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!