or plastic ones, or just big rice sacks that they carry stuff back in.  Many people (especially students and anyone younger than me) carry my things out of respect, whether I want them to or not.  I don’t think they’ve grasped the concept that I want to carry my things because it means I get a slight work out.  But they almost always will take my things from me and carry it for it.  Sometimes it’s kinda nice (like when I have 2 buckets full of things from town and have a 20 minute walk to my house) but other times it’s something tiny like an empty basket.  Though it’s out of respect and them trying to do something nice for me, it’s really annoying when they say “Oh, let me take that.”  I’m a fully competent woman who can carry stuff!  Gah!  I’ve done hard work too, don’t pamper me!  But I can’t say that, cuz some people get insulted if I don’t let them carry my things.  Oh, the conundrum.

            Anyway, Tanzanians are wicked good at carrying things on their heads without their hands.  They’ll carry buckets full of water, with no lid, without their hands, and walk up mountains with it.  It’s pretty badass.  Baskets, backpacks, flat binders, sacks full of potatoes….Tanzanians carry it all on their heads.  So I’ve taken a stab at it.  The last two times I’ve gone to market, I’ve convinced the people walking back with me (students or mamas who think it’s weird if I walk anywhere alone, regardless of what time of day it is) to let me carry my stupid little basket, trying to balance it on my head without using my hands.  During those walks back, I’ve heard loads and loads of laughter, as people realize that the silly white lady is trying to fit in with Tanzanians.  And failing miserably.  The best I’ve done is carrying the basket for almost a minute with no hands, though my arms were hovering a few inches within range to catch the basket if it fell.  Though I can’t do it (yet), people seem to be enjoying the fact that I’m trying.  Maybe I’ll come back to the U.S. and stand out horribly as I attempt to balance my basket on my head at the super market.

How many Tanzanians can you fit in a daladala?

How many Tanzanians can you fit in a daladala?

Answer:  Always one more!

So this event actually took place back in June, but is just such a good story I need to share it.

Tanzania has a lot of daladalas, which are pretty much large vans with seats for about 12 – 16 people.  Just because there are that many seats does not mean that only that number of people fit in.  Tanzanians tend to fit in as many people as humanly possible, since they will make more money with more passengers.  These packed vehicles can have some petty theft incidents (one PCT had his wallet stolen the first morning he rode a daladala) and if you’re claustrophobic, it’s definitely not for you.

Despite the potential closeness with strangers, it’s a cheap mode of transportation.  Only 300 Tsh (Tanzanian shillings), which is about 20 cents.  There are conductors who collect money, make sure the door can actually slide shut (this can sometimes be an issue), and help load luggage.  Some other PCTs and I would take the daladala together to our training center almost every morning during training.  There were jam-packed rides, boring ones where we got seats without a problem, and the best ride any of us have had in country.

We were walking toward the road when a completely empty daladala pulled up.  The conductor hopped out, shouted “Wazungu!  Faster!”  We rushed to get there, he ushered us in, and slammed the door shut.  The driver then sped off at the fastest speed a dala could go.  At the next stop the conductor jumped out, yelled “Faster!” at more people, who rushed to join us, and the driver sped off again.  We suddenly found that our daladala was racing another one down the dirt road, and a stop was coming up.  The other dala got their first, but our driver pulled in front and boxed them in.  The conductor hopped out, continued to usher people in, and physically arrange them so more people could fit.  My friend Emily was sitting on a bench, and the conductor grabbed her knees and physically turned them a few inches.  Her skirt came above her knees (gasp!  It’s ok, she was wearing leggings) and he politely (without violating her or anything) pulled her skirt back over her knees.  He was a crazy and enthusiastic guy who kept getting more people to come on his daladala, until it was completely packed.

When we finally got to our stop, the conductor hopped out and shouted “Wazungu out!”  Everyone knew that we were the foreigners, so it made it easier forus to actually get out of the stuffed daladala.  Jack, Emily and I stood outside, paid the conductor, and suddenly realized that Eric was still struggling to get out past all the people.  The dala started to drive away and we had to shout and motion at the driver to stop so Eric could actually get out.  After some shoving, he finally got out, and we all enjoyed a laugh about what a ridiculous and entertaining ride we’d had.  I have to say, all other daladala rides have been a bit boring in comparison.

Holdin' Hands

In the U.S., I am a HUGE fan of hugs.  Hugs are fantastic on so many levels.  They can turn a bad day around, reassure you, or just be a reconfirmation that people care for you.  There are a great number of people that I would give a hug to everyday, whether they are friends or family, male or female, young or a little more seasoned in life.

            Tanzania is different.  You shake hands with everyone, especially when greeting them.  These hand holds can last for an incredibly long time, sometimes as long as five full minutes while you greet each other extensively, inquire about the person’s health, family, job, home, weather, whether they have any problems, how life is going in general, their chickens….these hand-holding sessions can stretch on for quite a long time!  Five minutes is soooo much longer than you think when your hand is being held with a very limp-fish grip. 

It’s a funny grey area in regards to hand holding after that, however.  Men and women do not hold hands and walk together in public.  You may see it every so often, but it’s definitely not common and slightly taboo.  Your eye is immediately drawn to such an indecent display of affection and scandal!  With that being said, I was walking in Tanga the other day and saw a couple holding hands.  The woman was covered from head to toe, with only her eyes showing.  The two were holding hands through the long fabric.  This was definitely one of the only times I’ve seen members of opposite genders hold hands, plus it was with an obviously conservative Muslim woman.  This kind of thing would never ever be seen in the small villages, and it is only because we were in a fairly large town that we witnessed such obvious testing of gender relations.

Though opposite gender handholding can be an odd gray area that I will never understand, same gender handholding is perfectly acceptable, and is very, very common.  Men who are friends, no matter their age, will hold hands or walk with linked arms.  I myself have found that many women and girls will grab my hand when we are walking.  I have had my hand held more over the last three months than I have in my entire life combined.  And it’s all been with women.  For those who are homophobic, this would be very difficult to handle, but I personally do not mind, and find it sometimes reassuring.  It’s almost as if people are claiming me, or somehow indicating that I belong and am not just another random tourist.  Woot for cultural integration!

With that being said, I should mention that homosexuality is illegal in Tanzania.  Individuals (mostly men, as women aren’t really considered able to be gay.  Yeah, they're not very politically correct here) can go to jail if it is discovered that they are actually having homosexual relationships.  I can’t even tell you how sad it is to know that people cannot be themselves.  Though Tanzania is not as harsh as some other countries in the world toward homosexuals, Peace Corps still warns volunteers that if someone is gay, they need to be cautious about exposing their sexuality.  I don’t know if it was in Tanzania specifically, but I know that there have been volunteers who have been forced to leave their host countries because someone told their village that they were gay.

Though there is such stigma against those who are gay, homosexuality doesn’t even occur to Tanzanians.  If two men sleep in the same bed, people don’t think anything of it.  But if a man and a woman are behind a closed door, it is automatically assumed that they are having sex.  Same gender handholding is totally normal, but if you’ve been married to a member of the opposite sex for 50 years, it’s still not appropriate for you to hold hands.

Given that I am American and have been raised differently, I have to admit that I like the fact that my two loving parents still hold hands in public.  Just sayin’.

Sticking out like a sore thumb…

I am the only non-African in my village of Kilole.  Every other person was born in Tanzania, the vast majority being from the village and having never lived anywhere else.  So needless to say, I attract a lot of attention.  Not only am I a foreigner (Mzungu, in case you forgot), but I am pretty much glow-in-the-dark white.  Kids will run up and touch my arm, then giggle and run away.  I think some of them don’t believe anyone can actually be that white.  Well, that’s not surprising, because many of my American friends can’t believe that I’m actually as translucent as I am.

            So while everyone can see me from a mile away wherever I go, everyone in my village has the most beautiful, rich dark skin I’ve ever seen.  They are freakin stunning!  There are numerous people who I feel could walk into a modeling agency and get a contract immediately.  Because their skin is so dark, if they do have any blemishes (mosquito bites, scratches, etc), it’s really difficult to see.  Then there’s me.  Every single bug bite I’ve gotten since being in country has been pointed out.  If I have a zit, people point, poke them, and ask “Is that a mosquito bite?”  The first time this happened, I struggled to explain (in Kiswahili) that every month I would get some zits and it was completely normal.  My homestay family seemed very concerned and would keep asking me about my pimples, and if I really was sure it wasn’t mosquito bites.

            When I was asked again in my village (multiple times) about why I had these red spots on my face, I finally just settled for the answer “It’s because I’m white.”  They stop, look slightly confused, and then generally just accept that white people are weird.  Though you may think it’s bad that I use it, when I don’t want to explain something, don’t know HOW to explain it or any other reason I don’t want to explain things, I just use the excuse “it’s an American thing.”  

Mob Justice

So Tanzania is a fascinating country in a lot of ways.  Unfortunately it still has its problems.  Though I have not observed it myself, I’ve been told that there is some corruption within the police forces here.  As a result of this, reporting things to the police takes a lot of patience, time, and likely not having the problem solved ever.  As such, many people take matters into their own hands.

            This has resulted in mob justice, in particular in connection with theft.  The word for thief in Kiswahili is “Mwizi,” is one of the first words us PCVs learned, and is one word you never ever want to shout out.  It will potentially result in someone losing his/her life.

            So let me explain.  Because the police may not act, people will step in to correct the problem.  If someone steals your phone/wallet/camera and you shout out “Mwizi!” people will chase after that thief.  The thief will at least be beaten.  If they’re lucky, that will be it.  Often times people will kill the thief.  So when Peace Corps warned us not to shout out “Mwizi,” they emphasized that someone will most likely die for your camera/wallet/phone.  Don’t even say the word in jest, as it will be taken seriously.  PC asked us to consider if that item is worth someone losing their life.  Regardless of what your opinion is (whether mob justice is a good or bad thing), it’s something that we have to keep in mind here.  I personally would rather lose my $200 camera than someone die for it.

            This idea of mob justice is so strong that one of the English textbooks I was looking at had an entire story about a student’s phone getting stolen.  Within the story, they actually describe the thief’s eye getting gauged out with a knife.  Yeah, this is a story that they have students read! 

            Though there are definitely some great parts of communal culture, this is one that I hope I don’t witness personally.  People watching out for each other is great, but I also am someone who doesn’t like people dying for material objects.  So I think I’ll just be smart and keep my valuables in safe places and hopefully never be in that situation!

My Block in Morogoro

My block (written mid July)

So over the past 9 weeks or so, I have been living with a homestay family, as I’ve mentioned before.  The house is about 100 meters away from the main road.  Every day I pass by numerous houses and two small shops (known as “dukas”).  A while ago I made friends with the owners of one of the dukas.  Afterward, almost every child I pass by knows my name.  Whether I’m walking by myself or with some of my other PCT friends, I hear calls of “Amy!”  Or more accurately: “Emi.”

            Now, one day I was carrying some buckets back from our class to use for my water filter at homestay.  As I got somewhat close to the house, a little girl darted up and took the buckets from me.  Granted, they were empty and not heavy, but she insisted on carrying them for me the whole way home.  Other kids swarmed up and tried to take my bag, which happened to have my laptop in it.  Since I’m paranoid, I didn’t let them take that, but they were genuinely disappointed that they didn’t get to help me carry everything.

            Besides wanted to carry my things (which is very common in Tanzanian culture), the kids will greet me with the typical “Shikamoo.”  This is a greeting used with elders, meaning anyone who is older than you.  Students use it with teachers, kids use it with teenagers, old folks will use it with older folks.  It’s just a way to acknowledge that you are older but also deserve respect.  It’s more common in some areas rather than others, but is even used in families.  I would greet my host mama, her older sister, and my host baba (father) with “Shikamoo” every time I would see them.  Age is something that is very respected here.

            With that being said, so are titles.  So it was particularly hilarious to me when the neighborhood kids started greeting me with “Shikamoo, Mzungu Amy” (literally greeting me as an elder foreigner and my name).  Look at me!  They actually know my name but still call me “Mzungu” (foreigner)!  

Site Visit

Site Visit (written mid July)

Last week was Site Visit week for all of us PCTs (Peace Corps Trainees).  During our site visit, we went to our future site, hung out with PCVs (Peace Corps Volunteers) who live and work in the area close to our sites, and had a brief view of what our experiences will be like once we finally get settled in.

            In my case, I went to the Tanzanian state of Tanga, which is in the north, boarders Kenya, and had a wide variety of landscapes.  My banking town (as the name implies, the town I have to go to in order to get any money / a larger town where some more obscure things are available) is Lushoto.  Back in the day during the German colonial times, Lushoto was a vacation town for many of the Germans who lived in Tanzania.  I can definitely understand why Germans would like the town, as it is in the mountains and fairly cool in comparison with much of the country.  Though Lushoto is nestled in a mountain wonderland in the western part of the state of Tanga, the eastern part is fairly warm, humid, and far too hot for me.  I’ll totally go to visit, but I’m really happy I didn’t get placed there!

            During my visit up north, I went with a few other PCTs who are placed close to me.  Jade, Sam, Hannah and I are the new folks in the region.  After a short-by-Tanzanian-standard trip, we met up with three of the PCVs and stayed the night in Lushoto.  It was great having Brittany, Glenn and Ezra showing us around, telling us the places that have really good food, and showing us different places that we will need to know about (like the place we can leave luggage as long as we bring the guys an avocado in thanks).

            I stayed with Brittany at her place about a half hour from Lushoto.  She is a fantastic cook and taught me how to bake without an oven.  Once I actually get the supplies, I will definitely be experimenting with that!  After watching movies and eating good food, I went back to Lushoto to meet with my headmaster and go to my village.

            So my village is called Kilole.  It is very small, pretty poor, and even locals in Lushoto don’t know where it is.  That’s reassuring, isn’t it?  Good luck finding it on a map, I have been unable to find it thus far.  Granted, I haven’t really had access to internet or a plethora of maps, so let me know if you come across my itty bitty village!

            My visit to my village was kind of overwhelming, as I met a ton of people, was surrounded by Kiswahili and the local language of Kisambaa, and was suddenly away from people I’d spent the past several weeks around.  I was introduced to the entire primary school, the local government council, the entire secondary school I will be teaching at, and was walked around to 20 different homes to greet and meet villagers.  It was great to see where I would live, but I was definitely flustered.  Thank goodness that’s gone away.  More to come on my village soon!

Religion Class Music

So when I found out I was coming to Africa with the Peace Corps, I was excited about a great number of things.  One of the many was music.  I imagined lots of drums and pretty much the Lion King all the time.

Well, unfortunately, that's not what Tanzania has a lot of.  Yes, there are some drums, but most music that Tanzanians listen to is a weird mix of reggae, tambourines and some other stuff.  Overall I’m not much of a fan.

Then our internship school had their Thursday religion classes.  Students split up based on whether they are Christian or Muslim, and met in different classrooms.  The Christian classes sang a great deal, prayed occasionally, and always returned to song.  It was the first time I felt that I was listening to the music I expected to hear when in Africa.  I’m attempting to upload some videos so that you can get an idea, but it was wonderful to have our Kiswahili classes with the background noise of singing children.

This particular song was recognized by one of my fellow PCTs and she said that it's "Walking in the Light of God."  They sang most of it in Kiswahili but switched over to English occasionally.

Guess what Mum? I'm Ironing!

So Tanzanians are incredibly conscious of their appearance.  They like to look clean, dress nicely, and be neat.  Keep in mind that I said “appearances.”  People don’t really use deodorant, but many bathe at least once a day, if not more often.  (My family heats up water for me to bathe twice a day, whether I want to take a bath or not.)  Still, it’s Africa, and it gets hot and people sweat.  BO on bus rides is now just a fact of life.  You get over it.

            Still, appearances matter.  Someone explained it to me this way: dressing nicely is a way of respecting other people because you are giving them something nice to look at, rather than not caring about your appearance and therefore not caring about those around you.  I know a great number of people back in the States who would balk at this idea.  Regardless, I’m trying to be kind of conscious of wearing clothes that are not visibly dirty (I sometimes fail miserably at this), and am even ironing.

            That’s right, I’m ironing my clothes.  Much to my mum’s dismay back in Colorado, I hardly ever ironed.  Well, I’m going to tell you the secret to getting a bunch of lazy Americans to iron their clothes: do what the PC medical team did, and inform us that there are certain kinds of flies in Tanzania that like to lay their eggs in damp clothes (like the ones that you hang on the line to dry after hand-washing them).  These flies tend to hatch and burrow into whatever body is closest, lay more eggs, which later hatch out of your body.  So ironing is a health precaution and way of ensuring that you don’t have flies going into you like little aliens that later hatch out of your skin.

            So, Mum, I’m sorry to say, but if you had just told me that ironing would keep away burrowing flies, I would have been ironing for the past several years.  It’s a health precaution, after all, and one I’m going to adhere to!

Internship at Sumaye in Morogoro

Internship school (written 25. July 12)

The past several weeks have been spent in our CBT (community-based training) groups, which is where we have our intensive language classes.  There are five of us plus our teacher.  There’s Jack, Emily, Eric, Charles and me, and our wonderful instructor, Makasi.  Each CBT has class at a different secondary school around the city of Morogoro.  My group has been at Sumaye (sue – my - ay) Secondary School, which is a fairly short walk from where our homestay families are.  The past three weeks we have been doing our internship teaching.  This is where each of us PCTs (Peace Corps Trainees) taught at least 6 class periods each week.  It was a great way for Peace Corps to get us into the classroom in order to gain more of an idea of what Tanzanian schools are actually like.

            I will write a different blog entry about the Tanzanian school system, but mostly just want to rave about those fun experiences I’ve already had in the classes.

            So the only class that I worked with was Form 1, class D (1D).  The students’ ages ranged anywhere from 14 to 18, but Form 1 is at the bottom of the school totem pole.  Regardless of their ages, many of the students struggled with English (which is the subject I’m teaching, for those who may have forgotten).  There were those few that were able to bust out these incredibly well formulated and complicated sentences in English.  To give you an idea of the language ranges: some of my students could not even ask to go to the bathroom, whereas a student was able to explain the process of decomposition and why plastic bottles do not decompose.  IN ENGLISH.

            Despite their struggles with the subject, I flippin loved those kids.  First off, they call me “Teacher” “Mwalimu” (teacher in Kiswahili) or my favorite: ”Madam.”  That’s right, I’m called “Madam.”  It’s awesome.  I feel a bit like a pompous individual, I can’t lie.  But they call all their teachers by some kind of title, so it’s completely normal here.  Considering that I was called “dude” a few times by my sixth graders during student teaching, I kind of enjoy being called respectful titles.  Do you think my students in the States will call me “Madam Healy” if I ask them nicely?

            Tanzanian students are overall very respectful and like to help their teachers as much as possible.  I’ve already seen this a lot, as most students seem very insistent on carrying anything I bring to class.  This includes everything: my pen, water bottler, chalk, eraser, tape, random paper….I’m totally getting spoiled.  They actually enjoy running errands for teachers.  Apparently a lot of teachers get their students to carry water for them if they don’t have running water at their homes.  It makes me think about how many of my students grumbled if I had them pass out papers—I already feel bad for my American students when I return!  I’ll be that teacher who keeps making comments like “Well in Tanzania my students carried gallons of water for me….”

            Corporal punishment is still being used in many Tanzanian schools.  I have not seen it personally, yet, and I hope I won’t have to.  Technically it is illegal, but that law is definitely not being enforced.  Because of this, many students do not like to participate in class or ask questions, because some teachers will punish them.  Getting students to participate is like pulling teeth, and is hard when you’re with them for only a few class periods.  However, I definitely tried to make my class feel comfortable with me.  Though I’m sure they were constantly wondering why the white lady was hopping up and down whenever they participated or got the right answer.

            Despite most likely not understanding very much of what was going on, my students seemed to enjoy my silliness.  I would make them stand up and spell “coconut” with their bodies in order to get them moving, would do “Pasha”  (a super awesome amazing Tanzanian clapping thing that is loads of fun) to celebrate the students participating, and would give them high fives and fist pounds constantly.  They giggled a lot at me, but God knows I’ve gotten used to people laughing at me by now.

            One day at the end of class, as I was packing up my chalk and papers, a girl came up to me and asked my name (they don’t really know their teachers’ names here, though I can’t say anything because I didn’t learn their names either).  “My name is Amy.  What is yours?”  She then said very clearly “I’m Lois.  I love you!”  She then insisted on helping me carry my things back to where my CBT was having Kiswahili class.  I definitely bragged that I got my first “I love you” from a student. 

            Though it was challenging and eye-opening to do my internship teaching these past few weeks, it’s made me even more excited to actually have my own classroom (at long last!  It’s only been about 3 years of praktikums, internships, theoretical classes and student teaching) and develop relationships with students here.  Only a few more weeks until I officially move to my permanent work site!

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Today was our last day at Sumaye, and it was really quite touching.  We said an awkward good-bye to the teachers, who gave each of us some kind of traditional Tanzanian material.  They wrapped the cloth around each of us, differently according to our genders.  We were quite touched and definitely did not expect anything.  Peace Corps supplied each CBT with some textbooks, a soccer ball, volleyball, dodge ball, volleyball net, erasers and chalk.  These are all the basic things that the school simply does not have, so the teachers all seemed very excited at receiving the gifts.

            After saying our awkward good-byes to the teachers, we were brought out in front of the entire student body.  We were still wrapped in the cloth that the teachers had given us, and the students instantly started laughing when they saw us come out in them.  As I said before, we have all grown quite accustomed to being laughed at, plus it has never been derisive laughter that makes us feel bad.  Some of the prefects showed the gifts that Peace Corps provided, and thanked us for spending time at their school.  Charles from my CBT spoke for all of us, thanking the students for helping prepare us for teaching other Tanzanian students.  As we were about to leave, I shouted out in Kiswahili “Tunawapenda!” meaning “We love you!”  The students erupted into laughter, as they always do when they hear us stumble through Kiswahili.

            After our CBT finished for the day, Charles, Eric, Emily, Jack and I all wanted to say good-bye to our classes.  Jack happened to have his camera with him, so we walked into our class of 1D and asked if we could take a picture with them.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen Tanzanians move so quickly.  The girls swarmed over me, all trying to be the ones that stood closest to me, while Jack had the same thing happening with the boys.  There were definitely many hands that touched my hair in the chaos of picture taking, but I was laughing the entire time.  The students then carried my two bags all around campus as we said good-bye and took pictures with a lot of the other classes that our CBT worked with.  The girls who carried my stuff were like puppies, following me and eager to help me in any way they could.

As we left for the day, it was obvious the students really wanted to carry our stuff all the way home for us.  We said our good-byes and waved as we left the school.  All this was after only three weeks of teaching.  I can’t imagine what it’ll be like when at my actual site!

Fabric!!

My first khanga.  This one says something about not blaming God if bad things happen.

African fabrics are awesome.  Lots of color, cool designs, and the fabric is tough (so it can withstand the rough washing by hand).  There are a few different kinds.  Kitenge is the main kind of fabric that is used to make clothes for women.  This includes Sunday best, teaching outfits, and general every day wear.  Khanga is thinner, meant to be worn around the house, and is something that women usually just wrap around their bottom halves.  Khanga also have sayings written on the bottom in Kiswahili.  Many of them have something to do with peace or God, but you have to be careful to keep an eye out for the ones that may get you in trouble.  Which leads to the story of this particular blog post.

            Our first week or so in country was spent in the city of Dar es Salaam, but we were not allowed to leave the Smbazi center, where our first several trainings were held.  When we took a trip into the actual city, all us girls were on a mission to finally get khangas at long last.  We of course had no idea what the Kiswahili meant, but were completely and utterly entranced by all the colors and patterns.  Many of us just bought khangas without finding out what was written at the bottom.

            After making our first of many fabric purchases, we swarmed our Tanzanian guides in order to find out what the heck the fun-sounding words actually meant.  One of the homestay coordinators name Jumapili patiently translated for us.  When he got to the beautiful red and gold khanga that Steph had just purchased, he paused for a long time.  He glanced at her, back at the words, and then said haltingly: “This is a good khanga for when a member of your family passes away.  You should not wear this around your homestay family.  Let’s go get a different one.”

            Fortunately the vendor was willing to let Steph trade for a different one with a happier message (something about God, undoubtedly), but all of us are now much more conscience of what our khangas say!

My Homestay Family Here in Tanzania

My homestay family

While I’m in training, I am living with a homestay family.  Peace Corps places every PCT with a family so as to help with learning Kiswahili, Tanzanian culture, and to establish some ties with Tanzanians.  African families are a bit different than a lot of American ones.  Family may be distantly related (and I mean distant) but they are still family and are treated as such.  Family sizes differ, of course, but I’ll just be telling you about my own experiences.

            So in my family I have Mama Judith, who is the matriarch of the family.  She is a jovial, wonderful woman who works at the Teacher’s College of Morogoro.  She laughs a lot and is quite eager to teach and explain Kiswahili to me.  She doesn’t use very much English with me, and it’s helping a great deal.  I’m still a bumbling idiot who speaks very broken Kiswahili, but she laughs at me whether I get things right or wrong. 

            I also have Baba (father), who is a lecturer at a university in Dar es Salaam (3 hours away from where we live in Morogoro).  He stays in Dar during the week and returns on the weekends.  He laughs a great deal and watches soccer with me.  We both were cheering for Germany during the EuroCup and he seemed very entertained by my reactions to the games (keep in mind I was doing my best to not swear, but sports-induced swearing is quite common with me).  I don’t honestly see Baba very often, but he’s another one of the amazing people I’ve met here.

            That brings me to my dadas.  “Dada” means “sister” in Kiswahili, and is a title unto itself.  For example, everyone calls me Dada Amy.  That’s my first title!!  Wahoo!

            So Mama and Baba have only one daughter.  Her name is Gladness (we tend to call her “Glady” for short) and she is five.  She’s my buddy.  Dada Glady and I play lots of games.  I’ve taught her some clapping games and she’s taught me the only card game she knows.  She’s fascinated by my hair and will often touch it after I shower.  We get along swimmingly, though she definitely would rather hang out with me than allow me to do my homework for my language classes….

**In Kiswahili, parents are often known by the names of their eldest children.  In the case of my homestay parents, they are known as Mama Glady and Baba Glady.  It’s definitely different!  So if I were to be in the States, people would literally call my parents Mama Amy and Baba Amy, rather than Dori and Tom.  It seems like everyone has multiple names that I’m supposed to remember, so it’s been kind of hard thus far!**

Dada Fikiri is the elder sister of Mama Glady.  She is in her forties and is the best charades player I have ever seen.  She will take me by the hand to lead me to things so that I can understand what she is talking about.  We laugh a great deal, as she is an incredibly goofy person who will make fun of herself.  She gets very excited when I understand things or am able to form simple sentences, so it’s an incredible ego boost that is often needed! 

Dada Fikiri has a son, Joshua, who is thirteen and goes to boarding school during the week.  The school is about an hour away from where we live, so he comes home on the weekends.  He taught me soccer vocabulary.  It’s awesome.  I brought a soccer ball as a present for the family and he was particularly excited when I gave it to them.

So in Tanzania it is not unusual to have house girls or boys, who are basically servants but are treated like a part of the family.  It’s interesting.  It took me a few weeks to figure out exactly what all the relations were in my family, as everyone is called “dada.”  But we have two house girls.  Dada Dina and Dada Ava.  Both are in their late teens, but Dada Dina doesn’t go to school anymore.  They are sweet girls who are super patient with my minimal language skills.  Dada Ava stopped me from showering with chai by accident my first morning here.  They laugh at me a great deal, but in case you didn’t realize from my descriptions, Tanzanians laugh all the time. 

My family found me particularly hilarious when setting the timer and running across to get in the picture on time.

At the top: me, Mama, Baba
Bottom from left: Dada Glady, Dada Dina and then Dada Ava
Unfortunately Dada Fikiri and Kaka Joshua were both gone.

They put up with my silliness with the language, bless their hearts! 

So that is my homestay family.  They are pretty awesome, and I’m learning a ridiculous amount from them.  It’s weird to relearn things that I thought I knew how to do, but it’s a reminder that I’m in a developing country.  My family is pretty well off by Tanzanian standards, and we have electricity, but no running water.  So I’ve gotten incredibly good at bucket showers.  We cook outside on charcoal burners, sort through our rice to pick out the little pebbles that tend to sneak in and clean off any of the husks (I’m not sure if that’s the right word for them) that are still there.  My family will often ask me if we have or do certain things in Colorado, and it’s interesting trying to explain that we do have bananas but that they are shipped in.  My standard answer is that we have stuff but it comes from Brazil for the sole reason that “Brazil” is one of the countries that I can say correctly in Kiswahili.  It’s a bit different at my family’s house, because we have a banana tree in the backyard.  And yes, the bananas here are ridiculously delicious.

The boy at church who couldn’t stop smiling

The boy at church who couldn’t stop smiling

So I went to church with my host family my first Sunday with them.  Actually, it was just my host sisters and host brother, all the adults stayed at home.  The church that my family goes to is Catholic (I actually have an inkling of an idea of what is going on!) and is fairly close to where we live.  As we approached the church, people stared and I heard “Mzungu” a few times.  I kind of laughed at it, and commented to my host sister Ava.  She took my hand and said adamantly “You’re not a Mzungu, you’re now a Tanzanian.”  I love this family!

            During Mass, I was stoked when I was able to pick out a few words and actually understand them.  So I tuned out because I’m a bad Catholic.  But I wasn’t the only one not paying attention.  Kids were turning around to just stare at me (I don’t think that staring is considered rude here, so kids do it all the time).  There was a pair of siblings in front of me that would try to be sneaky in their glances and their shuffling on the bench to get closer.  Ava had to keep tugging on their shirts to get them to stop being a distraction.  I, however, was just smiling and internally laughing at them the whole time.

            My favorite part of the mass was when I saw a little boy across the aisle.  He was probably around four and was staring intently with a serious look plastered to his face.  I smiled at him, and he instantaneously broke out into the biggest and happiest smile I have ever seen.  I looked back up at the priest, and then glanced back at the boy.  He was just sitting, staring and smiling at me!  I started to laugh, looked away, got it together, and looked back.  The boy was still grinning from ear to ear!  I had to not look at him because he was making me laugh too much (like I said, bad Catholic).  No matter how long I didn’t look at him, I would glance back and see that adorable smile firmly planted on his face.  It was impossible to not be happy seeing him.

            So after Mass ended, we took the daladala (public transportation bus) back home.  We were waiting for the daladala to leave and suddenly Grinny Boy and his family were getting in.  He looked like he won the lotto.  I didn’t think his smile could get bigger, but it grew even more as he slid into the seat across from me.  I said hi to him and he just grinned, not even bothering to say anything.  When his family got out, I waved to him, and he jumped up and down waving back as the daladala pulled away.  Holy crap I love Tanzanians.