Going Home part 3.5

Well, I finally made it home, after a brief hurrah in Cape Town (if you have ever even considered going to this city....go. I was pleasantly surprised, and maybe someday I will actually write a blog entry about it). Little jaunt to London, Switzerland, and then finally, back to the U.S. of A. Normally I have a very basic plan of attack: eat lots of food, visit as many people as possible, eat more food, and then collapse in bed in my cozy room in Castro Valley. Oh, and attempt to be lazy. But this time was different, this time I wasn't coming home alone. Instead, I let an entourage of at first 4 Swiss invade my home. And you thought they were neutral. What was fascinating to me was to watch some of them see America for the first time. At some points it was looks of pure joy on their faces, at some points looks of pure horror and disgust. We had a few talks about my country and I gained some valuble insights on the pros and cons of my country from two Swiss experts who have spent many months here, have best friends who are American, and one who even is dating an American as we speak (or a wanna be, since apparently my accent doesn't quite sound right to the locals...) Here are some of the pros. Let the overgeneralization begin, and a note to Americans, this is mainly from a Swiss slant, comparing the U.S. to Switzerland in a way:

Pro #1: EVERYONE is very friendly. It is entirely possible that you can be waiting in line at the post office or sitting on a bus, and the person next to you will start talking to you. At some times this could be annoying, but for Swiss people, this is so unusual and strange that most of the time they appreciate it, and love talking it up with different people. In the end, people tend to be more helpful and will help you find your way, or even take you there themselves.

Flipside: As my friend Christoph noted, "Americans ask you lots of questions about yourself, your life, where you are from and what you do....but they don't really listen to your answer. They don't seem to care." This probably comes from our attempt to be chatty, but it can be true. People may talk a lot, and ask questions, but sometimes, they're just asking for the sake of asking, and tend to forgo the details later.

Pro #2: Food is cheap in America, and often times really delicious! There are so many options, and the restaurants are all very unique and stylish in their own way. It's fun taking a Swiss person especially to a place like College Avenue, where it would take you millenia to eat at every good restaurant that is there, and to admire the different interiors, some cozy, some traditional, some hip. The thought of getting mouthwatering ethnic food for less than 20 dollars a plate is something of a novelty, and quite exciting. Plus you get free water and refills! Bonus!

Flipside: A lot of our food options are not.....super healthy. The portions are huge, the refills a bit much. When we had our first meal in Seattle at a Mexican restaurant, it almost stressed out Ramona and Adrian to have the waiter constantly attempting to refill their cokes. The fact that In 'N Out is still a major staple for everyone (myself included) does not bode well for a healthy lifestyle, especially if you add in our inability to get around without cars. Most Swiss anyways usually eat at home, because going out, even at Mc Donald's can be hugely expensive: a dinner for 2 adults and 2 kids at fast food can easily cost up to 45 dollars!!!

Pro #3: The roads are huge, and take you wherever you need to go, more directly. Driving is easier, and even traffic seems to be ok, because with so many lanes the cars usually move, even if very slowly, as opposed to stopping completely. Parking is a piece of cake!

Flipside: Where's the public transportation??? Especially in Switzerland, where train is king (even though it's super pricey), people enjoy taking the bus or the train more freely, because it's easy and frequent. You can get anywhere readily, even to places high up in the mountains. Heck, they even have cable cars that take you straight to the top of almost any major mountain peak! So how come buses and trains are always late here, and don't run very frequently? Well, most of our cities aren't medieval like theirs, and were built around the car, so instead of a more circular pattern, with the center in the middle, easy to get to from any angle, we have grids, where walking will take time. But hey, it sure is easier to find places, with all those number streets and perfectly mapped out streets.

This list could go on infinitely, but you get the idea. It always makes it fun to watch foreigners in your own country, exploring, sometimes fumbling their way through new experiences, just like I have a million times before when traveling. To see their frustrations, (not having a valid ID to get into a bar) or their moments of utter amazement (the savings you get having a Safeway Club card!) constantly remind me just how interesting and new traveling in a new country can be, especially one so far from home. How did America become a country so different and unique from the old world, I will never really know. How everything became so big, and consumer driven I guess is the American dream. But when you look back from an outsider perspective, is it everything we hoped and dreamed to acheive?

Relearning music

Have you ever heard someone say "Music says a lot about a culture"? Or that you can learn so much about a place just by looking at its music? I used to say "Yeah, sure," and nod and smile, thinking to myself, "whatever...." But that was before I landed here. That was before I met Julius Zawose, and before I bought my first mbira, or finger piano (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mbira). Ever since, I've started to realize that there might be some importance to those words...

I got introduced to the Zawose family by an American couchsurfer, who had come to Bagamoyo for the sole reason of meeting this infamous Tanzanian family, known throughout the country for their traditional music. The most well known is Julius Zawose, one of the patriarchs of the family, who despite his limp makes up for whatever physical awkwardness with his graceful and musical fingers and voice. I only went to watch him play, but ended up getting a mbira (they call it "malimba" around here) shoved into my hand, and low and behold, the addiction started. I started coming back for my fix every week.

The thing I like best about malimba is it reminds me a little of my first instrument, the piano, but in a completely different situation. Instead of sitting in front of a giant machine, my new instrument is the size of a super thick paperback book, so I take it with me all the time, to hide on the beach and practice. It's got a really interesting sound, and the feel of it under your fingers is enticing....The most striking difference of all though, was the actual initiation into playing. When I learned piano, the structure was simple: you learned how to read notes, and then you could play songs, from start to finish. Malimba, if taught by Julius Zawose, doesn't work that way at all. The first few days he taught me the basic notes to a song, the chorus line if you will, and then for months after, it was a method of learning combinations of notes. With each combination, you could play it virtually anywhere in the song, and combine it with even more combinations of tunes to add to the base line. If you wanted to, the song could go on forever, almost circular, repeating and recycling the sounds you just learned. It sounds crazy, but it actually made sense, and the more you learn, the cooler the song sounds. I technically moved on to a second song, but Julius and I revisited and added even more to the first song.....

So what does this say about Tanzania? It says a lot about how they learn things here. People learn a lot by doing, as I did. It's not a matter of reading the instructions and following through, it's a matter of feeling, and doing and acting to learn. And when you do learn something, it can constantly change, or be changed by you or others. Nothing really begins with you, and nothing truly finishes. The more I write about this, the more I realize this could be what we call "tradition," which is universal, especially in music and dance. Not something you come across very often these days, or perhaps the practice of learning said traditions is a little less...well, traditional. All I know is, when I'm playing my malimba, I don't think about this. I can be in a trancelike state, focused completely on making the music, realizing that the possibilities are endless, and that there are no rules. Maybe that's Tanzanian after all.

Hatari!!! Wizards....

It's funny how you can start a very normal conversation with a Tanzanian friend, only to somehow end up at, "Well, you know, you have to be careful of the wizards." At first you ask them to repeat, convinced you must have heard wrong, from your relatively educated, informed friend. But no, you didn't. Actually, he meant to say spirit.....even better.

The first time this happened Fredi and I were eating dinner at the Country Club, a very nice hotel where we stayed for the first 3 weeks I was here. We of course know all of the staff really well, and they all work hard, but nobody works harder than "Freddy," a waiter at the restaurant who always looks busy, and actually usually is. We were talking to him about the beach when somehow he mentioned "Ah, but I don't go in the water." At first we thought he meant, "I don't go in the water at night," or "I haven't been in a few weeks." But actually, for once, his grammar was spot on. He doesn't go in the water. Ever. "Why?" I had to ask. "It doesn't happen very often, but sometimes, a water.....spirit (we found the word later, after plenty of explaining) can drag you into the water and drown you. I don't want to risk it!!!" As he walked away to work, he must have missed our jaws which were down slightly lower than they should have been. After all of those years of working right at the beach, he has never once ventured even a toe into the water. Amazing.

There are more stories that I could retell, but I think you get the idea. What is mystical about it all is that you meet people who are so connected to the "modern world" and have met people from around the world, and yet are so completely convinced of the demons and spirits in their backyards. This has never bothered me in the past, I mean, I know a few Icelanders who are firmly rooted in their belief in fairies and elves, which makes me want to believe. Who doesn't wish for a little magic in their life?? The only problem is when it becomes harmful to your health. Despite new knowledge in medicine, health, illness, and more, people here in Tanzania have a real huge problem letting go of their demons and spirits. I can't tell you how many of my medical friends see case after case of people arriving at the hospital, too late....only because their belief in their witch doctor was so compelling, they would rather go to him or her first, before seeing medical help. It is a cultural difference to be sure, but a very strange one. As our guide explained to us, there is a witch doctor for every family in some regions, and usually a grandfather or someone elderly who you look up to. I guess it's hard to deny help from those you trust, only to go to people you don't know. Maybe only the spirits have the answer.

A Day in the Life of a Fisherman's Wife

As I sat there kneeling on the ground, sweat streaking down my face, oil and flour all over me I thought....how on earth did I get here? It all started a few days ago, when I ran into my friend Marianne who was on her way into town to buy "chapatis," a local fried flatbread. But she wasn't going to get just ordinary chapatis. Oh no, these were the "best chapatis in Bagamoyo." That sealed the deal, I was determined to go with her, and see where I could get the best in town. Never did I think I would get invited in by two delightful women, who were still cooking the last few batches of the morning, while the kids played in the hallway. Never did I think it would decide to pour down rain at that moment, trapping us in their house for an hour or so...to my amazement, our new friend took us into her room and served us warm milk, fried fish (caught by her husband himself) and of course, warm chapatis, fresh from the stove. As we sat there on the floor, Marianne asking her questions in Swahili while I tried to follow along, I couldn't help but feel very humbled by her generosity in letting her invade her home. "Nina furaha." She said overwhelmed, hands clenched to her body. "I'm happy." You and me both sister, and Marianne added in a "Sisi pia" (so are we). We asked if we could come back and learn how to make chapatis ourselves, and she laughed surprised that we wanted to learn about her work, but happy that we had asked. We agreed to come the next few days.

The next day we came and watched, and played with the children. It was quite a few hours of sitting, but nobody seemed to mind us, just hanging out watching. I thought of how early the women had woken up, and how the children had been sent to do their various jobs. I thought I had understood quite well how it felt to be our friend, working all day, making chapatis. Geeze, no wonder they stop cooking at 1 in the afternoon. That seems like a lot of work. Of course, I had no idea.

Until today. We finally went back for our last lesson. This time, it was our turn. They sat us down with flour, water, salt, and oil, and had us mix mini batches ourselves. The next 20 minutes were a tough mix of kneading, mixing, and cutting dough. My arms were already pretty tired, but I guessed it was the hardest part. We added all the oil, and rolled them into the nice little balls and waited for the stoves to be ready, feeling rather accomplished. Aha, we can do this, I thought.

Never would I have expected that the hardest part was yet to come. As we rolled, baked, fried, turned, flipped, and burnt our fingers on the simple coal stoves, I realized my work was nonstop, and that no breaks were to come. All the kids stood around, laughing, as we burnt our bread and ourselves, attempting clumsily to flip and move our chapatis. The women smiled, encouraging us to finish our work. Finally, after a few hours, we had success in the form of 22 chapatis. Our friends could make 60 in the same amount of time. I know, I watched them do it myself. I learned something that moment. Even though I had watched it myself, doing it was a completely different story. You never know how a person lives until you truly walk in their shoes. And even then, I only tried them on for a day. I will go back to visit those friends of ours, and drink tea with them, and play with their children.

But I will never know what it really is to be the wife of a fisherman, cooking chapatis all morning long, every morning, for the rest of my life. Nor will they ever know what it is to be me, a young woman younger than themselves, who has seen so much more than what is in their hallway. But who's to say what's out there is better without having lived that life themselves? When you wake up tomorrow morning, do us all a favor and ask yourself: "What is special about my life? What makes it so great and so important to the world?" Even if you aren't providing nourishment for your community, if you can find one good thing you do for others, than that's all that matters.

It was cold. Even through my 3 layers I could feel the light breeze, icy and ominous cutting through to my skin, my hands were numb and every joint ached. Every breath was a struggle, every step felt like I was wading through quicksand.....I kept looking behind, but my fellow climbers had disappeared from me over 10 minutes ago, and my friends who were on their way down had already descended out of reach. But I had to keep going. I knew I was close. ...and there it was ahead in the distance like a beacon in the early dawn: the flag of Tanzania, beckoning me towards the summit. I became more desperate in my ascent, scrambling over boulders, clawing my way up on all fours, every time I moved too quickly my body gasped for air, as if I was hitting an invisible wall. My struggle was not in vain however. In 10 minutes as I put one foot in front of the other I finally made it, breathless and overwhelmed with emotions. At 4,566 meters (14,980 ft) I was on top of.....Mount Meru, the 5th highest mountain in Africa. Out in the east I could see the sun just above the horizon, greeting me from throwing distance of the majestic one and only, Mt Kilimanjaro. Someday, I thought. Someday I hope to be up there. As I watched the sunrise alone, I marveled at the beauty of the world seen from so high up. Soon my friends joined me, and we celebrated our feat before heading the slow long way down.

I Like Swimming Pool

"I like swimming pool," say all of my students, on a rather regular basis. And although I correct them frequently, I've started to become aware that there is only one swimming pool that exists in their world: a few times a month the kids pile in the van and head to Livingstone Hotel, just south of Bagamoyo, to go to THE swimming pool. Although nothing fancy, (and somewhat scuzzy, let's be honest), the pool is something of a luxury item for our students. Not to mention it's in an incredibly fancy hotel (although not the nicest...). I felt quite amused when Lauren arrived with a bus full of kids, and we managed to line them up in an orderly fashion as we walked through the lobby, their faces aglow with excitement.

We soon discovered that several of our not so academically strong students were actually amazing swimmers: the local kids who don't live anywhere near the beach. We watched amazed as Maimuna and Asha swam around us, excited to be in the water again. Then there were the other kids....the ones we tried to get to sit in the water, on the second step in. It was comical, watching them squirm and laugh nervously as the got closer and closer to the water. No matter how many bubbles we tried to get them to blow, or how tightly we held onto their hand, there was no getting around this huge fear, as even one 11 year old boy clung to me like a koala. Ok.....looks like we need my sister's expertise here. She used to teach the really little kids how to stick their face in the water....The irony of living in a beach town where very few people actually know how to swim.

My conversation with Jane Goodall...if ever so fleeting

It's not every day your boss comes up to you with exciting news: "Guess what? There's a recycling conference in Dar Es Salaam." I smiled, "Great. Recycling is good." But actually what I was really thinking was "how booorrinngggg." "No, but get this, guess who's going to speak? Jane Goodall." Then she knew she had me. I agreed I would go, along with Laura and Emmanuel, as representatives of Steven Tito Academy and Baobob Home. Laura and I were pretty excited, but Emmanuel, our Tanzanian rep had no clue. In fact, this was the first time he had even heard of this lady with chimps. We could have told him it was just a recycling lecture and his response might have been the same: cheerful, but unimpressed. As I polled other people around the farm, I came to the conclusion that Tanzanians who have lived for decades in the same country as this woman have never even heard of her. I was shocked, but decided to excuse it as "cultural differences." I mean, to be honest, unless you are a huge animal fan or a biologist, she's not really that important of a person. Right?

As we sat down to hear the other speakers I noticed something more. Our good friend Emmu was close to the only Tanzanian there. As we listened to all of these foreigners talk, things started to bother me. For example, one volunteer for the Jane Goodall foundation's Roots & Shoots program made a cute little video about recycling, which showed her making a skirt out of newspaper, drinking from a durable water bottle, and recycling plastic in the proper container. Oh, she also read the newspaper electronically on her iPhone. This would have been a great video in America, and it was appropriate for audience, but if you brought it to the locals it would be completely inappropriate. The skirt she made was too short to be acceptable wear in Tanzania where women cover most of their legs for propriety sake, drinking water from durable water bottles doesn't work because you can't buy them in Tanzania. Not to mention I have never seen a "recycle" bin anywhere, or a trash can for that matter. It's nice to tell people to recycle, but unless you give them the means to the ends, I don't blame them for throwing out their bottles on the road. Where else can they go? As for reading a newspaper on your iPhone....well need I say more?

I was rather discouraged by this lecture, which seemed to be only catering to the small portion of foreigners who live in Dar. Then Jane Goodall took the stage. For a lady of her age, I was quite amazed at how well she could get around, and how often she traveled (300 days a year apparently). She talked about her life, and as a girl how she had dreamed of going to Africa, even though it was close to impossible at that time. She was quite witty, but also very pointed about telling us why she started Roots & Shoots, a youth based organization. She was tired of watching the world be destroyed. "We always say that we inherited this earth from our ancestors. Some say we borrowed it from our children. I say we didn't borrow it. We stole it. And it's their job to fix it." By the end of the conference there was a long line of people waiting to take their photo with Jane, or to get her autograph. I convinced my friends to wait a little longer so I could connect with some other people at the conference who might help our school. In the end we successfully roped a professional photographer into photographing our school for a few days...for free.

In the end my patience paid off, as I waited for my opportune moment to talk to Dr. Goodall herself. I introduced myself and explained my school, and asked her how I could lead the kids in making a difference in the world. "Well goodness me, have them join Roots & Shoots." She almost walked off right then and there, but then I asked, "Ok, of course. But what can I do?" She paused. "Just listen to them." As I thanked her, I told her that I too had always looked at those National Geographic magazines at home and dreamed of going to Africa as a little girl. "And here you are," she said, with a big smile. Here we are, I thought.

Living the Double Life

Sometimes it’s hard living in Africa. Your “standard of comfort” as I call it is rather low….you get used to dirt, sweat, crowded places, trash everywhere, the list goes on. But then again, life for us “mzungus” (white people) is still really plush compared to the average Tanzanian. I will admit, my new apartment is in the nicest and most expensive complex in town, with guard and laundry washing facilities included. Sweet.

I was thinking about this when we went on an outing last weekend to an exclusive resort called Lazy Lagoon. Completely isolated on a 9 kilometer island, this hotel resort really takes “mzungu standard of living” to a higher level. When we arrived, not only was the pool sparkling clean, but the lodge and restaurant was so luscious and comfortable, you could understand how the name Lazy Lagoon could really fit the place. Even the food itself was incredible, every bite left you wanting more, with combinations of local fresh fish and vegetables. The owner had to kick us off the island at the end of the day, and we rather reluctantly left.

It really makes you think though. Here I feel like we live like kings, staying in hotels and eating in restaurants for what seems like chump change to the average westerner. Of course I think of my students for example, who have only travelled with their school group, and would not normally get the chance to eat out or go to a fancy resort. They probably will never know what they are missing out on, or how life is in other places, like Europe where every kid is typing their homework on a fancy iPad instead of using old notebooks and pencils borrowed from school. And they probably will never know what nice pool and beach exists at Lazy Lagoon, a mere 20 minutes away from their homes.

Life long lessons on how to be a good Tanzanian wife

No trip in any country is sucessful without at least one couchsurfing experience. For those of you who don't know about it or haven't heard me preach its values for hours, check out the website, it speaks for itself: www.couchsurfing.org.

I finally convinced my friends that it would be a good idea to go to Dar Es Salaam, the largest city in Tanzania (and least popular, surprise surprise). Why not try couchsurfing and go out like locals?? Our group was a little bigger than intended, but our host Maricky didn't even hesitate when I added a fourth person to our count. We really had no idea what to expect when we waited at the old post office for our Tanzanian host to show up. It soon became apparent that we were in for a crazy night when he introduced us to his French friend, and then Argentian friends who would all be sleeping with us in two small rooms. Well, at least one of them had a bed.

The important thing to note here is that while my companions went off with Maricky to "explore the town" (they made it as far as the local bar and took a looonnng break) I decided to stay with the women who were actually cooking our dinner. I wanted to learn how to make rice pilau.

Language was of course, as always a barrier, and we didn't get much past "hello, how are you?" and "good," but as usual, language isn't really a problem, it's only 20% of our communicative powers. I ended up over the next few hours spending time with the individual families in our courtyard, talking to the women, watching them cook over coal stoves. One woman even invited me to eat with her family, she was so smiley and had me sit and try everything. Sadly I had to decline since we already had pilau on the way.

It took a while but I did eventually meet two ladies who spoke some English, and then we had a proper conversation, or the best we could given the language barrier. We compared notes about countries, and live choices. "Is that man that was here before your husband?" Uh oh.....I awkwardly tried to explain my way through our "relationship" as boyfriend and girlfriend with limited success.

As the evening continued I watched and somewhat participated in helping our new friend cook for all of us. As her husband explained everything to us, I quickly realized that the kitchen was definitely not his domain. "Do you ever cook?" I asked, cheekily. "Yeah sure! I can cook rice...sometimes...."

The food was wonderful, and I was amazed at how well she prepared everything over such a simple stove outside on the dirt ground. As we prepared to go out, I talked to one of my new friends who was preparing "ugali," a typical Tanzanian polenta that you eat with vegetables and meat. "Are you going out?" she asked. "Yes, do you want to come? " I asked, already knowing the answer as I had seen her go out already, but during the day, and with a veil. "No thank you. I am Muslim, and we do not drink or dance. Dancing is a sin. I will see you tomorrow." And with that I left, feeling guilty as ever.

And so we managed to all squeeze in somewhere, somehow, and sleep a few hours before the children and women woke us up, playing, shouting, washing, cooking. I began to realize that running a household here takes a lot more time. No wonder women seem to stay at home so much, there's too much to do with all the washing and cooking and cleaning. I was sad to say goodbye, but before I left my new friend insisted on meeting this boyfriend of mine. Fredi shook her hand and spoke a little Swahili before she deemed him appropriate, and gave us her blessing. "I have a good feeling about you two." I guess in this country things are decided quite like that, without question or hesitation. But I'm no Tanzanian woman.

Pole Pole! (pronounced pohlay)

The first rule of living anywhere, is to learn the fun slang words. Right? After all, there are some words that just slip into everyday lingo and next thing you know, it becomes part of your vocabulary. With Swahili, to start learning this language seemed almost like walking on water....it might have something to do with the fact that the last two languages I attempted to tackle were Russian and German....but the learning is still at a slow pace ("pole, pole" means slow, and basically works for everyhing here). I'm not really enrolled in any Migro Klubschule intensive course.

Right, I digress. The point is, it's rather hard to figure out what is "official" and what is "slang," as they all seem to rather meld together. For example, As you're wandering down the street, you can be greeted in any of the numerous ways, and the response is the corresponding word to however they greeted you. For "Mambo" you have plenty of options: "Poa," or "saffi," or "freshi." But if they ask you "Habari?" (what's up?) You HAVE to say "nzuri" (good). You would think this would give you a headache, trying to learn all the responses, but for some reason or another it comes rather naturally. Goodness knows every person on the street will call out to you, almost as if they are testing you to see if you can actually say something in Swahili. When you pass the test, you get a nod of the head. That's when you know you have passed lesson one. Well done grasshopper!

Thoughts from the Steven Tito Academy's new volunteer

And so continues my adventure at Baobob.

I finally was given the chance to take over the classroom with my fellow volunteer Laura. We were excited to plan a full day of English activities, art, and games. But also a little nervous. 13 kids didn't seem like too many, right? How chaotic could it get??? Welll......our first day in the classroom, after several failed attempts at controlled chaos went...chaotic. The kids were still in full holiday swing and the idea of creating paper mache balloons ended up as a floury salty mess. I went home discouraged, annoyed that my first da y as a volunteer hadn't gone as perfectly as I had wanted.

But never say never! We went back to the drawing board with the lesson plans, agreed that splitting up the groups would be the best, and attempted once more. And to our delight, the day went much, much better. The day after their teacher came back from holiday, and things were back to normal. Relief. So my first few days as a teacher? Every day a challenge. But it is a challenging group for many reasons. First, the students are at different levels academically. Some can speak English fluently (such as the son of the school's founder, a woman from New Jersey), while others can barely speak in complete sentences. Some students are 13 years old and very mature for their ages, while others are as young as 6. All in the same class!!!

But there is one thing that almost all of these children have in common: they are bright and eager to learn. I have never met children so excited to come to class (ok I have, but not a huge group like this) and some of them retain so much of what you teach them that it blows you away the next day when they recite everything from yesterday's lesson. It will take a long time for me to really get to know these kids, which is alright. I have 6 months.

The Baobob Home

I think the most exciting part of my trip to Tanzania was the fact that I would finally get a chance to do something I've always wanted to do: volunteer. You would not believe how excited I was when Fredi told me over Skype that he'd done it: he'd found me a school that needs volunteers in Bagamoyo. This whole first week I had to sit on my hands to keep the anticipation down to a high buzz.

The school is called the Steven Tito Academy, and is a private school which takes in kids from the community who have an aptitude for learning, but the finances to persue their education. I wasn't sure what to expect, except that there would be kids, teaching, and work to do.

As myself and the other volunteer (named Laura) drove up to the school with a board member (also a Laura...the irony) I was instantly charmed by the location of the school. Attached to a home for orphaned kids, this school was outside of town on what could be described only as a farm, with cows and goats wandering around, a vegetable patch in the back and plenty of room for the kids to roam free. This is incredible.

The kids themselves were immediately excited to meet us and talk to us. They constantly giggled when they discovered that if they shouted out "Laura" all three of us would turn. It didn't take us long to get acquainted, as we played games in the garden with all of the younger kids from the home running around dangling on our arms, and jumping into the middle of our games.

It didn't take me long to realize that these children are all bright, but have really different levels of English. Nor do I really know what my job is, and probably never will get a clear answer from anyone. Just teach, the "real teachers" will come back from holiday next week. Ok. We may have no idea how far in over our heads we are but one thing is for sure. I will have a lot to write about.....

For more information about the school and the orphanage: http://www.tzkids.org

First days in Bagamoyo

Whenever you travel somewhere new, you never know what to expect. My first impressions in Africa involved me sometimes fighting my way through. I’ve been pushed, pulled, yelled at, begged, and ripped off. My bag even seemed to have a life of its own, as it got dragged and almost pulled onto moving vehicles going any direction except the one I wanted. This was what I feared I would have to expect in my new home, and I prepared myself for the onslaught.

As we walked into to town, I became acutely aware, as always, at how much I stand out as a westerner, and as a woman at that, who obviously doesn’t quite fit into the Muslim fashion. I kept expecting name calling, and people running up…..and to my surprise, and almost disappointment, nothing happened. Sure, people called out, but only to say “Mambo!” (or hello) Wow, get a grip, Laura. Stop pretending you’re a movie star, and be appreciative that you aren’t getting the special treatment. For once, people aren’t bugging you for being different, and it feels…. great!!!!

And I was. For the first time, I wasn’t some “mzungu” tourist hanging out at the local hotel and wandering around the town to check out the cute locals and how they live, expecting people to notice and appreciate me. No, this time it’s even better. Now I’m a resident “mzungu,” one of the many volunteers that wander around the town, buying their food from the market, and eating their lunches at the local restaurants. People know us, almost by name, and they know that we are here for a while, instead of just passing through.

There’s actually quite a big group of us, thanks to the Ifakara Health Institute, an NGO run hospital in town, and a dabbling of schools (like the one I will soon work at) and other projects. It makes life here seem almost…normal. People here don’t treat you tooooo differently, and when I go to the market the prices they tell me right off actually seem like the right ones. I could get used to this, I think. I’ve never been more excited to become part of a community. There’s so much I have to learn.